Chapter 4 – The Nursery Wolf
1202 Words
The nursery smells like warm milk, crayons, and safety.
Or it used to.
Now, as I step through the low door with Varka at my back, the familiar scent is threaded with a sharp, metallic note: fear.
Not the children’s. Mine.
“Sit,” Varka orders, jerking her head at the old padded bench near the cubby shelves.
I obey because my knees were planning to do it anyway. My hands won’t stop trembling. My heart’s still somewhere back in the hall, pinned to the floor where the Alpha King knelt.
Varka shuts the door with more force than necessary, then turns the key. The lock clicks like a final period on the madness.
“Explain,” she growls.
“I…” My voice comes out thin. “I don’t even—”
“From the part where the most powerful wolf on this continent dropped to his knees in front of you,” she says. “That seems a good place to start.”
I let my head fall into my hands.
“I didn’t do anything,” I say. “I was just… standing there. Serving tea. And then—”
“Bond?” she prompts.
The word makes my stomach flip.
I nod, fingers digging into my scalp. “It hit like—” I search for something large enough. “Like the night the fire took the east wing. Only inside.”
Varka exhales through her nose, slow. She drags over a chair, the one with the chewed leg Pip always gnaws on, and sits facing me, arms on her knees.
“And you’re sure?” she asks. “It’s not your mind grasping for a fantasy after—” She cuts herself off, but I hear the missing word anyway.
After Korven.
The ghost of that severed bond aches in my chest like an old break in the bones. Compared to what roared to life when the King looked at me, it’s a dead ember to a live star.
“I’m sure,” I whisper.
Varka studies me for a long moment, eyes narrowed, reading every flicker of my face like she’s decoding a battle map.
“s**t,” she says finally.
That pulls a broken laugh out of me. “That’s it? Your grand beta analysis?”
“What, you want poetry?” She snorts. “Alright. This is a mess, girl. A big, steaming, Council-scented mess.”
I scrub my palms over my face. “He’s wrong. He has to be wrong.”
Her brows go up. “You’re the one who just said you’re sure.”
“I’m sure about the bond,” I snap, frustration flaring hotter than fear for a moment. “I’m not sure that—” I wave a hand helplessly. “That I deserve it. That I’m… built for it.”
Varka’s gaze softens in the faintest, blink-and-miss-it way.
“Deserve’s got nothing to do with it,” she says. “The Moon doesn’t hand out mates like medals, Nyrel. She slaps wolves together and laughs.”
“Helpful,” I mutter.
She leans back, eyeing me. “You’re scared he’ll change his mind like the last one.”
The last one.
I swallow around the dryness in my throat. “Korven didn’t change his mind. He just… chose his pack over me.”
Varka snorts. “He chose his comfort.”
We let that sit between us.
A soft sniffle comes from the far corner. I look up, heart jumping, but it’s only a pup—little Lysa, curls tangled, clutching her ragged stuffed fox as she peers at us from behind the nap curtain.
“Nyrel?” she whispers. “Is the bad wolf gone?”
Varka and I trade a look.
“Which bad wolf, pup?” I manage, gentling my tone.
“The one who made everyone shout.” She pads over on bare feet, fox dragging. “Your face looked funny.”
I force a smile. “He’s not a bad wolf. He’s… complicated.”
Varka makes a low noise, like she’s swallowed a laugh and a curse at the same time.
Lysa climbs onto the bench beside me without asking, as she’s done a hundred times, and wedges herself under my arm. Her little fingers find the hem of my sweater and cling.
“Are you going to leave?” she asks.
The question punches straight through my ribs.
I’ve known it was coming, one day. Wolves grow up, move packs, find mates. But Lysa’s big dark eyes don’t know anything about politics or destiny. They only know that adults leave and don’t always come back.
“I don’t know,” I say honestly.
She frowns. “He smelled scary.”
“Most alphas do,” Varka mutters.
I elbow her gently, then smooth Lysa’s hair back. “He’s… intense. But he didn’t hurt anyone, did he?”
“He made Korven look sick,” she says, very seriously. “I liked that part.”
Varka barks out a short, wicked laugh.
“Varka,” I hiss, but my own mouth wants to smile.
“Out of the mouths of pups,” Varka says, shrugging.
The door creaks.
I jump. Lysa presses closer. Varka’s hand is on my shoulder before I can bolt.
The Alpha King fills the doorway.
He’s still in full formal black, jacket unbuttoned now, throat bare, the faint white scar at his temple catching the nursery’s softer light. He looks… out of place here, framed by finger-painted moons and low shelves of wooden wolves.
His gaze sweeps the room once: Lysa, Varka, me.
Something in his shoulders eases when he sees me upright, breathing.
“Your Majesty,” Varka says, standing with a stiffness that’s half respect, half challenge. She doesn’t bow deeply. Most wouldn’t dare. “The pups are resting. You planning to scare them into early shifts?”
His mouth twitches. Not quite a smile, but close.
“I’ll try not to roar,” he says. His eyes find mine again, and everything inside me goes tight. “May I speak with you, Nyrel?”
Lysa burrows harder into my side. “No,” she whispers fiercely. “Stay here.”
For once, I agree with her.
But the bond between us—the new one, bright and raw—thrums like a plucked string, tugging me toward him. My wolf lifts her head, curious despite the fear.
Varka squeezes my shoulder once.
“Go,” she says quietly. “I’ll keep the world from falling apart out here.”
Easy for her to say.
I peel Lysa gently off my arm, kiss her curls, and stand. My legs feel like someone swapped them for carved wood.
“I’ll be back,” I tell the pup.
It sounds like a promise. I pray I’m not lying.
I cross the room toward the King, the scent of milk and crayons fading under storm and steel.
When I reach him, he steps aside, holding the door open.
“Walk with me,” he says softly.
As I pass him, our shoulders almost brush. My wolf shivers, torn between bolting back to the nursery and pressing closer to the storm.
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