Chapter 69 Safe Place in me
Vuk Kael Lasković
And so the days passed—weekends bleeding into weeks, weeks hardening into months. Two full turns of the moon without her voice. Without her silver eyes opening to curse me, tease me, or simply look at me like I was more than the monster everyone else saw.
I spent most nights on the balcony. Alone. Gold curled in my lap like a small black shadow, her golden eyes reflecting the stars while I stared at the same frozen horizon that had once held the Hunt where I first claimed Maureen.
Whiskey burned down my throat in slow, punishing swallows. Smoke curled from the thin black cigarette between my fingers—something I hadn’t touched in years until the silence became too loud.
The jasmine I planted for her bloomed relentlessly, petals heavy with dew, their scent rising every time the wind shifted like a cruel reminder: She loved this. She isn’t here to smell it.
Time mocked me. Every sunrise felt like laughter. Every court session—elders droning about borders, tribute, rebellion—felt like sandpaper on raw nerves.
They asked after the Queen in hushed tones when they thought I couldn’t hear.
“What’s wrong with her?”
“Why hasn’t she been seen?”
Thanks to the young doctor and his team she was able to hold still, at least until now.
I let the whispers live. Let them fester. Because answering would mean admitting aloud that I didn’t know if she was coming back.
Every morning, before the fortress woke, I returned to our chambers.
I bathed her myself—warm water scented with moonwort and jasmine oil, soft cloths tracing every curve, every fading lash mark from her past.
I brushed her white-gold hair until it gleamed like spun starlight, braided it loosely so it wouldn’t tangle while she slept.
I changed the sheets when they grew damp from fever-sweat or my own tears.
I spoke to her constantly—low, ragged confessions no one else would ever hear. About Eryx walking away. About the southern packs testing our borders again. About how the throne felt like a grave without her beside me.
And every night I curled around her, one palm flat on the swell of her belly, feeling the kicks—stronger each week, more insistent.
Sometimes I wept against her neck. Silent. Ugly.
Sometimes I begged.
“Please, little moon. Come back. I can’t do this alone. We can’t do this alone.”
Gold never left her side. The tiny black tyrant slept curled at her hip or across her ankles, purring like a ward against the dark.
I talked to the cat too, because the silence was worse than madness.
“She’s still fighting, isn’t she, you little beast?”
Gold would blink slowly—once, twice—like she was saying, Obviously. Keep up.
Thanks to whatever dark gods still listened—Lucifer, Selene, or some crueler bastard who enjoyed watching me bleed—the time finally arrived.
Two months and thirteen days.
The room smelled of silverleaf, hellfire resin, and sacred spring water. Thick ritual oils gleamed on the low table: moon-blessed myrrh, starbloom essence, blood-red infernal sap.
Livia moved like a shadow, pouring the warm oil first across Maureen’s forehead—tracing the crescent scar at her throat—then lower, over the full, taut curve of her belly.
Her hands were steady, reverent.
She stepped back without a word, bowing her head.
“Alpha… everything is ready.”
I hummed low in my throat—more growl than affirmation—and stepped into the center of the room.
Maureen lay on black silk, robed in nothing but transparent gossamer that clung like mist. Her belly rose proud and round, skin glowing with inner light.
Through the bond I could hear them—more than one heartbeat. Fast. Fierce. Terrifying.
I hadn’t dared check how many. Or their genders.
The thought of twins—or more—had kept me awake in cold sweats. One demi-god child was already tearing her apart from the inside. What would two do? Three?
My hands rose.
Lucifer’s essence answered first—black fire uncoiling from my veins, hot and angry. Then Selene’s—starlight threading through it, cool and merciless.
They poured out of me in shimmering ropes, twisting in the air like living serpents. Golden lunar coils shimmered around Maureen in response, protective, reluctant.
I twitched my fingers.
The essences collided—starlight and hellfire fusing into something new, something forbidden.
A spiritual incubator took shape before me: translucent black crystal veined with molten gold, suspended in midair by invisible threads of my own power. Obsidian-smooth surface. Pulsing with inner flame and moonlight. A womb forged from my soul.
Black magic. The kind my father had taught me in rage and cruelty—the kind I’d sworn never to touch again after I clawed free of his shadow.
Here I was, breaking that vow for her. For them.
My eyes found Maureen.
She slept peacefully—too peacefully—chest rising slow and even, white-gold hair spilling like liquid moonlight, lips parted on a breath that never quite became a word.
Effortlessly beautiful. Even now. Even like this.
I moved my hands again.
The lunar coils obeyed—slowly, reluctantly—unwinding from her belly like golden vines retreating from the sun. No more protection needed from them. I would carry it now. All of it.
Power surged.
A soft, painless shimmer rippled across her skin. No blood. No wound. Just light—pure, blinding—parting her like silk.
Three tiny forms emerged.
Embryos, yes—but not small, not fragile like mortal young. Fantasy demanded more. Demi-gods demanded more.
Three perfect infants—already formed, already breathing shallowly in the open air—each with long, silken white-gold hair drifting like threads of starlight. Skin luminous, veined with faint golden flame. Eyes still closed. Hearts stuttering—rising, falling, rising again—as if unsure whether to live or fade.
I exhaled—shaky, ragged.
Three.
Gods help me. Three.
Their heartbeats synced with mine through the bond—fragile, fluttering, hungry.
I stepped forward, palms open.
One by one I lifted them—careful, reverent—cradling each against my chest before placing them inside the incubator.
The crystal sealed around them with a low, resonant hum, golden coils weaving anew—this time around the pod, not Maureen.
Then came the soul-binding.
I sliced my palm—deep—let black blood drip onto the surface.
My essence followed—thicker now, darker—pouring into each child like a lifeline. Not just feeding them. Binding them.
The way a babe feeds from its mother’s blood and breath, they would feed from me now. My strength. My fire. My immortality. Every beat of my heart would sustain theirs until they were ready to breathe on their own.
Pain ripped through me—white-hot, bone-deep—as the binding locked into place.
My knees buckled. I caught myself on the edge of the bed, coughing once—hard—black blood splattering the silk.
I smiled anyway.
Tired. Broken. Triumphant.
“They’re safe,” I rasped, voice shredded.
I looked down at Maureen—still sleeping, belly now flat and smooth, the last golden threads of coil fading from her skin.
Her hand lay open on the sheet. I took it. Pressed it to my lips.
“They’re safe, little moon. All three of them.”
I sank into the chair beside her bed, still holding her hand, staring at the glowing pod where our children slept—fed by my life-force, guarded by my will.
Exhausted. Drained almost to nothing.
But smiling.