ChapterTwo
1163 Words
Hollow Creek smelled of pine resin and bread. The border town sat between three pack territories, unclaimed by any, governed only by the old woman who ran the general store and the unspoken agreement that no wolf caused trouble here.
I found Mrs. Dornan's fabric shop on my second day. My wolf led me there, drawn by the scent of cotton and dye, familiar smells that meant safety because they meant work.
Mrs. Dornan was human. Seventy years old, half-blind in one eye, and sharper than any Alpha I ever served. She looked at me standing in her doorway, soaked and trembling, and said, "Can you sew a straight seam?"
"Yes," I told her.
"Prove it."
She handed me a torn tablecloth and a needle. I mended the rip in forty seconds, stitches invisible, tension perfect. She grunted.
"The back room has a cot. You eat what I eat. You work when the shop opens. We close at sundown. Questions?"
"None."
"Good. I hate questions."
Two weeks passed. I settled into rhythm. Wake before dawn, press fabric, organize bolts, assist customers, embroider pieces Mrs. Dornan sold at the weekend market. My hands stayed busy. Busy hands meant quiet thoughts. Quiet thoughts meant survival.
On the fifteenth morning, I woke up with my stomach revolting against me.
I barely reached the basin before everything inside me came up. The next day, the same. The third morning, Mrs. Dornan appeared in the doorway of the back room with a cup of ginger tea and an expression that said she already understood what I refused to accept.
"How far along?" she asked.
"I am not..." I began.
"Girl, I raised four daughters. I know what morning sickness looks like. Drink the tea."
I drank. My hands shook around the cup. The truth settled over me with the weight of a collapsing roof. The ceremony. Douglas and I completed the sacred mating ritual before the reception began, in the private alcove behind the altar as tradition demanded. That was hours before Angelina appeared. Hours before my world shattered.
His child grew inside me.
"I cannot go back," I whispered. The words were meant for myself, but Mrs. Dornan heard.
"Did I ask you to go anywhere? Drink your tea. We open in twenty minutes."
I visited the healer at the weekend market. A kind wolf woman named Seren, who traveled between border towns offering care to those without pack protection. She confirmed the pregnancy, estimated six weeks along, and asked no questions about the father.
"Healthy so far," Seren said, pressing careful fingers against my lower belly. "Eat well. Rest when you can. Come find me next month."
I nodded and paid her with coins earned from my embroidery. Walking back to the shop, I pressed one hand against my stomach and made a silent vow. This child would never know the cruelty of Crescent Moon. This baby would never become a weapon in Rachael's arsenal or a bargaining chip for Douglas's legacy. I would raise my pup alone, in peace, far from anyone who might use an innocent life for power.
The bell above the shop door chimed that afternoon. Mrs. Dornan was napping in the back, so I stepped forward to greet the customer.
He was tall. Broader across the shoulders than most men I encountered, with dark hair that curled slightly at his temples and eyes the color of aged whiskey. He wore plain clothes, a simple wool coat over a dark shirt, boots scuffed from travel. No insignia. No pack markings visible. His scent reached me a moment later, pine and iron and something richer beneath, like earth after lightning strikes.
Wolf…Definitely a wolf. But nothing about his appearance announced rank or territory.
"Good afternoon," I said. "Can I help you find something?"
He scanned the shop, gaze landing on the display wall where my embroidered pieces hung. The wolf-motif tapestry caught his attention immediately. It depicted a lone she-wolf standing atop a ridge, head raised toward a crescent moon, fur rendered in silver and grey thread with such detail that the strands appeared to shift in the light.
"Who made this?" he asked. His voice was low, controlled, the kind of voice accustomed to giving commands but choosing not to at this moment.
"I did."
He stepped closer to the tapestry, studying the threadwork with an intensity that surprised me. His fingers hovered over the stitching without touching.
"The motion in the fur," he said. "You used a split stitch layered over long-and-short. Unusual combination."
I blinked. No one ever identified my technique by sight alone. "You know embroidery?"
A ghost of a smile crossed his mouth. "My mother stitched. She taught me to recognize quality." He turned toward me. "I am hosting an event in several weeks. A large celebration. I need original textile work. Banners, table pieces, ceremonial hangings. Would you accept a commission?"
My heart jumped. A commission of that size could fund months of living expenses. Enough to carry me through the birth and beyond.
"What is the occasion?" I asked.
"A centennial. One hundred years since my... since the territory was established."
"How many pieces would you require?"
"At minimum, twelve banners. Six table runners. One central tapestry for the main hall. I will pay generously and provide materials."
I calculated in my head. The work was immense but possible if I began immediately. "I can do it. But I will need workspace, quality thread, and a reliable supply of linen."
"All provided. The work would take place at my territory. I can arrange transport and lodging."
A flicker of hesitation. Moving to an unknown pack territory while pregnant and vulnerable. But the alternative was remaining here with dwindling savings and a baby on the way.
"May I know your name?" I asked.
"Lambert," he said. No surname. No title.
"Elena," I offered in return.
He extended his hand. His grip was firm, brief, and warm. No shock ran through me at the contact. No bond pulled. Just the simple handshake of a business agreement.
"I will send details within the week," Lambert said. He purchased the wolf tapestry from the wall before leaving, paying triple what Mrs. Dornan marked.
When the door closed behind him, I exhaled. Something about his presence lingered in the shop like heat after a fire dims. I pressed my palm against my stomach again.
"We are going to be fine," I murmured to the life growing beneath my hand. "We are going to be perfectly fine."
I did not know then who Lambert truly was. I did not know what awaited me at Blood Moon. I did not know that the man who admired my stitching would one day hold my hand through a pain far greater than any needle ever caused.
All I knew was that for the first time since my wedding night, someone looked at my work and saw worth.
That was enough to make me say yes.
- Writer
