The calm after Marcus Thorne leaves lasts exactly thirty-six hours.
That’s long enough for the pack to breathe.
Long enough for patrols to relax slightly.
Long enough for the illusion of stability to settle.
And then it fractures again.
But this time—
It’s internal.
I wake before dawn with something wrong in my chest.
Not fear.
Not adrenaline.
Displacement.
The baby isn’t reacting violently.
The baby is… distant.
I sit up slowly.
The silver current that usually hums softly beneath my ribs feels muted.
Not gone.
Just… shifted.
“Kade,” I whisper.
He’s awake instantly.
“What is it?”
“Something’s off.”
He sits up, watching me carefully.
“The baby?”
“Yes.”
“Pain?”
“No.”
“Bleeding?”
“No.”
“Then what?”
“I can’t feel the anchor the same way.”
He stiffens.
“Anchor how
