Chapter 25 – Death In Pink

Chapter 25 – Death In Pink

Selene’s POV

My skin feels like it’s fighting a war with itself... feverish one second, glacial the next. A clammy sheen coats every inch of me, sticking the thin sheets to my skin. My breath comes in short, trembling bursts, and no matter how I shift, there’s no comfort. No relief. The cold from that damned pond hasn’t left me... not really. It didn’t just touch the surface of me that night. It invaded. It crawled in, coiled around my bones like frostbite made flesh, and made itself a part of me. The kind of cold that seeps so deep it becomes something spiritual... something punishing.

And yet, it’s not the chill that gnaws at me the most. It’s not even the physical agony. The true suffering starts deeper. Inside. In a place no one can see or touch.

My hand trembles as I place it over my belly. Instinctive. Protective. Guilty.

That’s where the real ache lives.

Because I forgot.

For one fleeting, desperate second that night, I forgot that I wasn’t just a girl anymore... not just Selene, the wolfless disappointment, the outcast, the too-soft heart in a brutal world. No. I’m carrying a life inside me now. A tiny, precious, vulnerable life that has no say in anything I do. And I… I chose to throw myself into freezing water like it meant nothing. Like I was alone. Like I could afford to gamble.

I hate myself for it.

The fever might break eventually. The chills might leave. The ache might dull. But this guilt? It’s already fused with me. It’s a brand.

What kind of mother forgets she’s carrying a child?

A reckless one. A selfish one. A bad one.

Pain flares in my joints as I try to shift. Even the smallest movement feels like a trial by fire... searing and slow. The mattress groans beneath me, the old springs creaking like they know I don’t belong here. My eyelids feel like lead, the weight of exhaustion dragging them down. But sleep doesn’t offer peace. Only disjointed fragments of memory, of ice and whispers and that terrifying stillness beneath the water’s surface.

Then... warmth. Familiar. Steady.

The mattress dips again.

Someone’s getting into bed with me.

My muscles tense automatically, but before fear can rise, strong arms wrap around me... gentle but sure. Firm but careful. A hand slides across my side and finds mine, weaving our fingers together like it’s always known how to do so.

“It’s alright. I’ve got you.”

Lucian.

I suck in a breath.

For a moment, everything in me stills. My racing heart, my trembling limbs, my doubt. Is this real? Is he real? Or is this some trick of fevered sleep... a comforting hallucination stitched together from longing and regret?

I don’t know. I don’t care.

“The baby…” The words barely leave my lips. They’re dry and hoarse and heavy with shame. I can’t even bring myself to look at him. I don’t deserve to. I was careless with something so precious, and now I’m afraid... afraid that I broke something that can’t be unbroken.

“Shhh,” he soothes, his voice a velvet ribbon wrapped around my frayed nerves.

His hand moves to my belly, covering mine, and the gesture feels… grounding. He doesn’t flinch. Doesn’t lecture. Just rests there with me, steady and calm.

“You’re not alone in this, Petal. And the baby will be just fine... I swear it.”

Something in me cracks at those words. Not breaks. Cracks. Like thawing ice. Like the first sign that warmth can come back.

His presence is like a lighthouse in a storm... constant, luminous, undeniable. I allow myself to lean into him, just a little, my body sagging under the weight of relief.

Time becomes meaningless. My awareness fades and returns in fits. There are patches of silence, then murmurs, then more silence. Eventually, his voice comes again, threading through my stupor.

“You need to eat something.”

I grimace before I can stop myself. Just the thought of food turns my stomach.

Lucian chuckles... a low, rough sound full of patience and something else. Something fond.

“Don’t pout,” he says dryly. “What’s your comfort food?”

The question catches me off guard. It yanks me back, years and years, to a simpler time. A safer one.

“When I was small…” My voice is barely above a whisper. “My aunt used to make mole poblano with hand-ground spices and roasted chilies. From scratch. The whole house smelled like smoke and chocolate for hours.”

It’s such a simple memory, but it swells inside me like a wave. I see the old kitchen. Smell the herbs in the air. Hear the laughter. Feel the safety. I used to sit on the counter and watch her stir the pot, my legs swinging and flour on my cheeks. Before everything changed. Before my world fell apart. Before I learned the meaning of betrayal and silence and being other.

“It tasted like home,” I murmur, sinking back into sleep with that memory clutched to my chest like a lifeline.

I don’t know how much time passes before I’m yanked from the fog by a clatter so loud it could wake the dead. Followed by an impressively creative string of curses echoing down the hall.

Lucian.

I’m too weak to laugh, but the sound makes me smile. Despite everything, he’s in the kitchen. Probably fighting with a pan or murdering a tomato.

The chaos fades in and out as I drift in and out of consciousness. Then, footsteps. Careful. Intentional.

When I manage to open my eyes, there he is... Lucian, standing in the doorway, hair askew and cheeks flushed. He looks like he lost a fight with the stove and barely survived. But gods, he’s beautiful.

He carries a tray with exaggerated caution, as if the food might jump off and run away.

He sets it on my lap. I blink down at it, confused and strangely touched.

There’s a cup of tea. A grilled cheese sandwich... clearly overcooked. A bowl of tomato soup that smells almost right. And beneath it all… a piece of paper. Smudged, a little torn.

I peer at it.

My heart stops.

It’s a recipe. Written in my aunt’s handwriting. Faded, but unmistakable.

I look up at him, stunned.

“Where did you get this?”

He snatches it away like a child caught with candy. His fingers are red, bandaged in places. Burn marks. He cooked this himself.

“She wasn’t thrilled to be interrupted by a stuck up Lycan prince,” he mutters, clearly embarrassed. “But she handed it over. Said she didn’t have time to cook.”

I stare at him.

“You ran all the way to my old village?”

He shrugs like it’s nothing. Nothing. But it’s everything.

“You made this?” I ask, barely believing it.

His eyes flick away, but he nods.

I don’t cry. But I want to.

I eat. Slowly. Silently. The sandwich is burnt, the soup too salty, and I swear the tea has too much honey. But it tastes like care. Like effort. Like someone sees me. Like someone tried.

I eat everything.

Hours pass.

The fever starts to break, and my body feels like it’s been dragged through fire and ice both. I wake in the night to silence and darkness. I reach for the water on the bedside table, sip carefully, then turn.

Lucian’s there. Still here.

He’s asleep, sprawled awkwardly but close. Too close. His brows are drawn even in sleep, his mouth slightly parted. Vulnerable. Raw.

I remember something he said once, half-drunk and bitter... how the blood moon’s curse never truly fades. Even when it’s not full, it still lives in him, haunts him. I wonder if he dreams of it now.

I reach out, hesitant, and gently brush my fingers over the crease in his brow.

He stirs.

Before I can pull away, his hand catches mine.

Warm. Firm. Not letting go.

He tugs me gently, and I lose my balance, falling softly against his chest. He adjusts in his sleep, wrapping around me like it’s instinct. Like he was meant to hold me like this. His body is a furnace of heat, and yet it’s the safest warmth I’ve ever known.

I don’t move. I can’t.

“Lucian?” I whisper.

Nothing.

But his grip tightens, his face inches closer, and then... his lips brush mine.

Barely.

Like the ghost of a kiss. Like a secret slipping between dream and reality.

I go still. My breath hitches.

I could stop this. I should stop this.

But I don’t.

Because in that moment, I feel it... something rare. Not desire. Not passion. Not even comfort.

I feel wanted.

And I’m not ready to let that go.

Not yet.