Chapter 150

Lauren

It was the kind of morning that reminded me—truly reminded me—what peace felt like.

Not the kind forged in silence after a battle, or the brief stillness that settles in the wake of survival. But real peace. The soft, quiet kind that seeps into your bones before you even realize it’s there.

It had been months—maybe more—since the world had stopped shaking beneath our feet. Since curses had been broken, bonds reforged, wounds stitched and left to scar. But time was strange now. It unraveled slower in these moments, stretching and folding over itself like it was grateful to rest too.

Some mornings I woke up forgetting what month it was. Others, I simply didn’t care. Time didn’t feel sharp anymore. It felt kind.

The sun filtered lazily through the trees, warm and golden, as if even the light had finally exhaled. Its rays painted slow-moving patterns over the porch floorboards, catching the edges of the dew still clinging to the grass.

It had been a awhile since we’ve all gotten together, but today, my lawn was filled with who I loved most.

I sat curled on the back porch, one of Alexander’s worn sweaters wrapped around my shoulders, sleeves pushed up to my knuckles. The fabric still smelled like him—cedar, skin, and warmth—and I held my mug of tea between my hands, letting the heat soak into my fingers. Something that now reminded of a certain lost redhead.

Steam rose in soft curls, blurring the edges of the forest beyond.

The scent of pine lingered from the trees, sweetened by the faint sharpness of wet earth. Last night’s storm had passed in a hush of thunder and wind, but the ground was still damp, soaking in the renewal.

Somewhere nearby, birds sang softly—nothing too sharp or triumphant, just content. A breeze stirred the edges of the porch, rustling the ivy and whistling faintly through the chimes we’d forgotten we hung there.

Far off, laughter echoed—children’s laughter, bright and free. The sound floated in on the wind like it belonged here. Like it always had.

And inside me, beneath the knit layers and the stillness, two small heartbeats fluttered.

I set my tea down, both hands moving instinctively to rest over the gentle swell of my stomach. My fingers splayed over the curve as if trying to memorize it, even though I knew it by heart now.

I still wasn’t used to it—not in the way I’d expected. After everything we’d been through—battles, betrayal, curses, near-extinction—I hadn’t expected to be given something so simple again.

But this wasn’t just a second chance at life.

This was a second chance at motherhood.

Twins. Again.

The moment the doctor said it—two distinct heartbeats, strong and steady—I didn’t cry. Not at first. I just sat there, stunned, pressing a hand to my belly and letting the words settle like dust in the quiet.

I remembered what it had felt like to carry Owen and Abigail—how heavy it had been. How sacred. How terrifying to hold so much potential inside my body and not know what the world would look like when they were born.

And now, years later, to feel that promise rekindled...

It felt like the Moon had touched me again.

Not with the same divine blaze that once scorched my blood, but something softer. A mercy. A kiss on the forehead. A whispered reminder that life continues, even when you think you've given all of it away.

This time, I’d raise them without war hanging over my head.

No blood-stained promises. No ancient enemies lurking in the trees.

No bargaining with gods just to keep my children breathing.

Just quiet mornings like this. Wind in the trees. Laughter drifting from the clearing. A warm drink in my hands, and the echo of life blooming under my skin.

Owen had taken to his Alpha role with a quiet strength I hadn’t expected but should have. He wasn’t his father’s mirror. He wasn’t the Alpha King’s shadow. He was his own, leading with empathy, fire, and an unshakable sense of who he wanted to be.

Liam walked beside him, always close, always watchful. Tutor. Advisor. Friend. He was patient in a way that made Owen trust him, and firm in a way that made Owen listen. Watching the two of them move through the gathering—checking on elders, helping settle disagreements, making the youngest feel seen—it gave me hope that the future was already in good hands.

Mark had finally laughed.

That alone could’ve made me cry if I let myself think too long about it. He stood near the fire pit with Theo, pointing at something ridiculous in the sky, cup in hand, posture relaxed for the first time in what felt like years. His grief had not disappeared—but it had softened, no longer sharp and full of edges.

He smiled when he looked at the tulips blooming just beyond the clearing. And he smiled even wider when he looked at our family, especially when Theo joked with him. The kid was always making everyone laugh.

Theo.

He hadn’t changed much, hovering around Abigail again, their usual banter unfolding like clockwork.

“I swear, you walk slower just to make me carry everything,” she snapped, grabbing a basket of smores from his arms.

He grinned. “You’re the one who said, and I quote, ‘I don’t need wolf strength, I have brains.’”

“I do,” she replied smugly. “You’re just my pack mule.”

Their teasing was constant. Familiar. Safe.

They said they weren’t dating—though I’m not sure I believed them. Despite the arguing in meadows, the stealing glances when they thought no one was watching gave them away. And honestly? I loved it. It was theirs. No drama. No titles. Just two people choosing each other every day.

Abigail had chosen a different path—human, yes, but far from powerless. She’d decided to apply to the same school I had studied at long ago. Medicine. Healing.

“I want to understand the body the way you do,” she told me once. “Not because I need to fix people with magic. But because I want to know how to fight for them without it.”

She would be incredible. Already was.

I can tell she still mourned the wolf she would never become, but she no longer let it define her. She’d turned her sorrow into purpose. And watching her now—laughing, whole, arms linked with Theo as she scolded him for his horrible smore making skill—I knew she had made peace with herself.

And so had I.

The porch door creaked open behind me. I didn’t have to turn.

Alexander’s footsteps were familiar, solid in a way that made the earth feel steadier. He sat beside me, his hand finding mine, then moved to rest over my stomach. The way he looked at me now—with wonder, with awe—I don’t think I’ll ever stop being undone by it.

“They’re awake,” he said with a soft smile, feeling the slight kick beneath his palm.

“They always are when you’re around,” I teased. “I think they know when their father’s being sentimental.”

He chuckled and reached into the pocket of his jacket, pulling out a folded piece of paper.

“What’s that?” I asked.

He handed it to me, the edges slightly worn from being carried around for weeks.

I opened it—and stopped breathing.

Marriage license.

Signed. Dated. Ready.

“Thought maybe we’d do it again,” he said, quieter now. “Officially. No politics. No ceremony, unless you want one. Just us.”

The words caught in my throat.

“You still want that?” I asked, voice barely above a whisper.

He looked at me like it was the dumbest question in the world. “Lauren, I have never stopped wanting that.”

Tears blurred my vision. I kissed him before I could start crying. And when we pulled back, he rested his forehead to mine, like we were still kids falling in love under moonlight, before the titles, before the war, before the weight.

“I’ll wear white,” I said through a laugh.

“You’ll wear armor and still be the most beautiful thing in the world.”

I rolled my eyes, but my heart felt full—fuller than it had in years.

That night, after the sun had long set and the stars painted the sky silver, Alexander and I sat beneath the open heavens on the hill behind the house. The babies were kicking again—little bursts of life under my hand—and the fire beside us crackled softly.

“Have you thought about names?” he asked.

I nodded, then shook my head. “Too many. None that feel right yet.”

He leaned over, pressing a kiss to the curve of my belly.

“We’ll find them,” he whispered.

My breath caught.

He looked up at me, eyes steady. “This time… we raise them in peace.”

I closed my eyes.

Let the past stay where it belonged. Let the pain sleep.

Let the next generation rise with light at their backs.

And let this be our legacy—not survival.

But joy.