Winter's Favor

Harmony's Call

The balcony off my guest suite wasn't ornate.

It didn't need to be.

Stone. Iron railing. A single chair that looked like it had been repaired, not replaced, for decades. Beyond it—rows of sleeping lavender, bare vines, and the distant line of hills softened by late-afternoon haze.

Mediterranean light didn't show off.

It lingered.

Like it had nowhere better to be.

I wrapped my fingers around a warm mug Lucien's staff had left for me—something herbal and sharp that tasted like rosemary, deciding it had opinions—and stared out at the landscape as if I could find a version of myself out there that still made sense.

My phone buzzed.

Harmony's name lit the screen.

For a second, my chest tightened with a kind of panic that had nothing to do with wolves or sovereignty or war-math.

Just... home.

Just the person who knew what my voice sounded like when I was trying not to fall apart.

I answered.

Her face filled the screen, framed by the dim yellow light of what looked like her kitchen. Hair shoved into a messy knot. Oversized sweatshirt. Coffee stains like a signature.

She looked beautiful.

She looked tired.

She looked... wrong.

"Okay," she said immediately, without hello. "You're alive."

I snorted softly. "Barely, but yes."

Her eyes swept my face like she was checking for bruises through pixels.

"Your mascara is," she observed, "not currently on your face."

"It's Europe," I said. "The air is cultured. It dissolves makeup as a moral stance."

She didn't smile.

Harmony always smiled. Even when she was furious. Especially when she was furious.

The lack of it landed in my stomach like a warning.

"Hey," I said quietly.

Her gaze snapped to mine.

"Don't 'hey' me," she said, voice too sharp for how quiet her kitchen behind her was. "You vanished on New Year's Eve, Elena."

"I didn't vanish," I said, then winced at myself. "Okay. I vanished. But it was—"

"Complicated," Harmony cut in, flat as paper. "That's what you say when you've either joined a cult or gotten engaged."

I stared at her. "Why are those your two options?"

"Because those are the only two reasons you would willingly leave the country in winter," she snapped. Then her eyes narrowed. "Wait. Did you leave the country because of a man?"

I opened my mouth.

Closed it.

Harmony's expression tightened with vindication and dread.

"Oh my God," she whispered. "You left the country because of a man."

"It wasn't—" I started, then stopped, because the truth wasn't clean enough to fit in one sentence. "There are... factors."

Harmony's eyes narrowed further. "Elena."

I exhaled and leaned my forearms on the railing. The iron pressed cold through my sleeve.

"Mark cheated," I said.

Harmony froze.

Then her face went dead in a way that made my throat tighten.

"That man," she said softly, "is going to meet me in a parking lot."

"Please don't commit a felony on my behalf," I said, because it was easier than revisiting the blinking lights in that bedroom.

Harmony's jaw clenched. "I can't promise anything."

A beat.

Then she forced herself to inhale. "Okay. Then what?"

"Then I went outside," I said. "In a dress. In the snow. Like a cliché with trauma."

Harmony's eyes narrowed. "You didn't call me."

"I didn't think," I said. "Then I almost walked into traffic."

Harmony's face went pale.

"I didn't," I added quickly. "I got pulled back."

"By a tall man with 'serial killer but make it hot' energy," Harmony supplied, because of course she did.

I stared. "How—"

"Because I know you," she said. "And because I know the universe. Continue."

I swallowed once. "His name is Silas."

Harmony's brows lifted. "Silas. Of course it is."

"He's not a—" I started.

"A barista," Harmony finished.

"He's an Alpha," I said.

Harmony stared.

A long, silent blink.

Then another.

"An Alpha," she repeated slowly, like she was testing if the word tasted like insanity.

"Yeah," I said, because pretending this was normal was the only way I was still upright. "Like... wolves."

Harmony's eyes went glassy.

"You're going to have to define 'wolves,'" she said carefully. "Because right now my brain is offering me National Geographic and Twilight as equally possible options, and I hate both."

I huffed a humorless laugh. "It's the second one, but with better politics."

Harmony's mouth opened.

Closed.

Then, very softly: "Are you safe?"

"Yes," I said.

And hated how the word warmed my chest as I said it.

Harmony's gaze flicked down.

Then back up with that same strained composure.

"Okay," she said. "That's... big."

"I hate that it's big," I muttered.

"I know," she said. "Start at the point where you ended up in France. Because you're in France."

"I'm in France," I confirmed.

Harmony stared at my background—stone, hills, winter light—and her face tightened like the distance itself offended her.

"Why," she demanded, "are you in France?"

I took a breath.

"Because there are people—wolves—who don't like the fact that Silas... found me," I said. "And there's... a faction. Political. Dangerous."

Harmony's eyes narrowed. "You're telling me you got cheated on, almost hit by a car, got rescued by a man named Silas, and then fled the country because of werewolf politics."

"When you say it like that," I said, "it does sound like I'm about to be admitted somewhere."

Harmony's voice sharpened. "Elena."

"I'm not hallucinating," I said quickly. "I've seen it. Shifting. Claws. Gold eyes. I— Harmony, there's a council."

Harmony held up a hand. "Stop."

I froze.

Harmony exhaled through her nose, eyes briefly closing like she was pinching the bridge of her brain.

"I believe you," she said, and the way she said it sounded like a decision. "I don't know how. I don't know why. But I believe you."

My throat tightened unexpectedly.

Harmony opened her eyes again. "Do you like him?"

The question hit me in the sternum harder than it should have.

I stared out at the dormant fields to avoid looking at her.

"I—" I began.

Harmony's gaze sharpened. "Oh."

"Don't," I warned weakly.

"Oh my God," she whispered, voice full of horrified certainty. "You do."

