Chapter 24
ARIA
The tears come hot and silent, soaking into the fabric of my mask. My shoulders shake with the effort of keeping quiet—of not letting anyone outside this room hear me fall apart.
She’s just an insignificant person.
The words echo in my head, relentless. Each repetition carves deeper, opening wounds I thought I’d sealed shut years ago.
I stare down at my phone, at the photo of my babies grinning with their Papa Bear, and something cracks open in my chest.
A memory surfaces—vivid and terrible and impossible to push away.
***
The forest is dark, the branches tearing at my clothes, my skin as I run. My feet are bare—I’d lost my shoes somewhere back near the ceremonial grounds, and every step sends pain shooting up my legs.
Behind me, I hear them. Howling and snarling. The pack hunting me like I’m prey.
“Don’t let her escape!”
Declan’s voice cuts through the trees, sharp and commanding, and it makes something inside me die.
I push harder, my lungs burning, my vision blurring with tears and exhaustion. Kelly whimpers in my mind, desperate but unable to help. She knows what I know - shifting now, with my body this damaged, could kill the baby. We have to stay human. We have to keep running.
I stumble over a root and go down hard, my hands slamming into the dirt. Pain explodes through my palms, my knees, but I drag myself up and keep running.
Blood. There’s blood on my hands. On my legs.
Too much blood.
My stomach cramps violently, and I double over, gasping. No. No, not now. Please not now.
But my body doesn’t care. Another cramp hits, sharper this time, and I feel something warm and wet running down my thighs.
I press a hand to my stomach, terror flooding through me.
The baby. Something’s wrong with the baby.
Kelly whimpers, frantic and terrified. ‘Run. You have to run.’
I force myself forward. One step. Another. The trees blur around me, and I don’t know where I’m going anymore. I just know I have to get away. Have to survive. Have to protect the life growing inside me.
The howls are getting closer.
I crash through the underbrush, branches whipping across my face, and suddenly the trees open up. I stumble out onto pavement—smooth and black and completely foreign.
Cars.
Massive metal beasts roaring past at impossible speeds, their headlights blinding. I’ve never seen anything like them. Never been this close to the human world.
I stagger to the side of the road, my legs giving out. I collapse onto the rough gravel shoulder, my body shaking uncontrollably.
More blood. So much blood.
A car passes. Then another. I try to lift my hand, try to wave for help, but my arm won’t cooperate.
“Help,” I whisper, but my voice is too quiet. “Please.”
Another car speeds past without slowing. The world tilts sideways. My vision darkens at the edges. I’m going to die here. The baby—our baby—is going to die.
“Please,” I try again, but it comes out as barely a breath.
Headlights. Slowing this time.
Voices. Urgent and concerned.
“Oh my God, James, stop the car! There’s someone.”
“Is she—is she bleeding?”
Hands on my shoulders, gentle and warm.
“Miss? Miss, can you hear me?”
I try to focus on the face above me. A woman with kind eyes and grey hair.
“We need to get her to a hospital.”
“No!” The word tears out of me with more force than I knew I had left. “No hospital. Please. Just—just somewhere safe.”
“But you’re hurt.”
“Please.” I grab her hand, squeezing with trembling fingers. “I can’t, I can’t go to a hospital. Please.”
The woman exchanges a look with someone I can’t see. Then she nods.
“Alright. Alright, sweetheart. We’ll help you. James, call Ethan. Tell him we’re bringing someone to his place. Tell him to find a medical kit. Now.”
Those words are the last I hear before everything goes black
***
I wake up in a small bedroom I don’t recognize. The walls are painted a soft beige, and there’s a single window with white curtains letting in morning light.
Pain shoots through my body. Everything hurts. It feels like it’s been torn apart and barely stitched back together.
I try to sit up, and a hand immediately presses against my shoulder.
“Easy. Don’t move too fast.”
I turn my head and see a young man sitting in a chair beside the bed. He has brown hair, kind eyes, and an expression caught between concern and exhaustion.
“Where—” My voice cracks. “Where am I?”
“My apartment.” He offers a small, gentle smile. “My parents found you on the side of the road last night. You were in pretty bad shape.”
Last night.
The memories flood back—the chase, the blood, the terror.
My hand flies to my stomach.
“The baby.”
“You’re still pregnant,” he says quickly. “But you need to stay still. You were bleeding a lot. My mom and I did what we could, but...” He hesitates. “You really should see a doctor.”
“No.” I shake my head frantically, ignoring the way it makes the room spin. “No doctors. No hospitals. I can’t—I can’t let anyone know where I am.”
He watches me for a long moment, clearly torn between concern and respect for my wishes.
“Okay,” he finally says. “No hospitals. But you have to let us help you. My mom’s been taking care of you—she used to be a nurse. And I... I found a medical kit as she asked. Whatever you need, we’ll get it.”
Tears prick at my eyes. “Why? Why are you helping me?”
He looks surprised by the question. “Because you need help. That’s reason enough.”
Something in my chest loosens just slightly.
“I’m Ethan,” he says, extending his hand.
I take it weakly. “Aria.”
***
The weeks that follow blur together.
