Knotting His Rejected Breeder

Sonia’s POV

Ivy arrived just after midday, one hand pressed to the small of her back, the other resting on the heavy curve of her stomach. She moved slower than she used to, each step looked deliberate, as if she were negotiating with her own body for every bit of ground.

I met her at the private sitting room adjoining the nursery and took her arm without asking.

"You should have sent word," I said. "I would have come to you."

"And miss the chance to escape my own rooms?" She gave a tired half-smile. "Blane has started hovering, If I shift in my sleep, he wakes up, If I breathe too carefully, he asks what hurts. I love him, I also needed one hour where no one was measuring my discomfort."

I guided her to the cushioned bench near the window. She lowered herself with a quiet sound that was not quite a sigh and not quite a wince, When she finally settled, she let her head fall back against the wall and closed her eyes for a moment.

Dane was napping in the next room. The soft, rhythmic sound of his breathing carried faintly through the open door. Ivy turned her face toward it.

"He’s grown again."

"He changes every week. Sometimes every day." I poured water for both of us and placed her cup within easy reach. "Ramon pretends not to notice how fast it’s happening, but I catch him staring like he’s trying to memorize each version before it disappears."

Ivy’s mouth curved. "That sounds like him."

We sat in comfortable quiet for a while. Outside, the afternoon light moved slowly across the stone courtyard. A pair of young warriors crossed the open space at an easy pace.

Ivy shifted, pressing her palm harder against her side.

"Braxton Hicks?" I asked.

"Or the real thing practicing on me for fun." She exhaled slowly. "The healer says it could be any day now, Or another week, Or two. She says this like it’s meant to be comforting."

"It isn’t."

"No."

I reached over and covered her free hand with mine, her fingers were warm, slightly swollen, she turned her palm up and held on.

"I’m scared," she said quietly.

Not dramatic, just honest.

"Of the pain?"

"Of everything." She stared at the opposite wall. "Of the pain, of something going wrong. Of loving someone this much before they even arrive, I used to think I understood fear, War fear, Pack fear, The kind you can put a blade in front of. This is different, this sits in your body and doesn’t leave."

I nodded. I remembered that exact feeling too clearly—the nights I lay awake counting the spaces between Dane’s movements, bargaining with the dark for ordinary outcomes.

"When I was close to the end with Dane," I said, "I kept thinking about all the women who did this before me. My mother. Yours. Women whose names I’ll never know. It didn’t make it easier but it made me feel less alone in it."

Ivy’s eyes shone, though no tears fell.

"I keep dreaming that I can’t hear the baby cry after. That everything goes quiet."

She gave a short, embarrassed breath. "Foolish."

"It isn’t foolish."

"Blane would try to fix it if I told him, he’d bring another healer. He’d rearrange the entire wing, he means well, I just... needed someone who wouldn’t try to solve it."

"I know."

She leaned her shoulder lightly against mine. The weight of her was familiar and solid, For a long time we stayed like that, watching the light change on the floor.

Eventually Dane woke with a small, questioning sound. I brought him in, still warm from sleep, and settled him on the rug with a few soft toys. He immediately began his determined rocking, preparing for another attempt at crawling, Ivy watched him with an expression so open it almost hurt to see.

"He’s going to be a good older cousin," she murmured. "Or whatever we decide to call it."

"He’ll try to share his toys and then cry when they actually get taken."

"Perfect training."

Dane managed two uneven pulls forward and then flopped onto his side, startled by his own success, both of us laughed, soft and simultaneous. The sound seemed to ease something in Ivy’s posture.

After a while she said, "Do you ever still get angry?"

"About what?"

"All of it. What it cost to get here. What almost didn’t survive."

I considered the question honestly.

"Yes," I said. "Not every day, but yes. Sometimes I’ll be doing something ordinary—folding clothes, listening to Ramon talk about border reports and it’ll hit me how close we came to none of this existing. The anger comes with the gratitude, I haven’t figured out how to separate them yet."

Ivy nodded slowly.

"I thought giving this child a peaceful pack would make the past quieter. Instead it makes me notice the scars more." She rested both hands on her stomach. "I want better for them, not perfect, but just better."

"We already made it better," I said. "Not finished, but better."

She didn’t answer right away. When she did, her voice was thinner.

"Stay with me when it starts?"

"Yes."

"Even if it’s the middle of the night. Even if it’s messy and I say things I don’t mean."

"Especially then."

Ivy closed her eyes again, but this time the line of her mouth was less tight. Dane crawled one imperfect stretch closer to her foot and patted it with an open hand, delighted by the discovery. She smiled down at him without lifting her head.

"You’re going to be good at this," I told her.

"You don’t know that."

"I do. You’re already protecting them. That’s the part that matters most."

The afternoon stretched gently around us. At some point a maid left a plate of fruit and soft cheese near the door and disappeared without interrupting. Ivy ate slowly. I held Dane when he grew restless, then passed him to her for a few minutes when she asked. She looked down at his small weight in her arms with the careful awe of someone practicing for her own future.

When the light began to thin toward evening, she finally let me help her stand. The process took longer than it once would have. She accepted the help without apology.

At the door she paused and looked back at the quiet room, at the toys on the rug, at the place where we had sat shoulder to shoulder for hours.

"Thank you," she said simply.

"For what?"

"For letting it be heavy with me. Just for a little while."

I squeezed her hand.

"Come back tomorrow if you need to. Or tonight. Or whenever the fear gets loud."

She nodded once and started down the corridor.

Blane was waiting at the far end.

He hadn’t knocked or called out. He had simply been there long enough for the worry to settle into his shoulders. When he saw her, his whole posture changed—softened, careful. He didn’t ask how she was feeling or whether she should have walked this far. He just offered his arm.

Ivy took it without hesitation.

"I lasted longer than you thought I would," she said quietly.

"You did," he answered. His voice was low. "I still came."

She leaned into him as they turned the corner together, her steps matching his shorter, steadier ones. He adjusted his pace to hers without making a show of it.

I watched until they disappeared, then closed the door gently.

Behind me, Dane babbled at nothing in particular.

Outside, Bloodmoon continued its peaceful evening sounds.

I rested a hand on the doorframe and let myself feel it fully—the gratitude, the leftover fear, the deep, tired love of people who had survived enough to reach a season of waiting instead of war.

Some weights were not meant to be carried alone.

This, at least, we already knew how to do.

Visit and read more novel to help us update chapter quickly. Thank you so much!