Mate Me in Moonlight

Chapter 139

POV: Adeline

The nightmare came without warning.

I was back at Ash Hollow. The fire already burning. Smoke thick in my lungs. The screams of my packmates echoing through the trees.

But this time, I was holding a child.

A baby. Small and helpless and mine. I clutched them to my chest, trying to run, trying to find safety. But the fire was everywhere. Every path blocked. Every escape route consumed by flames.

I couldn't run fast enough.

The child was crying. I was running. The fire was closing in.

I couldn't save them. Couldn't protect them. Couldn't—

I woke sobbing.

Gasping for air. Heart pounding so hard it hurt. My hands clutching at my stomach, checking, making sure the baby was still there, still safe.

Just a dream. Just a nightmare. Not real.

But it felt real. Felt like prophecy. Felt like the universe showing me the truth I'd been trying to ignore—that I couldn't protect this child. That I'd fail them the way I'd failed everyone else.

Arms came around me. Solid and warm and familiar.

"Breathe," Aiden's voice, rough with sleep but steady. "Adeline, breathe."

I tried. Failed. Tried again. Managed to pull in a shaky breath that turned into another sob.

"I've got you," he murmured, holding me tight. "You're safe. We're safe."

"The fire—" I choked out. "I couldn't—there was a baby and I couldn't—"

"It was a dream." His hand rubbed circles on my back. "Just a dream."

But it wasn't just a dream. It was my worst fear given form. The terror I'd been carrying since Elara confirmed the pregnancy but had tried to ignore, to push down, to pretend didn't exist.

"What if something happens?" The words burst out of me, desperate and raw. "What if I can't protect them? What if I'm not strong enough or fast enough or—"

"We protect them together," Aiden interrupted firmly.

"But what if—"

"Together." He pulled back just enough to look at my face, his hands cupping my cheeks. "I'm not going anywhere. Neither are you. We protect our child together."

"You don't know that." My voice cracked. "Things happen. Fire happens. Attacks happen. I've survived so much but what if—what if surviving means I used up all my luck? What if—"

"Stop." Not harsh. Just certain. "You're spiraling."

He was right. I could feel it—the anxiety building, feeding on itself, growing until it consumed everything rational. This was trauma. This was PTSD. This was every loss I'd ever experienced trying to convince me I'd lose this too.

"I'm so scared," I whispered.

"I know." He pressed his forehead to mine. "I am too."

"You don't seem scared."

"Because one of us needs to be steady right now. Tomorrow it might be your turn to hold me while I fall apart."

The thought of Aiden falling apart should have been reassuring—proof that he was human, that his fears were just as real as mine. But it wasn't reassuring. It was terrifying.

"How do we do this?" I asked. "How do we bring a child into a world that's so dangerous? Where packs burn and wolves die and nothing is ever really safe?"

"The same way our parents did." His hands moved to my shoulders, steady and grounding. "The same way every parent has since the beginning of time. We love them. We protect them as best we can. We teach them to protect themselves. And we trust that the world is more good than bad, even when our experience tells us otherwise."

"What if I can't trust that?"

"Then you lean on me. On the pack. On everyone who loves you and this child. You don't have to carry this fear alone."

The fear didn't disappear. That would have been too easy, too neat. But it shifted. Became something I could hold instead of something that held me.

I thought about the wolves of Willow Ridge. Luca, who'd die before letting harm come to our child. Freya, who'd already declared herself the world's most protective aunt. Elara, who'd watch over this baby with the same careful attention she gave to all pack members. The warriors, the hunters, the families—all of them invested in this child's safety.

We weren't alone.

Our child wouldn't be unprotected.

And maybe—maybe—I needed to trust that. Needed to believe that the pack we'd built was strong enough to weather whatever came. That we'd survived the worst and earned the right to hope for something better.

"The fear doesn't go away, does it?" I asked softly.

"Probably not." Aiden's honesty was harsh but necessary. "Every parent is afraid. Afraid they'll mess up. Afraid something will happen. Afraid they won't be enough. Fear is part of love. Part of caring so much that the thought of loss becomes unbearable."

"That's a terrible design flaw."

He huffed a quiet laugh. "Yeah. It really is."

But his arms were still around me. His presence still solid. The bond between us still humming with certainty and love and the promise that we'd face this together.

Through the bond, he sent me something. Not words. Just feeling. Strength. Certainty. Love so fierce it was almost overwhelming.

I sent back my own feelings. Fear, yes. But also hope. Trust. The slowly-growing belief that maybe we could do this. Maybe we could bring a child into this world and keep them safe and raise them to be strong.

Maybe we could do this.

The nightmare's grip loosened. Not gone—I'd probably have that dream again, in various forms, for months or years. Trauma didn't disappear just because you acknowledged it.

But it became manageable.

"Tell me about tomorrow," I said, needing to focus on something concrete. Something real and immediate instead of hypothetical disasters.

"Tomorrow," Aiden said, settling us back down into the pillows, keeping me tucked against his side, "we have patrol meetings in the morning. You're teaching the pups in the afternoon. Freya's bringing dinner because she doesn't trust you to eat enough vegetables."

"I eat vegetables."

"You eat whatever I put in front of you and pretend it's vegetables."

"That's not true."

"Yesterday you tried to convince me that bread counts as a vegetable."

"It's made from wheat. Wheat is a plant."

He laughed softly, the sound rumbling through his chest. "Tomorrow, I'm making you an actual salad."

"I'm pregnant. I should get to eat whatever I want."

"Nice try."

We talked about tomorrow. About mundane, ordinary things. About patrol schedules and pup training and the ongoing debate about whether bread qualified as a vegetable. About normal life continuing despite my fears.

The panic receded further. My breathing steadied. The baby moved inside me—just a flutter, but enough to remind me they were there. Real. Alive. Mine to protect.

"I can do this," I said quietly.

"We can do this," Aiden corrected.

"We can do this."

The fear didn't disappear. Probably never would. I'd carry it with me through the pregnancy, through the birth, through every stage of our child's life. Every fever would terrify me. Every scraped knee would feel catastrophic. Every moment they were out of my sight would require active effort not to panic.

But that was okay.

That was love.

That was the price of caring so much that loss became unbearable.

And it was worth it.

Even terrified, even scarred by loss, even knowing the world could be cruel and dangerous and unpredictable—it was worth it.

Our child was worth it.

I pressed my hand to my stomach. Felt the small life growing there. Thought about the nursery waiting for them. The pack ready to love them. The parents determined to protect them.

We could do this.

We could do this.

I believed it.

Mostly.