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I drift through fragments of memory like scattered leaves on water. Consciousness slips away and returns in gentle waves, each bringing different visions before receding again into darkness.

My mother kneels beside me in the herb garden behind our old house, her dark hair caught in a loose braid that falls over one shoulder. I'm young—eight, maybe nine—watching as her hands move with practiced grace among the plants.

"This one is yarrow," she says, guiding my small fingers to touch the feathery leaves. "It stops bleeding and fights fever. And this one..." She smiles as she points to purple flowers. "This is sage. It cleanses and protects."

"Like magic?" I ask, wide-eyed.

Her laugh is warm sunshine. "Exactly like magic, my little moon. The plants have their own kind, and we just help it along."

The memory dissolves, colors running like watercolors in rain.

I'm fourteen, standing awkwardly at the edge of a pack gathering, trying to be invisible. Someone jostles my elbow, spilling my drink, and I look up into green-gold eyes. Nic Blackwood, sixteen and already beautiful enough to stop my heart, my brother’s best friend, looks down at me with an expression I've never seen directed my way before—not pity or disdain, but something like interest.

"Sorry about that," he says, actually sounding like he means it.

I'm too shocked to speak, clutching my now-empty cup like armor.

He takes it from my hands, his fingers brushing mine deliberately. "Let me get you another."

When he returns, he doesn't leave. He stays, talking to me like I'm a real person, not the half-breed freak everyone whispers about. For twenty-three minutes—I count every one—I experience what it feels like to be normal.

The scene shifts, bleeding into another.

We're older now. I'm seventeen, Nic nineteen. Shadow Creek in summer twilight, water murmuring over stones as we sit hidden by willows that trail their fingers in the current. His hand cups my cheek like I'm something precious.

"No one understands," he whispers, forehead pressed to mine. "How I can feel this way about you."

"Do you care what they think?" I whisper back.

"Sometimes," he admits, his honesty both wounding and appreciated. "But not enough to stay away from you."

His lips find mine, gentle at first, then hungry. The memory is so vivid I can feel the rough bark of the willow against my back, the heat of his palms as they slide beneath my shirt, the racing of my heart that feels too big for my chest.

The sweetness dissolves into something darker.

The pack gathering hall. Faces turned toward us, expressions ranging from shock to disgust to cruel satisfaction. Nic standing stiffly, his father's hand heavy on his shoulder.

"The Blackwood heir has no business with a half-breed," Alpha Blackwood announces to the assembled pack. "His duty is to strengthen our bloodline, not dilute it further."

Nic's eyes won't meet mine. His voice, when it comes, is a stranger's. I can’t make out his words, but I know what they’re doing; they’re dismissing me. He’s throwing me away.

The pain is just as fresh in memory as it was then—a physical thing, tearing through my chest like claws. They walk out of that hall, backs burning with stares, chins lifted in defiance while tears threaten.

The memory fractures, splinters into darkness.

Then, something new—not memory but dream. A small girl with Nic's dark hair and my eyes laughs as she runs through a sun-dappled forest. Nic catches her, swinging her high as she shrieks with delight. He settles her on his hip, and they both turn to me with matching smiles.

"Mama," the girl calls, reaching for me. "Come see what we found!"

Nic's eyes are soft with love as he extends his free hand toward me. "Come on, Lu. We've been waiting for you."

The dream fades, replaced by brief flashes of reality.

Strong arms lifting me carefully, cradling me against a warm chest.

"I've got you," Nic's voice murmurs against my hair. "You're safe now."

The sensation of movement through darkness. Pain throbbing dully in my back. The steady rhythm of a heartbeat against my cheek.

"Is she...?" A worried voice—Ruby, maybe.

"She'll be fine," Nic answers, his arms tightening slightly around me. "Both of them will."

The scent of antiseptic and healing herbs. Gentle hands transferring me to a soft surface. The distant sound of urgent voices, orders being given.

"Stay with her," someone says—Victoria? "She'll need you when she wakes."

A warm hand clasping mine, anchoring me as consciousness ebbs again.

More dreams. Nic and I dancing at some nameless celebration, his hand pressed to the small of my back.

Walking through Silvercreek, my rounded belly preceding me, whispers following but different now—respectful, curious.

Nic kneeling before me, ear pressed to my stomach, wonder lighting his face as something moves beneath his palm.

