The moon hung full over the quiet lake, sending silver light through the open cabin window. Inside, the world was hushed—wooden beams creaked in the wind, a candle flickered low on the table, and Jude sat by the bed, knees bent, chest bare, looking like he was holding back a storm with his spine alone.
Natasha sat before him, her skin still damp from the bath Dorcas had drawn her. Her nightgown stuck to her legs. The fire crackled softly nearby, but neither of them moved to warm themselves by it. They had another fire between them, and it hadn't died.
Her breath caught in her throat. His eyes were locked on her shoulder.
The named one.
The mark still shimmered weakly against her skin, twisted, ugly, red.
But healing.
She saw his throat tighten.
"Let me see it," he said softly.
She paused. "You've seen it."
"I didn't look at it," he rasped. "I branded you and couldn't even—"
She pulled the gown off her shoulder.
He breathed sharply. As if the air had been burned.
His hand twitched on his knee.
"I thought it would fade faster," she whispered. "But I guess wounds that deep like to linger."
"Don't say that," he said.
"I'm not ashamed of it."
"You shouldn't have it," he growled. "You should never have felt that pain."
She tilted her head. "But I did."
And then—quietly, like she was giving him a blade to place at her own throat—she said, "Touch it."
Jude's breath shook. His hand floated in the space between them. Then, slowly, carefully, he placed his fingers against the edge of the scar.
Natasha sucked in a breath. His touch was gentle, but the memory behind it was not.
He traced the mark in silence, every move like repentance, like a prayer.
"I hear your scream every night," he said eventually. "When I close my eyes. When I sleep. When I breathe."
"I screamed your name," she said. "And you didn't stop."
His eyes closed. His shoulders shook.
She reached for his hand. Laced their fingers together.
"You're not forgiven," she whispered.
"I know."
"But you're still mine."
His eyes opened—burning blue, full of hunger and sadness and the depthless pull of the bond.
He leaned in slowly, his lips brushing the edge of the scar, not as a kiss, but a vow.
"I will spend my life making you forget this ever existed," he said against her skin.
"You won't," she whispered, shaking. "But I'll let you try."
And in that moment, beneath the fire's glow and moon's silence, the bond between them pulsed—not with magic.
With choice.
The next morning, Natasha stepped out of the house, the lake breeze touching her skin, and found Gareth sitting on the bench beneath the pine tree. His sword leaned against the bark. His eyes were far away.
She joined him in silence.
He didn't look at her. "You let him touch you."
She stiffened. "You're watching me again."
"Not watching," he said. "Protecting."
She sighed, settling beside him. "You don't have to."
"I know," he mumbled. "But I do."
They sat for a long moment, listening to birdsong and wind, until he finally spoke again.
"His pack won't accept you."
"I know," she said. "They never did."
"They hate you more now."
"I'm carrying their heir."
"And that's why they hate you." Gareth's voice was like cracked rock. "Because now they can't ignore you. Because you survived what no other wolf would've. Because you still wear the scar they wanted to erase."
She didn't answer.
He turned toward her. "They'll make him choose again. The pack or the bond."
She swallowed hard. "And what if he chooses me?"
Gareth's eyes darkened. "Then they'll destroy him."
Her breath hitched.
He reached out and touched her hand—not possessively, not eagerly. Just there. Strong. Constant.
"You don't owe him anything," Gareth said quietly. "Not even forgiveness."
"I know."
"But you love him."
She looked away. "I wish I didn't."
His grip tightened, just slightly. "If he fails again…"
"I know."
And they said nothing more.
But the air between them ached with things unsaid.
The patio at Ever Green hummed with stress.
Jude stood alone—bare-chested, breathing hard—surrounded by ten of his best soldiers. They were the ones who had cheered when Natasha was branded. The ones who talked of betrayal and weakness.
They had demanded he reject the bond again.
He had refused.
Now they wanted blood.
"Alpha," Elias growled, stepping forward. "You cannot lead if your bond clouds your mind."
"My bond grounds me," Jude growled.
"Then prove it," Elias said. "Survive."
Jude didn't pause.
The first warrior lunged.
Jude ducked low, slamming his fist into the wolf's gut, sending him falling. Another came from the side—Jude turned, elbow to the throat, twist of the wrist—snap.
Bones cracked.
He didn't shift.
He didn't need to.
He fought as Alpha.
As a mate.
As a father.
The crowd grew. Warriors lined the stone walls. Elders watched in silence.
Jude's lip split. Blood poured from his fingers. But he didn't stop.
One by one, he put them on the ground.
Until only Elias stood.
"You'll lose them all for her," Elias growled.
"I'll lose everything before I lose her again," Jude said.
And with a roar, he shot forward.
The fight was brutal—fist, claw, fury—but when it stopped, Jude stood over Elias's body, chest heaving, blood dripping.
His pack stared in silence.
And Jude growled: "I am still your Alpha."
No one challenged.
Natasha stood at the lake's edge, the world soft around her.
Her hand rested on her belly, which had started to curve outward—not much, but enough.
Enough that it wasn't just a secret anymore.
Enough that she could feel it—him or her—stretching inside her like roots learning the shape of the dirt.
She closed her eyes, taking in the wind, the warmth of the sun.
Behind her, she heard footsteps.
She didn't turn.
"Can I touch it?" Jude asked quietly.
She nodded.
His hands slid around her waist, gently. Protective. Worshipful.
He pressed his hands to the curve of her belly.
And the pup kicked.
He stilled. His breath caught. His eyes widened.
Natasha smiled through tears. "You feel that?"
Jude dropped to his knees behind her, arms wrapped around her, face pressed to her lower back.
"I feel everything," he said.
And she leaned into him.
And for the first time since the night of the branding, she let herself believe— They might survive this.
Together.