Chapter 188

Lila

The weeks slid quickly past in uneven pieces, some so quiet they left me on edge, others filled with Ronan’s unease that left me raw.

The rhythm of the village became predictable. Water at dawn, neighbors calling across lanes, children weaving between the houses in play.

Some mornings I even let myself linger outside, shawl wrapped close, to breathe in the scent of bread baking from the hearths. It smelled of ordinary life, so precious to me that it almost hurt.

My belly grew heavier, and much larger than expected. At night, when I lay still, I felt little kicks assaulting me from inside. I pressed my palm against tiny feet and whispered promises I wasn’t sure I could keep.

The villagers welcomed us in ways I didn’t expect. A basket of apples left on our step. A kind word about my “strong mate” who never failed to help with repairs.

Once, the seamstress pressed a bundle of mended linens into my arms, insisting it was nothing, though her careful stitches spoke otherwise.

Another evening, Ronan returned with a loaf still warm from the baker’s oven, its crust crackling as we broke it together.

Even the smallest gestures, an old man tipping his hat as I passed, a girl pausing her game to wave shyly, carved out moments of belonging I had never thought I’d feel. And through it all, everyone treated us like a young expectant couple.

I let them believe the lie because it kept us safe. But each time I heard the word “mate” or “husband,” a strange hollow tugged in my chest.

I tried to settle into the peaceful life, tried to pretend I wasn’t looking out for threats at the edge of the forest, waiting for the glint of Rogue eyes. My guard loosened, yes, but only by a few degrees.

My heart still raced when the wind carried a strange sound, or when the laughter of children was broken by a sudden scream of play that sounded too close to the screams of hurt.

Ronan never seemed to relax at all. He worked, he patrolled, he watched.

At night, when I stirred from uneasy dreams, I would sometimes catch the faint creak of floorboards as he moved from window to window, scanning the village lanes like a sentry.

He barely slept. He never admitted to it, but I saw the way his shoulders stayed tight, in the faint shadows under his eyes.

Lately, there was something there beyond his usual vigilance.

His silences stretched longer, his gaze seemed more worried, like he was measuring me against some invisible baseline and I was failing whatever standard he had set.

One evening, I caught him studying me as I mended a tear in one of his shirts. But when I met his eyes, he only shook his head and turned back to the fire.

“Nothing,” he said, though I knew it was a lie.

I told myself not to ask. Ronan was a man built for secrets, but he promised not to keep things from me. I knew if he wasn’t saying what was on his mind, he had a reason.

Still, unease settled low in my gut.

The days went on. The villagers’ warmth didn’t erase the tension, but it dulled it.

I smiled when a neighbor’s child thrust a wildflower into my hand. I laughed, briefly, when the baker’s wife teased Ronan for working like a mule.

For brief moments at a time, I almost forgot the Rogues pressing close. Almost.

At night, when the hearth burned low and the village stilled, I’d lie on my pallet, one hand over the swell of my stomach. Fear curled under my ribs, fear of what was coming. But for those few weeks, I clung to the fragile bubble we’d built.

It was nearly dusk when Ronan returned with someone at his side.

I rose from the table, confusion threading through me as the woman stepped into the cottage. She was younger than I remembered, but I knew her face instantly; she was the healer who had tended me after the fire, who had discovered I was pregnant.

My stomach twisted. “What are you doing here?”

Ronan closed the door behind them, his broad frame blocking the last of the light. “She came at my request.”

Anger surged hot and sharp, cutting through my fatigue. “You went behind my back?”

“You wouldn’t have agreed if I’d asked,” he said evenly, though his jaw was tight. “But you need her.”

The healer’s gaze flicked between us, sharp with understanding. She carried herself with the assurance of someone who had seen her fair share of difficult patients.

She set her satchel down on the table and unwrapped a bundle of cloth. Nestled inside was the small vial I’d seen so many times, its liquid swirling, teasing.

My heart lurched.

She lifted it carefully, tilting it under the light, then pulled out a pouch of herbs and a strip of testing paper. Her hands moved with confidence, mixing, dipping, waiting.

The faintest hiss rose from the surface as she tested the antidote. When she looked up, her eyes were steady.

“It’s safe,” she said simply. “Whoever made this knew what they were doing. It will restore what’s been broken, reawaken what’s been dormant. It will give you back your wolf, your strength.”

I flinched and relaxed simultaneously, if that were possible.

Ronan’s gaze fixed on me, expectant. “You hear her.”

My mouth went dry. I looked at the vial, then at the swell of my belly beneath my hands. “And what about the child?” My voice cracked. “What if it harms her? What if I lose her because of this?”

The healer shook her head. “There’s nothing here that would harm the unborn. It’s meant to strengthen, not destroy.”

Her certainty should have soothed me. Instead, terror coiled tighter, a cold hand around my throat.

I shook my head, taking a step back. “No. I won’t take it. Not until they’re safely delivered. I won’t risk it.”

Ronan’s jaw clenched, his eyes hard. For a moment, I thought he might force it into my hands, demand I drink. But he didn’t. He only turned away, pacing a few times before stopping with his back to me.

“You’re going to break yourself,” he said, his voice rough. “You’re already breaking. And when the time comes, if you’re too weak,” His hands fisted at his sides. “I can’t watch you die. I won’t.”

I wrapped my arms around myself, trembling. “Then don’t ask me to risk the baby before she’s even born.”

The words hung between us.

The healer began packing her things quietly, her expression unreadable. When she slipped out the door, the cottage sank into silence, broken only by the crackle of the fire.

Ronan didn’t look at me. He stood rigid at the window, watching the sun sink low behind the village.

I sank onto the chair, my pulse still racing, my stomach heavy beneath my hands. The vial lay between us on the table, its promise both salvation and threat.

That night I lay awake, listening to Ronan’s footsteps pacing the floorboards, the quiet scrape of his blade as he sharpened it again and again.

I wanted to believe that refusing him was still the right choice. But the fear didn’t ease. It only grew heavier, pressing down on me with every shallow breath.