Pain came first.
Not a scream—but a hum. A slow, seething ache that pulsed behind her ribs, climbed up her spine, curled under her skin like fire that wouldn't burn out.
Natasha stirred beneath soft linen sheets, her breath catching in her throat. The room was unfamiliar—stone walls dappled with ivy, sunshine slanting through a high window. It smelled of wild flowers and fresh pine.
Not Ever Green.
Not home.
Her fingers twitched over her stomach, then over her shoulder—her branded shoulder—and she gasped.
The bands were tight. Clean. But the heat of that burned skin still pulsed. And beneath it, something deeper. Something darker.
She tried to sit up, but her muscles failed her.
Then she heard footsteps.
Not heavy. Controlled. Male.
And then a voice—quiet, velvet-wrapped steel.
"You're awake."
Gareth.
He stepped through the opening holding a hot bowl. His eyes were darker than she remembered, a green that shimmered like deep moss under moonlight. His shirt was loose at the collar, showing the line of a scar running across his neck.
She flinched. "Where am I?"
"Mooncrest territory," he answered, setting the bowl down on the table. "Safe."
She tried to laugh, but it came out broken. "Safe doesn't exist anymore."
Gareth knelt beside the bed, his presence steady. Not demanding. Not like Jude.
But still... There was something in his look that unsettled her.
"You're not a prisoner here," he said, dipping a cloth into the bowl. "You can leave whenever you want."
She looked at him. "And go where?"
His hand stilled. The cloth dripped water into the sink.
"Exactly," he mumbled.
She didn't move when he pressed the damp cloth gently to her shoulder.
Her body shook from more than pain.
His fingers were calloused. Precise. But there was care in them, too. Unspoken things are hidden behind the lines in his hands and the darkness in his eyes.
"Why did you save me?" she whispered.
He didn't answer.
Not yet.
The room fell into silence, heavy but not cruel. Natasha studied the guy kneeling beside her, the quiet strength in the way he touched her. Like she was fragile glass, and he knew exactly where the cracks were.
"You could've left me there," she said softly. "Everyone else did."
Gareth didn't look up. "I don't leave people behind."
Her lips parted, but words died before they left.
The cloth moved again, lower, slower—swiping gently across her stomach, then her side, where marks grew purple and blue.
She hissed, fingers clenching the sheets.
He froze.
"Too much?" he asked, voice like smoke.
"No." Her voice broke. "Just… not used to kindness."
He set the cloth aside, but didn't pull away.
His fingers floated over her skin, so close that it made her shiver.
"You weren't supposed to survive that branding," he said after a moment. "The wound, the exile, the silence. They planned it to destroy you."
"I know," she whispered.
"And yet you're still breathing."
She didn't answer.
Because she didn't feel alive. Not really.
Not until his hand brushed hers.
His fingers didn't squeeze. Didn't demand. They simply held.
And it was... almost worse than pain.
"Who are you?" she asked, voice barely audible.
Gareth leaned back. The air moved.
"I'm no one," he said with a crooked smile that didn't reach his eyes. "Just a wolf who knows how to vanish."
But Natasha didn't believe him.
Because there was something in him that felt like secret fire—burning, buried, waiting.
The doctor arrived that afternoon.
Dorcas.
A silver-haired woman with pale eyes and the smell of sage wrapped around her like mist. She moved quietly through the room, nodding at Gareth, who stood as she entered.
"You can stay," she said, eyes flicking to him. "But don't hover."
Gareth smirked but stepped aside.
Natasha let Dorcas remove the bandages without argument. Let her fingers explore, check, and clear. Her touch was soft, but thorough.
"You're lucky," Dorcas whispered. "The burn is deep, but it's clean. Won't kill you."
"Shame," Natasha said dryly.
Dorcas looked at her. "You think death would've hurt less?"
She didn't answer.
Dorcas's look softened, but it was her hands that told the truth—hands that moved across Natasha's stomach, pausing.
Fingers pressed lower. Slower.
Then stopped.
Natasha stiffened.
"What is it?" she asked.
Dorcas didn't speak at first.
Then: "When was your last heat?"
Natasha's breath caught.
"Three weeks ago," she whispered.
The doctor said nothing. Simply put her hand over Natasha's belly. Still. Listening.
Then she smiled.
Not soft. Not pitying.
But full of something better.
"You're not barren."
Natasha blinked.
"What?"
"You're not barren," Dorcas repeated. "You're pregnant."
The world cracked.
Her heart stuttered.
No. No—it couldn't be. Not after...
Her hand flew to her stomach, shaking. "No. That's not—"
"I've felt hundreds of pregnancies," Dorcas said softly. "This is real. Strong. You're... early. But the child is there."
Natasha stared at her belly as if it were a stranger.
Jude's child.
Life where they swore there'd be none.
Her breath hitched.
And from the corner, Gareth watched.
And said nothing.
Far away, across miles of dense forest and bitter quiet, Jude Corbin paced the floor of his rooms like a dog tied to a burning room.
His hair was a mess, his jaw was tight, shirt was soaked with sweat. His hands were bloodied again. Another wall broken. Another table overturned.
But nothing lessened the smell.
Her blood still stayed in his breath.
That scream still echoed in his head.
And now—something new.
Her scent.
Not fresh.
Not clean.
Changed.
He stopped.
Sniffed again.
And his wolf lunged forward, howling.
Not pain. Not grief.
Life.
The realization hit him like a lightning strike.
His wolf screamed inside him, ripping at his insides, demanding freedom, demanding her.
"Mine," Jude growled. "She's still... mine."
The brand hadn't killed the link.
The absence hadn't cut the line.
And now— She carried his child.
His fists clenched, shaking.
He had let her go.
But the link was no longer just fire and fate.
It was blood.
And it was calling him home.