BLESSING LUNA RISING

THE FIRST KICK

CHAPTER 20:

The ice melted on the fourth morning because I kicked it.

Not on purpose. Our son did.

We were still in the nest, Darius's black wings sealed around us, his head on my belly, purring. Three days of nest lock had made my belly rounder — not much, but enough that my white fire dress strained. Enough that when I breathed, silver dust puffed out.

Darius had not slept. Lycan Kings in rut don't sleep when their Queen is newly pregnant. He just purred, fed me raw elk that his warriors slid through a tiny hole in the ice, and oiled my wings with shaking hands.

"Little Luna, you are glowing too bright," he murmured on the fourth morning, his forehead pressed to my belly. "Selene said White Queens shouldn't glow this bright at one week. She said—"

He stopped.

Because our son moved. Not a flutter this time. A kick.

White fire, mixed with black, flared from inside my belly outward, so strong it threw Darius's head back, so strong it shattered the five-foot thick black ice doors from the inside, so strong it melted every fur in the nest except the ones directly under me, so strong my white wings snapped open involuntarily and beat, scattering silver dust that burned like sparks.

I screamed. Not from fear. From pain. Real pain, sharp and bright, like my womb was on fire.

"Elara!"

Darius was on his knees instantly, his hands over my belly, his black eyes pure black, his fangs fully out, his black crescent glowing white so bright it lit the entire tower.

"Little Luna? Little Luna! Where does it hurt? Is it the pup? Did he—"

"He kicked," I gasped, clutching his arms, my wings flailing, white fire leaking from my eyes, my hands, my belly. "Darius, he kicked and it— it burns—"

White fire was now pouring from my belly in waves, not controlled like justice fire, wild like first fire. It hit Darius's hands and he didn't flinch, even though it burned black scorch marks into his skin. His black fire rose to meet it, trying to stabilize it, but our son's fire was too strong — white and black together, a King fire, not a Queen fire.

Outside the shattered doors, my father heard my scream and flew straight through the hole, his white wings beating, my mother behind him, Selene behind her.

"She's burning!" Aeron shouted, his white fire flaring to try to contain mine. "Lira! The moonwater! Now! The pup is too strong! He's drawing her white fire to grow!"

My mother poured moonwater over my belly, over Darius's hands, over my wings, but the white fire didn't go out. It flared brighter.

Selene floated into the nest, her moon-eyes wide for the first time since I met her.

"He has both fires," she whispered, her hand hovering over my belly, not touching the wild fire. "White and Black. He kicked and his King fire is eating her Queen fire to grow. She is one week pregnant with a pup who is already trying to be born with wings. Elara, little Queen, you have to breathe. You have to let Darius's black fire in."

"I— I can't—" I sobbed, clutching Darius, white fire pouring from my mouth now. "It hurts—"

Darius did the only thing a Lycan King in rut can do when his Queen and pup are burning.

He bit me. Again. But not on the neck. On the belly. Right over where our son kicked, over the thin white fire dress, his fangs sinking through silk into skin, not deep enough to hurt the pup, deep enough to pour black fire directly into my womb.

I screamed again, but this time it wasn't pain. It was relief. Black fire, cold and dark and ancient, flooded into my belly, wrapping around our son's wild white-black fire, cooling it, stabilizing it, rocking it like a cradle.

Our son kicked again, right against Darius's fangs, and purred. A loud purr this time, not tiny, a King purr that vibrated through Darius's fangs into my belly.

Darius's purr answered, vibrating through his fangs, through my belly, through our son, and the white fire slowly, slowly sucked back into my belly, into our son's tiny body, leaving only silver dust and scorch marks on Darius's hands.

I collapsed back into the furs, panting, sweating silver dust, my wings limp, my belly still glowing but calm, a small, round, hard bump now where there had been flatness an hour ago.

One week pregnant and already showing. One week and already kicking with both fires.

Darius didn't remove his fangs for a long time. He just stayed there, his forehead pressed to my belly, his fangs locked gently over our son's kick spot, purring, his black wings wrapped around us, hiding me from my father and mother and Selene.

"Is she—" my mother whispered, crying silver tears.

"She is fine," Selene said softly, her moonlight bathing my sweaty face. "The pup is just strong. He will be a King who can fly before he can walk. Darius, you must keep your fangs there until the fire sleeps. Your black fire is the only thing that can cool a White King heir."

My father knelt at the edge of the nest, his white wings shaking.

"One week," he whispered to my mother. "Lira, she is one week pregnant and already showing like she is three months. If he kicks like that again, he will tear her—"

"He won't," Darius growled through his fangs, his eyes black, looking up at my father for the first time. "I won't let him. I will keep my fangs here every time he kicks. I will pour black fire into him every day until he is born. My son will not hurt his mother."

He finally unlocked his fangs, licking the two small punctures closed, his tongue hot, and then kissed my belly where our son had kicked, where two tiny fang marks now glowed white and black — the pup's first protection marks.

I placed my shaking hand over his, over our son's new bump.

"He's strong," I whispered, exhausted, my voice small. "Like you."

Darius picked me up, furs and all, his black wings wrapping around us, and looked at my father.

"No one enters the tower again without my permission. Not even you, White King. My Queen is carrying a King who kicks with both fires at one week. She stays in the nest until he is born. Tell your warriors. Tell Magnus Vale. Tell that kneeling Alpha on the ledge that if he howls her name and makes her fire flare again, I will rip his throat out with my fangs and feed it to my son."

My father didn't argue. He just bowed his head, his white wings folding.

"Yes, Black King," he said quietly. "Guard my daughter. Guard my grandson."

And as Darius carried me back deeper into the nest, back into the black wing dome, our son kicked again, softer this time, and purred against Darius's hand, already knowing his father's touch.

On the lower ledge, Kael felt the white fire explosion from the tower and thought I was dying, and screamed my name so loud his voice broke, and Darius's warriors finally gagged him.