Lyra’s POV
“You’re burning alive, little shadow.”
The deep, gravelly rumble of Fenrir’s voice vibrated against the shell of my ear, pulling me from a restless, feverish sleep just as his massive hand spanned the entire width of my stomach, his palm searing through the thin silk of my nightgown.
“It’s just the pregnancy,” I gasped, my voice betraying a frantic tremor as I tried to twist away from his suffocating heat. My blood felt like molten lead pumping through my veins, my skin slick with a cold sweat as a deep, agonizing ache radiated from my lower abdomen.
It was the morning of the full moon, and the biological clock was striking zero.
“Wolves don’t run fevers like this, Lyra,” Fenrir growled. His golden eyes narrowed in the dim light of the royal chambers as he effortlessly pull
