Chapter 9
The forest was quiet. Hudson leaned against a massive oak tree, his gaze fixed on the small, dilapidated tent in the distance. Two weeks had passed since the confrontation in the central square. In that time, Areli had skillfully woven herself back into the clan's rhythm, all the while covertly gathering information on her enemies.
Brown and Doyle—his back heavily bandaged—knelt before him.
"Warlord," Brown asked, confusion evident in his voice. "Why don't we just take her? She's your mate now."
Hudson's eyes didn't leave the tent. "She's not a trophy to be dragged away. She wants closure. I will give her the space to get it."
Brown and Doyle exchanged a glance. They had never seen their Warlord show such restraint, such respect for a female's boundaries.
"Run full background checks on Gloria and Eugene," Hudson ordered, his voice turning cold. "I want every dirty secret they have."
He paused. "Don't interfere with Areli's plans, but if they try to harm her again, eliminate them quietly."
The two men vanished into the shadows. Hudson shifted into his massive white wolf form and settled on a high ridge overlooking the camp. He would watch over her from here.
Inside the tent, Areli sat on her cot, a single candle flickering beside her. She was sorting through a pitiful pile of dried herbs.
She was thinking. Gloria wouldn't give up. The woman was vicious and petty. Areli needed to strike first.
She picked up a plant called "Thorn Vine." According to her modern knowledge, if ingested without proper preparation, it caused excruciating nerve pain. A perfect trap for a thief.
Suddenly, a wave of nausea hit her. She clamped a hand over her mouth and lunged for the bucket in the corner, retching violently.
She wiped her mouth, her sharp biochemist mind immediately rejecting the easy excuse of stress. She drank some water, trying to settle her stomach, analyzing the physiological response.
When she caught a whiff of a common herb she used every day—a plant containing mild, usually undetectable volatile alkaloids—the nausea returned with a vengeance.
Areli sat back, her face draining of color. Her period was nearly two weeks late. She had attributed the delay to the extreme physical trauma of the fall and the subsequent stress. But now, coupled with this extreme, specific olfactory aversion and the persistent low-grade fatigue she'd been fighting... the pieces clicked into place with horrifying clarity. A terrifying hypothesis formed in her mind.
She didn't need a lab test to read the biological signals her body was screaming at her.
She was pregnant.
The memory of that frantic night in the river flashed through her mind. One time. And in the span of a mere two weeks, her body had already begun its profound transformation.
Panic, cold and sharp, gripped her heart. Pregnant in this brutal, primitive clan? It was a death sentence.
And if Hudson found out... he would drag her away to Whitefang immediately. She would lose her chance for revenge. She would lose control of her life.
No. She couldn't tell anyone. Not until she was strong enough to stand on her own.
She forced herself to breathe. She started rummaging through her herbs, looking for something to ease the morning sickness without raising suspicion.
A breeze brushed her cheek. She smelled pine and smoke.
She moved to the tent flap and peeked out. On the ridge above, two glowing eyes watched her in the darkness.
Hudson.
He was protecting her. The thought brought a strange warmth to her chest, but also a chill of fear. If he knew about the baby, his protectiveness would become a cage.
She let the flap fall. She placed a hand on her flat stomach.
This changed everything.
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