"It's complicated," I muttered.

Harmony's mouth twitched. "If you say 'complicated' again, I will reach through the phone and slap you with your own cynicism."

Despite everything, a small laugh escaped me.

Then it broke in my throat and turned into something quieter.

"I feel safe," I admitted.

Harmony went very still.

Then, softly: "Okay. That's... huge."

"I know," I whispered.

"And it scares you," Harmony said, like she could see inside my ribs.

"Yes," I said.

Harmony swallowed.

And that's when I caught it again—the wrongness.

Not anger.

Not fear.

Distraction.

Like her mind kept stepping sideways around something.

"Harmony," I said quietly.

She looked up too fast. "What?"

"What's wrong?" I asked.

"Nothing," she said immediately.

I didn't move.

Didn't blink.

My silence did what it always did.

Harmony's gaze dropped. Not at me. Down.

Then back up.

Her throat moved as she swallowed hard.

"Okay," she said, voice barely above a whisper. "I wasn't going to tell you like this."

My stomach sank.

"Harmony," I said, warning and pleading all at once.

Her eyes went bright, but she didn't let the tears fall.

"I'm pregnant," she said.

The words hung in the air like the world had paused to listen.

My mouth went dry.

"Harmony," I breathed.

She let out a small, disbelieving laugh. "Yeah. That was my reaction too."

For a second my mind refused to rearrange reality around that sentence.

Harmony. Pregnant.

Harmony, who carried pepper spray and backup pepper spray. Harmony, who had always said "when the world gets normal," which meant never.

"You're sure?" I asked stupidly.

Harmony lifted her hand into the frame.

A white stick.

Two pink lines.

No ambiguity.

My fingers went numb on the mug.

"Oh my God," I whispered.

Harmony's smile flickered—tiny, terrified, real.

"I know," she said. "I know."

The next question arrived like a cold tide.

"Who?" I said.

Harmony went still.

The silence stretched long enough that my spine braced.

Then she said, very quietly, "Don't get mad at me."

My stomach dropped another inch.

"Harmony," I warned.

She flinched.

Then forced herself to lift her chin.

"It was one night," she said, voice tight. "And it wasn't supposed to matter."

The admission landed before the name did, and somehow it made the name worse.

"Garrett," she whispered.

For half a second, it meant nothing.

Then my mind caught up to the vocabulary I'd been collecting like bruises.

Alpha Garrett.

Another territory.

A rival pack leader.

A name Silas had said once with flatness that meant threat, not gossip.

My grip tightened around the mug until the heat bit my skin.

"Garrett," I repeated.

Harmony nodded once, eyes glossy. "Yes."

I let out a single, broken laugh.

"I leave the country for five minutes," I whispered, "and you're pregnant by a rival Alpha."

Harmony's eyes flashed. "It was not a plan."

"I didn't say it was a plan," I snapped. "I said it was the kind of thing that makes people write warnings at the beginning of a book."

Harmony exhaled shakily, rubbing her forehead. "Elena—"

"Does he know?" I demanded.

Her gaze dropped.

"No," she said.

The word hit like ice water.

"Why not?" I asked.

Harmony's mouth tightened. "Because I don't know what it means."

I went quiet.

Because she wasn't wrong.

Because suddenly I could see the shape of it—the way packs talked about bloodlines and bonds and leverage.

A child wasn't just a child.

It was a tie.

A claim.

A treaty or a weapon, depending on who held it.

Harmony inhaled shakily. "I didn't tell you because I didn't want to be... another thing on your plate."

"You are not a thing," I said immediately, voice fierce. "You're you."

Her face crumpled for one second.

Then she shoved it back into place.

"I'm scared," she admitted.

My throat tightened.

"Okay," I said, and forced my voice into steadiness. "Okay. Then we do this smart."

Harmony's laugh was small and bitter. "Smart. That would be new."

"How far along?" I asked.

She hesitated. "Eight weeks."

Eight.

My brain did a brutal, silent calculation and hated the calendar.

"Harmony," I said carefully, "do you want to keep it?"

Her eyes snapped up. The answer was already there, sharp and certain.

"Yes," she whispered.

Something in my chest ached.

"Okay," I said. "Then we protect you."

Harmony's eyes widened. "You hear yourself?"

"I do," I said. "And I hate it. But I'm learning a language I didn't ask to learn."

Harmony swallowed.

"Garrett doesn't like losing," she said quietly.

Neither did Silas.

Neither did any man who wore power like it was part of his skeleton.

My fingers flexed against the mug.

"Harmony," I said low, "promise me you won't tell him alone."

Her throat moved. "I don't even know if I'll tell him at all."

"You will," I said, surprising myself with the certainty. "Because secrets don't stay secrets in this world. They become leverage."

Harmony stared at me, then nodded once, reluctantly, like she hated that I sounded competent.

I inhaled. "Here's what you do."

Her eyes narrowed. "Elena—"

"Listen," I said, voice firm. "Neutral ground. Public. Somewhere with witnesses who are not his. Bring someone older if you can—someone who won't be intimidated. If you tell him, you do it where he can't turn it into a corner."

Harmony went still, absorbing it.

"Okay," she whispered.

The call crackled faintly, connection thinning for a moment like even technology didn't want to hold this.

Mediterranean light spilled across my hands.

A quiet wind moved through the dormant fields.

Home felt very far away.

And for the first time since arriving, the safety of Europe didn't feel like relief.

It felt like a pause before impact.

I looked at Harmony's face—my best friend, trembling in her kitchen with two pink lines and a secret tied to a rival Alpha.

Pack politics had expanded beyond me.

And suddenly, I wasn't sure which of us was in more danger.