Celina’s POV
THE SOUND from the sonogram haunted me long after the monitor went dark. That faint, impossible growl echoing through the machine—it wasn’t supposed to be real. My child wasn’t supposed to shift. Not yet. Not in the womb.
But the blood moon cared nothing for what was possible.
That night, the pain began.
It started as a low thrum in my belly, like the baby kicking harder than usual. But then it grew—sharper, deeper—until it felt like claws scraping against the inside of my skin. My wolf howled inside me, resonating with the tiny wolf fighting to surface before its time.
I doubled over on the bed, sweat slicking my temples. My breath came in shallow gasps. Every nerve felt raw, pulled taut between agony and a darker need, an ache that curled low and primal.
“Celina.” Rhys
