Lyka
I didn't even flinch when Parker's gaze locked on me. After all, this wasn't new. Ever since we were kids, Iza had claimed what she wanted—the shiny toy, the best seat, even the attention of anyone she fancied. So seeing her smirk falter just a fraction didn't shock me. It was… expected.
I pressed a hand to my stomach, feeling the life growing there, and let the familiar surge of strength roll through me. I wasn't just Lyka, the quiet, overlooked sister. I was the one carrying his child. And somehow, that gave me a calm certainty.
"You tried," I said, voice steady, "and failed." My eyes didn't waver from his. "Not because of me. Because… it doesn't work that way."
Parker's jaw flexed. He opened his mouth, closed it again. I saw the tension in his shoulders, the way his wolf must have bristled under the skin, waiting for a chance to claim what it recognized. But I wasn't impatient. I didn't need him to prove it—my instincts had known him before even I could understand.
Iza's lips twitched, an almost imperceptible grin that I caught only because I knew her too well. "She's always had that quiet strength," she muttered, almost to herself. "Never noticed it… until now."
I blinked at her, tilting my head. She looked like a small warning bell, a ghost of every game she'd played with me over the years. I realized suddenly—she'd always tried to tip me off about my secret admirer. Little hints, offhand comments, stories she'd told about boys she said I'd like. But none of it had clicked. None of it had prepared me for this. Not that I was surprised now. Not really.
Because deep down, I'd felt him. Parker. The pull, the quiet recognition that had been with me since I could remember. And even as I stood there, furious at what I'd walked in on, I also… understood it.
"You can't take what isn't yours," I said softly, almost conversationally, but the words carried steel. "And he… he doesn't belong to anyone but me."
Parker exhaled sharply, relief and guilt flickering across his face. He stepped closer, just enough to let me feel the heat radiating from him without breaking the invisible line I'd drawn. "You've always known," he said quietly, "even when I didn't."
I let that sink in. I wasn't naive. I hadn't realized the full picture, but the recognition was there, threading through my memory: the way I'd noticed him before anyone else did, the way I'd felt… drawn, even when I thought it was just instinct.
Iza shifted behind him, muttering something about how she should've known. Her voice had the faintest edge of admiration, though I didn't need it. I already knew. She'd always tried to tell me without actually telling me.
I took a slow breath, letting the tension drain a fraction. "It's been him all along," I whispered, more to myself than anyone else. "Even before I knew it."
Parker's fingers brushed mine for a heartbeat—light, careful—and in that moment, I felt everything line up. The childhood games, the whispers, the subtle nudges from Iza… all pieces falling into place.
"Then we start from here," he said, a quiet promise, voice threading warmth through the night air. "No distractions, no confusion. Just… us. For her—for the baby."
I nodded, a small, quiet motion, but it carried everything I felt. Parker caught it, his eyes flicking down to my stomach for just a second, and then back up. That brief acknowledgment said more than words ever could.
We started walking down the path away from the gate, our steps in sync without meaning to. The cool night air tangled with the tension between us, neither of us willing to speak first, yet both aware of the thread pulling us together.
"You're quiet," Parker finally said, voice low. "I was expecting yelling, maybe a few punches thrown."
I shot him a sideways glance, smirking despite the knot in my chest. "I save my theatrics for people who actually surprise me."
He chuckled, short, controlled, but it vibrated against my skin like electricity. "Fair. I think you've surprised me enough already tonight."
I let the words hang, letting him feel the weight of them. He slowed, letting me pull ahead slightly, and I could see the calculation in his expression—the Alpha instincts, the unspoken responsibilities pressing against him. The pack territory, the clan protocols… all invisible, yet real.
"Do you ever get tired?" I asked, curiosity slipping into my voice. "Of… all the expectations? The eyes everywhere?"
He gave a sharp laugh, almost bitter. "Every damn day. And somehow, it never stops. You think you're free, and then someone reminds you who you are—or what you should be."
I glanced at him, catching the faint shadow of frustration beneath his calm. "And yet, you still… I don't know… care enough to be here."
He shifted, brushing a hand through his hair, eyes catching mine in a way that made me forget everything except the heat pooling low in my chest. "It's not just me," he said carefully. "There's… other forces, pack politics, expectations, territory claims. But you…" He hesitated, and I could feel the unspoken, "You matter more than all of it."
My heart thumped hard. I didn't say anything, just let the silence stretch, the tension between us folding in layers—anger, attraction, and something unshakable that hummed in my veins.
"You know," I said after a moment, teasing to break the tightness, "you're really bad at subtle."
He smirked, sharp and self-assured, but there was warmth underneath it. "I've never been subtle with what matters."
I laughed softly, letting the sound spill into the night, and we walked on in quiet harmony. Each step closer felt dangerous and thrilling. The world could watch, the clans could press down, and the weight of my unborn child could scream caution—but nothing shifted what we were building in that slow, charged space.
"You move like someone who thinks no one sees her," he said suddenly, breaking the comfortable rhythm. "Careful… or someone might actually notice."
I tilted my head, eyebrow raised. "And what if I like that someone noticing?"
He caught my glance, a spark of mischief in his eyes. "Then I guess I'd be in trouble."
A shiver ran down my spine—not fear, but thrill. "Trouble?" I echoed, teasing back. "Sounds like you already are."
He chuckled again, and I caught the faint scent of him—earthy, sharp, unmistakably him. The instinct to reach out, to let him know I felt it too, was almost unbearable. But I kept my distance, letting the tension coil like a spring.
"Keep your distance, Lyka," he murmured, almost to himself, but I felt it as a promise. "Not because I want to, but because… it's complicated. The pack doesn't forgive easily."
I nodded, a slow, deliberate motion. "I've never been afraid of what's complicated."
His eyes softened just slightly, almost imperceptibly. "Good. Because this… whatever this is between us… isn't something you walk away from lightly. Not for me, not for the pack, not even for fate itself."
I swallowed, chest tight, but my steps didn't falter. I didn't need words to feel it—his tension, his control, the unshakable pull that had threaded through our lives from the beginning.
The moonlight spilled over the path, catching his profile, sharp and determined. And even as the world's expectations pressed down, even as my heart and instincts screamed caution, I knew one thing: no rules, no lies, no clan pressures could erase what was quietly, insistently ours.
I let my fingers brush mine past him—not a touch, not yet, but a brush that carried every unspoken word: We're in this. Together.
And Parker… he didn't pull away.