Sarah—Ethan’s mother—is a constant presence. She brings me food, changes my bandages, and sits with me when the panic gets too bad. She doesn’t ask questions I can’t answer. Doesn’t push for explanations about the scratches covering my body or why I can’t go to a hospital.
She just helps.
Ethan is quieter. More careful. But he’s always there when I need something—bringing me books from the library, finding herbs I ask for, even sitting with me in comfortable silence when the loneliness gets too heavy.
I learn bits and pieces about him. He’s twenty-two. Works part-time at a bookstore. Loves hiking. Has a dry sense of humor that sometimes catches me off guard.
And he knows what I am.
I don’t know how. Maybe the way my wounds healed faster than they should have, but one day, he just looks at me and says, “You’re a werewolf, aren’t you?”
I freeze, terror flooding through me.
He holds up his hands immediately. “I’m not going to tell anyone. I swear. I just... I needed you to know that I know, and that I don’t care.”
“You should care,” I whisper. “You should run. You should—”
“I’m not running,” he says firmly. “And neither are you. Not anymore. You’re safe here.”
That night, I lie in bed staring at the ceiling. My chest feels tight. The tears come before I can stop them. I press my face into the pillow, biting down to keep quiet.
He’s the first person who’s made me feel safe since the exile.
***
The pregnancy gets harder.
My body is damaged from the chase, from the shock, from everything I endured. The bleeding comes and goes. The cramps are constant. And the fear—the overwhelming, suffocating fear—never leaves.
I spend hours reading every medical text Ethan can find. I study obstetrics, emergency childbirth procedures, complications that can arise during labor. I have to know. I have to be prepared.
Because I can’t go to a hospital. And I can’t risk my babies.
Yes. Babies. Plural.
Three heartbeats. Three tiny lives depending on me to keep them safe.
Sarah finds out during one of her check-ins. She presses a hand to my swollen stomach and goes very still.
“Aria,” she says slowly. “How many?”
“Three,” I whisper.
Her eyes go wide. “Three? Oh, sweetheart. Oh my God.”
The labor comes two weeks early.
It’s the middle of the night when the contractions start—sharp and relentless and terrifying. I drag myself out of bed and stumble to the door, gasping Ethan’s name.
He’s there in seconds, his face going pale when he sees me.
“Get your mom,” I manage. “It’s—it’s time.”
The next hours are a nightmare.
Sarah does everything she can. She’s calm and steady and reassuring, talking me through each contraction, each push. Ethan hovers nearby, his face white with worry.
The first baby comes—a boy. He’s small and still. Too still. And he’s not crying.
Sarah wraps him quickly and passes him to Ethan without a word. “Hold him,” she says, her voice calm but urgent.
Then she’s back, her hands on my stomach. “Rest for a moment. Catch your breath.”
I’m shaking. Exhausted. Every muscle screams. But all I can think about is that silence. “Sarah, the baby—why isn’t he—”
“Shh. Save your strength.” She wipes my forehead with a cool cloth.
Across the room, I see Ethan hunched over the table. Supplies rustling in his hands. Still no crying.
Please. Please let him be okay.
Minutes pass. Or hours. I can’t tell anymore.
Then the pain builds again, sharper this time.
“Another contraction is coming,” Sarah says. “I need you ready.”
“That’s it,” she coaches. “Push when you’re ready.”
I bear down, gasping, tears streaming down my face. It feels endless.
Finally—the second baby comes. A girl. She cries immediately, a strong, loud wail.
“Good girl,” Sarah murmurs, wrapping her quickly and laying her in a bassinet beside the bed. “Good, Aria. One more. Just one more, sweetheart.”
Still no sound from my son. My chest is tight with terror but another contraction is building and I can’t—I have to focus—
“Come on, Aria. Stay with me.” Sarah’s voice is firm. “One more push.”
I push with everything I have left.
The third baby comes—another girl. Smaller. Quieter. But she whimpers, a soft, precious sound.
Sarah wraps her and places her in the bassinet with her sister.
I collapse back, gasping. “My son—where’s—”
Ethan is still hunched over the table across the room, his shoulders tense, his hands moving frantically over something small.
“Ethan’s helping him,” Sarah says quietly, but I can hear the strain in her voice.
No. No, please—
Then—a cough. Tiny, gasping. And a cry, weak but there.
Ethan turns, tears streaming down his face. “He’s breathing. He’s breathing.”
Sarah takes him and brings all three babies to me, laying them carefully on my chest.
I hold them, sobbing. “Thank you. Thank you.”
Sarah smooths my hair back. “You’re going to be alright. All of you. I promise.”
***
The memory fades, and I’m back in the clinic, sitting on the floor with tears streaming down my face.
I press my forehead against my knees and let myself cry for one more minute. Just one more minute of weakness.
Then I pull myself together.
I wipe my face, straighten my mask, and stand up. My legs are shaky, but I force them to hold me.
This is the last time, I tell myself. The last moment of weakness.
I’m Dr. W now. Professional. Detached. Untouchable.
Aria Sinclair is dead. She has to be.
My phone rings suddenly, the sound jarring in the silent room.
I glance down at the screen. Unknown number.
I hesitate for a second, then answer. “Hello?”