Fifteen

The soft glow of the lanterns filled the small chamber with a golden warmth, flickering against the carved wooden beams and dried bundles of herbs hanging from the ceiling. The air smelled of chamomile and rose, calming after a long day. Isolde sat at her small desk, carefully grinding valerian root into powder, humming softly under her breath.

She didn't hear the door open.

Not until a pair of arms wrapped around her waist from behind and warm lips pressed against the back of her neck.

She smiled instantly. "Tristan."

"I knew I would find you surrounded by potions and crushed leaves," Tristan murmured into her skin. His voice was rough with affection, deeper from a day of being busy and long patrols. "I thought I might have to fight a bundle of thyme for your attention."

Isolde laughed softly, leaning into him. "I'd let you win. Barely."

He turned her gently in his arms, and their lips met in a slow, familiar kiss—sweet and slow and full of all the quiet promises they never needed to speak aloud. She threaded her fingers into his short, dark hair and breathed him in. The feel of him still had the power to make her heart ache with joy.

When they finally pulled apart, she looked up at him with a content sigh. "How was your day?"

He shrugged, his arms never leaving her waist.

"Uneventful. Patrols were quiet. Zayan's on edge, though. Says something is wrong—worse than has ever been seen."

Isolde frowned, brushing her thumb over his cheekbone. "Is it the sickness?"

"Not yet, at least not here," Tristan said. "But he's worried it'll come this way. Says it feels like something's building." He kissed her temple. "But let's not talk about that tonight."

She nodded, but he tilted his head slightly and added, "You, on the other hand, seem to have had a more interesting day."

Her brow arched. "Do I?"

Tristan grinned. "Myla can't stop talking about the 'princess.'"

Isolde rolled her eyes, chuckling. "She calls every new woman she meets a princess."

"This one, apparently, is the princess," he said, clearly amused. "With hair like silk and sad eyes and a baby in her belly."

Isolde sobered a little. "Arin."

"Ah," Tristan said, letting her go only to tug her toward the bed. "So it is true, then. The disgraced mate of the king, hidden away in our corner of the woods."

Isolde settled beside him and pulled her legs beneath her. "She is not at all what I expected."

Tristan leaned back on his elbows. "And what did you expect?"

"A liar. A seductress." She looked at her hands. "Someone cold, manipulative. The way the rumors described her…"

"And?"

"I like her," Isolde said quietly. "There's a sharpness in her, yes—but it's the kind that comes from being wounded. She is angry. She is afraid. But she is not cruel. She's just… tired."

Tristan watched her, eyes thoughtful. "You feel for her."

"I do," she admitted. "And I don't think she was treated fairly."

Tristan nodded once, but did not interrupt his mate.

"There is something else, too," Isolde added, chewing her lower lip. "Something strange. I can't explain it."

He frowned slightly. "Strange how?"

"When I used the listening stone on her belly, I could hear the baby's heartbeat—it was strong, rhythmic. But there was something… underneath. Like a second pulse. Faint. Magical."

Tristan raised an eyebrow. "The child?"

"I don't know," Isolde admitted. "It felt old. Not dark, not like a curse. Just… unfamiliar. Ancient, almost. I

Have never felt anything like it."

Tristan was quiet for a moment, contemplating his mate's words. Isolde had a gift that exceeded her ability to heal, he knew not to take her words lightly. He shrugged lightly. "Well, if you think something is off, then it is probably true. You are the best judge of character I know."

She smiled faintly. "You always say that."

"Because it is always true," he said, sitting up and pulling her closer until she was in his lap, legs straddling his thighs. "You have a heart like no one else, Isi. You see things in people that the rest of us are too stupid or stubborn to notice plus the moon goddess blessed you with a gift."

She rested her forehead against his. "Even when they don't want to be seen."

"Especially then." He kissed her nose. "Besides, if the whole world's wrong and you are the only one who believes in someone—I'll bet on you every time."

Her heart squeezed tight at his words.

He brushed her braid over her shoulder and began unfastening the tie at the back of her dress, fingers slow and deliberate. "Now. Can we talk about how Myla asked me if she was going to get a baby sister soon?"

Isolde groaned. "Tristan."

He nuzzled the crook of her neck. "I told her I would speak to her mother about it. In private. Very… gentle negotiations."

"Subtle," she murmured, smiling despite herself.

"I thought so," he said, pulling her down onto the bed with him. "Now, I'd very much like to spend the rest of this uneventful day making a new sibling for our nosy little pup."

She laughed and kissed him again, the laughter caught between them. "You are just insatiable."

"For you?" He grinned. "Absolutely."

They tangled together, limbs and laughter and soft whispers. The flickering light of the lantern cast long shadows on the walls, but inside the room, there was only warmth. Peace. The kind of peace that came from knowing someone would choose you again and again, no matter what the world said.

Later, as Isolde lay nestled in Tristan's arms, her mind drifted back to Arin.

To her bruised body and sharp words. To the storm that lived behind her eyes.

And to the faint pulse of something ancient and powerful, nestled deep within her womb.

Isolde didn't know what was coming.

But she knew this much:

That child—whatever it was—was no ordinary wolf.

And Arin's story was far from over.