Reality and dream blur together, indistinguishable as I float in the haze of magical exhaustion.

***

I wake slowly, awareness returning in gradual layers.

First, physical sensation—soft sheets beneath me, the dull ache in my back, the heaviness of my limbs.

Then sound—the quiet beep of a monitor, distant voices, someone breathing softly nearby.

Finally, I register a warm pressure around my right hand—fingers intertwined with mine.

I open my eyes to a curtained enclosure bathed in soft morning light. Medical equipment stands sentinel beside the bed. I'm in the pack house infirmary, in one of the private areas at the back.

My gaze falls to my hand, following the fingers wrapped around it to their owner.

Nic sits slumped in a chair beside the bed, his head at an awkward angle that promises a stiff neck when he wakes.

His face in sleep is younger somehow, the weight of Alpha responsibility temporarily lifted.

Dark stubble shadows his jaw, and a white bandage peeks from beneath the collar of his rumpled shirt.

There are shadows beneath his eyes that speak of long hours of wakefulness.

Something shifts in my chest at the sight—a complicated tangle of emotions I'm too tired to unravel.

My free hand moves instinctively to my stomach, a question forming that I can't quite give voice to yet. Is our child...?

As if sensing my thoughts, Nic stirs, his body tensing slightly before his eyes open. For a moment, he looks disoriented. Then his gaze finds mine, and relief washes over his features.

"Luna," he breathes, straightening in the chair. His hand tightens around mine. "You're awake."

"The baby?" My voice emerges as a rasp.

"Is fine," he answers immediately, understanding the priority of my concern. "Dr. Reynolds checked thoroughly. No damage from either the magical exertion or the... attack." A flash of something dark crosses his face at the memory. "Just make sure you rest properly now."

The tension I've been carrying in my chest eases slightly. "The pack? The wards?"

"The wards are holding strong. Whatever you did worked better than we could have hoped.

" Pride flickers in his eyes. "Once the Alpha fell, the rest of the Cheslem wolves either retreated or were dealt with.

We lost three pack members in the fighting, and several more are injured, but it could have been much worse without your quick action. "

I close my eyes briefly, absorbing this. Three dead. People I might have known, might have grown up with, despite our differences. The weight of it settles beside the relief.

When I open my eyes again, Nic is watching me with an intensity that makes me want to look away. But I hold his gaze, aware that we've reached some kind of crossroads.

"How long have I been asleep?" I ask.

"About eighteen hours. It's afternoon now." He shifts in the chair, wincing slightly. An injury I can't see, probably worse than he's letting on. "You needed the rest. The amount of magic you channeled..."

He trails off, looking down at our still-joined hands. A question hangs unasked between us, heavy with implication.

"I should have told you," I whisper, answering what he hasn't yet found the courage to ask. "About the baby."

His thumb strokes across my knuckles, a gentle back-and-forth that seems unconscious. "Why didn't you?"

The simple question holds no accusation, just a genuine desire to understand. I find myself wanting to answer with equal honesty.

"I was afraid." I look down at my free hand, still resting protectively over my still-flat abdomen. "Not of you, exactly. Of... everything. Of history repeating itself."

Nic's eyes cloud with confusion, then understanding. "You thought I'd reject the child. Like the pack rejected you. Like I rejected you five years ago."

"I didn't know what to think," I admit. "I've spent five years building a life away from here, convincing myself I was better off without Silvercreek, without.

.." I swallow. "Without you. Then suddenly I'm back, pregnant with a baby who'll be exactly what I am—half shifter, half-witch—and facing all the same prejudices that made my childhood hell. "

Nic flinches slightly at my words, but doesn't interrupt.

"I wasn't ready to face your reaction," I continue, the words spilling out now that I've started. "To watch you decide whether your duty to the pack outweighed whatever you might feel about our child. So I just... kept it to myself until I could figure out what to do."

Silence follows my confession. Nic's expression is unreadable as he processes my words. Finally, he releases my hand, and I feel a cold emptiness where his warmth had been. But then he stands, moving to the edge of the bed.

"Can I sit with you?" he asks quietly. "Not in this torture device they call a chair?"

I nod, shifting slightly to make room. The movement sends a twinge of pain through my back where the Cheslem wolf kicked me, but I hide my wince. Nic notices anyway, his movements careful as he settles beside me on the narrow bed, keeping a respectful few inches between us.