What Grows Between Lies

POV: Matteo

"Wait," I said, stopping short in the corridor, pulling my wrist gently from his grip. "Just a moment. Let me breathe first."

Rhys turned back, searching my face, some of the urgency in his own expression softening into concern. "Are you alright? You look pale."

"I'm fine," I said, the lie coming easier than it should have, given everything. "Just give me a minute before whatever this is. Please."

He hesitated, clearly wanting to press, but something in my face must have convinced him to let it go. "I'll be in the study," he said. "Take whatever time you need."

He walked away, and I sank back against the corridor wall the moment he was out of sight, my hand pressing flat against my stomach again, the two lines from that test still burned into the back of my eyes.

A child, I thought, standing alone in the quiet hallway. Growing right now, inside a marriage built on two lies neither of us has admitted to yet.

I thought about what it meant, really meant, beyond the immediate shock. A child conceived in the days after the ambush, after Rhys woke changed, after I'd already caught the first flicker of something wrong behind his careful confusion. A child that would cement this bond in the eyes of the council whether either of us was ready for that or not.

If I tell him now, I thought, it becomes a weapon in whatever this actually is between us. He'll use it to justify staying gentle. Or worse, he'll use the shock of it to justify telling me some careful, edited version of the truth, the same way I've been feeding him a careful, edited version of our marriage.

If I tell Dave finds out—

I stopped that thought before it could finish forming, my stomach twisting at the mere shape of it. Dave, who'd nearly gotten Rhys killed and admitted it without flinching, who'd made clear he understood exactly how to use my own silence against me. A pregnancy raised the stakes for everyone circling this marriage. I understood that now with a clarity that frightened me.

I need to control this, I thought, old instinct rising up fast and familiar, the same instinct that had made me indispensable for two years, useful in every room I couldn't be loved in. I need to decide when this comes out, and how, and to whom. Not let it be decided for me.

I made the choice standing alone in that corridor, quiet and deliberate. I wouldn't tell him. Not yet. Not until I understood what Rhys actually remembered, what Dave had actually done, what shape the truth needed to take before I handed anyone a piece of information this dangerous.

I found my way to the study a few minutes later, composed enough to pass for steady, and pushed the door open to find Rhys pacing near the window, restless in a way that didn't match the soft, searching man he'd been presenting all week.

"You wanted to talk," I said, closing the door behind me.

He turned, and whatever urgency had brought him to my door earlier was still sitting there, tight across his shoulders. "The healers came to see me this morning. While you were resting."

"What did they say."

"They want to run a full bonding-strength scan," he said. "To track my recovery properly. Apparently the memory mapping we delayed last week wasn't the only thing on their list."

My whole body went cold.

"A bonding-strength scan," I repeated, keeping my voice as even as I could manage. "What does that involve exactly."

"They didn't explain much," he said. "Just that it measures the bond between us. How strong it's running, whether it's been affected by the injury, that kind of thing. They said it's routine, given everything that's happened."

I knew exactly what a bonding-strength scan involved. I'd read enough of the old ceremony texts, filed enough correspondence about pack medical procedures over the years, to understand precisely what that particular scan would reveal about my body the moment they ran it.

It would show the pregnancy, I thought, dread pooling cold and heavy in my stomach. Immediately. There's no version of that scan that wouldn't reveal it.

"When," I asked, my voice tighter than I wanted it to be.

"End of the week," Rhys said. "Friday, I think they said. Is something wrong? You've gone pale again."

"I'm fine," I said, the lie sitting uncomfortably in my mouth now, layered on top of every other lie I'd been carrying for days. "It's just a lot, given everything else happening right now."

"I know," he said, softening, crossing the room to take my hands in his, the gesture warm and careful in a way that still felt undeserved every time he offered it. "I told them we could push it back if it's too soon. If you need more time before another round of tests."

"No," I said quickly, too quickly, and watched something flicker across his face at the speed of my answer. "I mean, that's not necessary. Friday is fine."

It wasn't fine. Nothing about it was fine. Friday gave me days, not weeks, to decide how and when the truth would surface, and every plan I might have built for controlling that timeline had just collapsed into something far smaller and far more urgent.

"Are you sure," he said, studying my face with the same searching intensity he'd shown me since the day he woke. "You seem distracted tonight."

"I'm just tired," I said. "It's been a long week."

He nodded, though something in his expression told me he wasn't entirely convinced, and let the moment pass without pushing further, the way this gentler version of him tended to let things go when I closed a door he wasn't sure he had the right to open.

We didn't speak much more after that. He asked about my day in the careful, attentive way he'd made a habit of since waking, and I gave him small, safe answers, my mind circling the same trapped thought over and over while I performed a version of calm I didn't feel at all.

Days, I thought, lying awake long after he'd fallen asleep beside me, his hand loosely curled around mine even in sleep, a habit that still undid something in my chest every single night. I have days, not weeks, before this comes out on someone else's terms instead of mine.

Days to decide whether I tell him first, and risk whatever he decides to do with a truth that big. Days to decide whether I tell Sofia, and drag her further into a secret that could put her at risk too, given everything she already carries. Days to decide what any of this even means, for a child I haven't had the chance to want out loud yet, growing inside a marriage that's currently held together by nothing but careful, matching lies.

I stared up at the dark ceiling, my hand resting lightly over my stomach, Rhys's steady breathing beside me the only sound in the quiet room.

Friday, I thought. I have until Friday before the truth stops being mine to control.