Chapter 11
Life in the South became something I didn't recognize.
For the first time, I wasn't surviving. I was *living*.
Dominic didn't just give me space — he gave me purpose. Within a month of the tribunal, construction began on my clinic. He brought in architects who listened to my vision — a healing center for wolves and humans alike, the first of its kind.
I worked alongside the builders every day, sketching adjustments, consulting with healers from three territories who'd heard about the project and volunteered their expertise.
People looked at me differently here. Not as an ornament or a bloodline vessel. As a healer. A leader.
"You know they call you the Southern Rose now," Dominic said one evening, finding me buried in clinic blueprints at the kitchen table.
"That's ridiculous."
"It's reverent." He set a cup of tea beside my notes. "My people don't give names lightly."
I looked up at him. His sleeves were rolled to his elbows, his hair slightly disheveled from a long day of council meetings. He looked... human. Approachable. Real.
"Dominic."
"Mm?"
"Why are you still being this patient with me? The bond is sealed. The marriage is legal. You don't have to keep — earning it."
He pulled out the chair beside me and sat, his knee almost touching mine.
"Because I remember what it looks like when a man stops trying. I watched my father do it. One day he just... decided he'd won. And my mother spent the rest of her life starving for effort that never came again."
His eyes met mine, soft and certain.
"I will never stop trying with you. Even when it's easy. Especially when it's easy."
I didn't think. I leaned forward and kissed him.
It was brief — barely a brush of lips. But the bond between us ignited like a struck match, flooding warmth through my chest and down to my fingertips.
Dominic went very still. Then his hand came up to cradle my jaw, thumb brushing my cheek.
"Selene," he breathed.
"I'm not done being scared," I admitted against his mouth. "But I'm done punishing you for what he did."
He kissed me back — slow, careful, thorough. Like he had all the time in the world and intended to use every second.
When we finally pulled apart, his forehead rested against mine.
"Take your time," he murmured. "I'm not going anywhere."
And I believed him. Not with hope — with certainty.
---
My belly grew. Twenty-four weeks. Twenty-eight.
The baby kicked constantly — strong, insistent, already fierce.
"Definitely has your stubbornness," Dominic said, his hand on my stomach, marveling at the movement.
"Or yours."
He grinned — a rare, full smile that transformed his face from severe to stunning.
This was happiness. Quiet, steady, *real* happiness. The kind I'd begged Alaric for and never received.
And then the letter came.
It arrived by courier, sealed with the Blackwood crest. Addressed to me.
Dominic watched me open it, tension in his shoulders.
Inside, in Alaric's handwriting — tight, slanted, barely controlled:
*"Selene. Vanessa lost the baby. My healers say it's because her blood couldn't sustain a hybrid — she needed Thornfield genetics. The same genetics our child has."*
*"I know I have no right to ask. But I need to see you. Just once. There are things I should have said five years ago."*
*"I was wrong. About everything."*
*"Please."*
I read it twice. Then I set it down.
Dominic said nothing. Waited.
"He lost Vanessa's baby," I said quietly. "He wants to talk."
"Do you want to talk to him?"
I stared at the letter. The word *please* — a word I'd never once heard Alaric say in five years of marriage.
"No," I said.
And I meant it.
I picked up the letter, walked to the fireplace, and let it burn.
For the first time, I wasn't surviving. I was *living*.
Dominic didn't just give me space — he gave me purpose. Within a month of the tribunal, construction began on my clinic. He brought in architects who listened to my vision — a healing center for wolves and humans alike, the first of its kind.
I worked alongside the builders every day, sketching adjustments, consulting with healers from three territories who'd heard about the project and volunteered their expertise.
People looked at me differently here. Not as an ornament or a bloodline vessel. As a healer. A leader.
"You know they call you the Southern Rose now," Dominic said one evening, finding me buried in clinic blueprints at the kitchen table.
"That's ridiculous."
"It's reverent." He set a cup of tea beside my notes. "My people don't give names lightly."
I looked up at him. His sleeves were rolled to his elbows, his hair slightly disheveled from a long day of council meetings. He looked... human. Approachable. Real.
"Dominic."
"Mm?"
"Why are you still being this patient with me? The bond is sealed. The marriage is legal. You don't have to keep — earning it."
He pulled out the chair beside me and sat, his knee almost touching mine.
"Because I remember what it looks like when a man stops trying. I watched my father do it. One day he just... decided he'd won. And my mother spent the rest of her life starving for effort that never came again."
His eyes met mine, soft and certain.
"I will never stop trying with you. Even when it's easy. Especially when it's easy."
I didn't think. I leaned forward and kissed him.
It was brief — barely a brush of lips. But the bond between us ignited like a struck match, flooding warmth through my chest and down to my fingertips.
Dominic went very still. Then his hand came up to cradle my jaw, thumb brushing my cheek.
"Selene," he breathed.
"I'm not done being scared," I admitted against his mouth. "But I'm done punishing you for what he did."
He kissed me back — slow, careful, thorough. Like he had all the time in the world and intended to use every second.
When we finally pulled apart, his forehead rested against mine.
"Take your time," he murmured. "I'm not going anywhere."
And I believed him. Not with hope — with certainty.
---
My belly grew. Twenty-four weeks. Twenty-eight.
The baby kicked constantly — strong, insistent, already fierce.
"Definitely has your stubbornness," Dominic said, his hand on my stomach, marveling at the movement.
"Or yours."
He grinned — a rare, full smile that transformed his face from severe to stunning.
This was happiness. Quiet, steady, *real* happiness. The kind I'd begged Alaric for and never received.
And then the letter came.
It arrived by courier, sealed with the Blackwood crest. Addressed to me.
Dominic watched me open it, tension in his shoulders.
Inside, in Alaric's handwriting — tight, slanted, barely controlled:
*"Selene. Vanessa lost the baby. My healers say it's because her blood couldn't sustain a hybrid — she needed Thornfield genetics. The same genetics our child has."*
*"I know I have no right to ask. But I need to see you. Just once. There are things I should have said five years ago."*
*"I was wrong. About everything."*
*"Please."*
I read it twice. Then I set it down.
Dominic said nothing. Waited.
"He lost Vanessa's baby," I said quietly. "He wants to talk."
"Do you want to talk to him?"
I stared at the letter. The word *please* — a word I'd never once heard Alaric say in five years of marriage.
"No," I said.
And I meant it.
I picked up the letter, walked to the fireplace, and let it burn.