Pregnant After One Night With The Lycan

Chapter 25

Pregnant After One Night With The Lycan By Kellie Brown

Chapter 25 Fever

Tanya’s POV:

I’m hot and cold all at once, the fever wracking through my body. The chill of the pond from that night seems to have seeped into my bones, making me shiver even a sweat clings to my skin. My hand rests on my stomach as guilt courses through me, stronger and sharper than any discomfort from the fever.

If I were the only one sick, I wouldn’t mind. But at that moment, when I jumped in after the earrings, I forgot that I’m not just making choices for myself anymore. There’s a child growing in me that will suffer the consequences of my mistakes. I berate myself for not having thought of that when I recklessly threw myself into the water. If this baby suffers because I made myself ill, I’ll never forgive myself.

Title of the document

What kind of mother will I be?

Something shifts on the best beside me, and I wince at the stiffness in my joints. My eyelids are heavy with fatigue, and everything seems blurry and far away like I can’t tell whether I’m awake or dreaming.

Suddenly someone’s lying beside me, gently adjusting me to rest against his embrace. His arms wrap around me, and in spite of the burning fever, I welcome the warmth. Wrapped up in him, everything is less painful. A hand rests on top of mine, fingers delicately entwining with my own.

“It’s going to be okay,” says a deep but caring voice.

Marco.

I must be dreaming after all, or perhaps the fever is making me imagine things. I’m so groggy, I can barely tell.

“The baby…” I mutter, and my thoughts are jumbled and incoherent. The baby deserves a better mother than me. Someone competent enough to care for them. Please check at N/ôvel(D)rama.Org.

“Shhhh,” the voice shushes me gently.

Fingers tentatively stroke the skin on my abdomen, guiding my own hand and rubbing my belly tenderly.

“Don’t worry, little flower. The baby is going to be just fine. I promise.”

His words lull me into a comfortable daze, and I feel myself relax against him. After a while, the voice cuts through the fog in my brain once again.

“You have to eat something.”

I grimace, feeling too nauseous. There’s a soft chuckle in response to my childish expression.

“Come on, little flower. You need to eat. What’s your favorite food?”

I groan slightly, too tired and feverish to think straight. “When I was little….” I mumble. “When I was little, my aunt would make grilled cheese sandwiches with homemade tomato soup.”

I sigh at the memory. It had been years since she’d prepared for me. I stopped being worthy of my family’s time and affection when they realized I didn’t manifest a wolf. They realized I was defective, broken. But the memory of those sunny afternoons with my aunt still fills me with joy. She would let me help with the sandwiches while she made the soup from scratch. Once it was all done, we’d dip the bread and cheese into the softly-spiced soup. Everything would be warm and cozy, and the house would smell like fresh herbs and toasted bread.

“It tasted like… It tasted like comfort,” I whisper before dozing off.

I don’t know for how long I’m asleep before the sound of clanging in the distance wakes me up. I stretch slightly, trying to focus. The bed is empty, but there’s a variety of loud noises coming from the kitchen. There’s metal clashing, sizzling, and the sound of Marco cursing under his breath. I frown slightly, but I’m too weak to get out of bed.

I’m not sure how much time passes while I lay there, drifting in and out of sleep. At some point, the sound of footsteps tugs me back into consciousness.

I blink a few times in an attempt to clear my vision at the sight of Marco entering the room with a wooden tray full of food. His blonde curls are a shaggy mess like he’s been running his hands through his hair in frustration, and sweat coats his handsome brow.

He walks to the edge of the bed and sets the tray gently on my lap. I stare at the food in surprise. There’s a cup of tea in the corner and a small plate with a burnt grilled cheese sandwich. Besides it, there’s a bowl full of what appears to be homemade tomato soup. Under the bowl, itself is a crumpled and stained piece of paper, and it takes a few seconds for my mind to make sense of the scribbled words. The recipe is written in my aunt’s handwriting.

“Go on. Eat,” Marco commands, as if I were a child.

I silently obey. He watches me curiously as I dip the corner of the sandwich into the soup and take a bite. It tastes… not quite like my aunt’s. The grilled cheese is slightly burnt, and the soup is somewhat over-seasoned, but it’s still tasty.

I pick up the frayed piece of paper, holding back a smile when I see drops of food that were spilled onto the recipe.

“Where did you get this?” I ask.

Marco quickly snatches the sheet from me, and I frown at the little burn marks on his fingers as he quickly shoves the recipe into his back pocket.

“Your aunt is a very busy lady. She was rather stunned to see a Lycan prince show up at her home, but she insisted that she didn’t have time to cook for you.”

He must have shifted into his wolf form and run all the way to our village outside of the capital, where my old pack lives.

“So she gave you the recipe, and… you made it yourself?” I ask.

He nods somewhat dismissively, and I realize I don’t have the words to thank him. The comfort food is not exactly the same as my aunt’s. But the fact that Marco went through all that trouble to make it for me is quite possibly the sweetest thing anyone’s done for me in my entire life.

I gratefully eat every last drop, and all in all, it’s the best meal I’ve ever had.

Hours trickle by, and I fall into a somewhat uncomfortable and restless slumber as my body finishes fighting off the fever. In the middle of the night, I wake up feeling dry and aching, and I drink some water from the glass on my nightstand.

When I turn back, I realize Marco is sleeping beside me.

I blush at the sight of him in my bed. He must have fallen asleep looking after me. I shuffle slightly to look at him, careful not to wake him. He looks different than he did when he fell asleep holding me during the full moon. He’s lying on his side, facing me. His breathing is uneven, and his brow is furrowed tightly.

Outside, the waning moon casts a soft light through the window, illuminating his elegant features with a silvery glow. He told me that even on regular nights, the blood moon curse still hurts him, making it

difficult to sleep. My soul aches at his suffering, and I hate the thought of him plagued by pain or nightmares.

Hesitantly, I reach out towards him, my hand hovering a few inches away from his face. I brush my fingertips gently across his forehead, smoothing out the pained frown. His expression changes under my soft touch. When I start to pull back, his hand moved towards my own, fingers wrapping around my wrist.

My eyes widen in surprise as he holds me in his sleep. His grip is not tight enough to hurt but firm enough that I can’t pull away. His breathing has steadied somewhat, but when I try to squirm away, he just draws me closer. I let out a small gasp as he tugs on my wrist, and I lose my balance slightly, collapsing against him. I stay completely still for a moment, worried that I’ve woken him by falling into his arms, but he remains unconscious. Instead of waking, he shifts slightly around me, accommodating me into his embrace. The way he wraps his arms around me is both possessive and soothing. He’s so warm and solid against mine, his body sending sparks everywhere it touches my own.

I allow myself to stare at him for a minute, relieved to see the discomfort drained from his expression. The usual harshness of his features has melted away. He looks peaceful now, almost content in his slumber. He’s sound asleep, completely unaware of the way he’s pulled me close, his fingers lazily stroking in absent-minded little patterns and sending goosebumps along my skin. “Marco?” I whisper, unsure of what to do.

He doesn’t answer.

Instead, at the sound of my voice, he pulls me in even closer and tilts his chin down, so his lips graze my own. The kiss is tauntingly soft, his lips feather-light against my own, which part slightly in surprise. Shock and delight flow through me like a deep breath. I feel alive and awake but relaxed and comfortable at the same time. I lie still against him, letting my eyes fall shut of their own accord as I melt into his kiss.