Chapter 37 – The Unexpected Life

(Ella’s POV)

The morning sunlight spilled across my desk, catching the edge of my sketchbook and illuminating the pencils scattered across the wooden surface. I sat there, hands trembling slightly as I traced a line along the page, attempting to draw a cluster of wildflowers, but my mind refused to cooperate. There was a heaviness in my chest, a dull ache that hadn’t been there before.

At first, I dismissed it as just nerves, tension from the bond, or the lingering weight of Cole’s tumultuous emotions. But the sensation still persisted. It was sharp and insistent. It tugged at me in ways I could no longer ignore.

I pushed back the hair from my face and took a deep breath. There was only one thing I could do.

I retrieved a small vial from the cabinet—a test I had hesitated to use, fearing what the answer might be. My hand shook as I read through the instructions and then I followed through with the instructions I had heard, my heart pounding in my chest with a mixture of dread and anticipation.

Minutes felt like they were hours as I waited, staring at the floor, every tick of the clock echoing in my skull. And then… the faint line appeared.

Two lines.

My breath caught. My stomach twisted in disbelief, fear, and… something else. Something I hadn’t expected: a flicker of hope.

I sank onto the edge of the bed, hands pressing against my face as the realization settled in. I was pregnant.

I’m pregnant with Cole’s child.

The words repeated in my mind, over and over, like a mantra I could not escape. Pregnant. Pregnant. Pregnant.

It should have terrified me. And in some ways, it actually did. The weight of responsibility, the knowledge of the bond, the chaos that surrounded us—it was all overwhelming. But beneath it all, there was a strange, burgeoning warmth that I could not suppress. A small, fragile hope that maybe, just maybe, life could be able to grow in the midst of all this turmoil going on.

I thought of the bond, pulsing faintly beneath my skin, carrying Cole’s emotions, his guilt, his lingering obsession with Sasha. How would he react to this news? Would he retreat further into anger and regret, or would the knowledge of our child force some flicker of responsibility into him?

The questions were endless, and none of them offered me comfort. Long ago I had learned not to rely on him for security. Not to rely on anyone who had repeatedly chosen chaos over care. This child, I realized, would need me. And for the first time in days, perhaps months, I allowed myself to focus on what that meant—not on Cole, not on the pack, not on Sasha, not even on Marcus.

I would need to be strong.

Like a shield, that thought settled over me. I rose from the bed and moved to the small mirror, pressing my palms against the smooth surface. My reflection stared back at me, I had become pale, wide-eyed, hair tangled from sleep, but undeniably determined.

“You can do this,” I whispered to myself. “You will do this.”

I spent the morning in a haze of preparation. The kitchen became my refuge. I brewed tea, measured out herbs Marcus had recommended for balance and calm, and prepared a small meal to keep my strength. Every act I took, no matter how mundane, felt like a step toward grounding myself in reality, it felt like I was away from the chaos of the pack and the constant pull of Cole’s emotions.

When I sat down to eat, the bond stirred once more, faint and insistent. Cole was near, perhaps in the practice yard or moving through the hall, I could not tell which of them. But the pull of his presence—his restlessness, his turmoil—was unmistakable. I pressed my hand to my stomach, a protective instinct rising in me.

I would not allow his chaos to touch this child. I would not let it taint the small life beginning to grow inside me before it had even begun.

Later, I ventured into the forest, seeking the familiar comfort of the trees and the gentle hush of the leaves. I walked until the sunlight dappled the ground in shifting patterns, and then I sat, drawing breath after careful breath. The bond hummed faintly, carrying Cole’s emotions, but I refused to let it overwhelm me.

I placed my hands on my stomach, feeling a flutter so subtle i might have imagined it. There was a life growing inside me. My child. And suddenly, the weight of everything—the wedding, Cole’s bitterness, Sasha’s manipulations, the pack’s whispers—felt slightly less oppressive.

I drew my sketchbook into my lap and began to sketch again, lines flowing easily now. The wildflowers I drew today were bold, upright, reaching toward the sky with slender stems and full blossoms. This time they symbolized resilience, growth, and hope. They were no longer choked by thorns, for this life growing in me, I would protect it, no matter the storm raging all around me.

The bond thrummed faintly against my chest, carrying Cole’s turmoil, but I let it pass through me without fear. I could feel him, yet I would not let him dictate my response. I would not bend to his chaos, nor allow it to define my experience.

By late afternoon, I returned to the cabin, weary but grounded. I locked the door and leaned against it, hands pressing against my stomach again. This child was all mine to protect. And though Cole would need to eventually reckon with his own feelings, I would not wait for him to decide whether he would be present or not.

I sat at my desk, my journal open, and I began to write. I poured out every emotion I felt —fear, hope, confusion, determination—onto the page, I let the ink carry my thoughts away from the constant pull of the bond. I wrote about the future, about the life growing inside me, about the wildflowers reaching toward the sky no matter the storm brewing around it.

The act itself felt empowering. For the first time in what felt like forever, I could lay my focus on myself, on the life I now carried, and on the choices I would make independent of anyone else.

I sketched the outline of tiny hands, small hearts, and protective circles around them—symbols of the life I would nurture, regardless of the chaos outside.

As night fell, I stood beneath the moon, cool air brushing my face. The bond stirred again, carrying Cole’s restlessness, his guilt, and perhaps some shadow of desire to be present. I pressed a hand to my stomach, feeling that subtle flutter once more, and whispered into the night.

“You will be safe,” I said quietly. “No one will control you, no one will be able to hurt you—not him, not the pack, not anyone. You are mine to protect.”

The wind shifted, carrying my words into the still night air. I closed my eyes and let the moonlight wash over me. Yes, there was fear, but they was also something stronger: resolve. I would face this, not because I had to, but because I choose to.

I opened my eyes and looked at the silvered leaves above me. The forest was calm, steady, and patient. And in that calm, I found a reflection of myself—resilient, determined, unbroken.

This child, growing inside me, would inherit that strength.

And so, I whispered again, this time to both the night and the life within me: “We will survive this. We will grow through all of this. And we will become stronger, stronger than anyone expects us to be.”

The bond pulsed faintly against my chest, a reminder of Cole, of fate, of everything tangled between us. But tonight,I did not allow it frighten me. Tonight, all it did was to remind me of what I had to protect—and that, no matter what, I will be ready.