Chapter Fifteen: For all it is 2

The sunrise painted the sky in hues of bruised purple and angry orange, a fitting reflection of Elara's mood. She had spent the night weeping, silent tears tracing paths down her cheeks into the pillow, leaving damp stains that mirrored the ache in her heart. Morning sickness had joined the party, a bilious wave of nausea that left her weak and trembling. Her face was swollen, her normally bright eyes puffy and red-rimmed, and her usually sleek black hair was a tangled mess. Pregnancy, even in its mid stage, was proving to be a relentless assault on her already fragile spirit.

The house l felt suffocating. The scent of dust motes dancing in the weak sunlight only heightened her fatigue. She tried to tidy, to at least clear the breakfast dishes, but the effort sent a fresh wave of nausea crashing over her. She collapsed back onto the bed, the crisp white sheets doing little to soothe her aching body. The day dissolved into a blurry haze of lethargy and discomfort. The hours crawled by, marked only by the rhythmic thump-thump-thump of her own heart and the growing dread in her stomach.

Elara started humming a tone that soon progressed to a poem/lullaby to soothe her frustration. "I hate being sick, ohh I hate being sick.

My body's weak, my stomach's quick.

To turn and toss, to churn and ache.

Morning sickness, it's a constant mistake.

But then I feel, a tiny kick.

A gentle reminder, of the life within.

A precious gift, a love so true.

My heart beats fast, my spirit renews.

I'll endure the pain, the fatigue and stress.

For the joy of motherhood, I must confess.

I'll hold on tight, to this love so real.

And pray that soon, my body will heal.

So I'll rest my head, and close my eyes.

And dream of the day, when I'll hold you tight.

My little one, my shining star.

You're worth every struggle, near and far."

But as the shadows lengthened, a familiar anger slammed against the door, shaking the flimsy frame. Damon. He burst into the room, his face a mask of fury, his usually controlled movements jerky and wild.

"Look at this mess!" he roared, his voice echoing in the small space. His eyes, usually cold and calculating, burned with a possessive rage that chilled Elara to the bone. "The house is a pigsty! You, you lazy omega, you haven't done a thing all day!"

Elara didn't respond. Words felt like lead weights in her throat, too heavy to lift. The tears threatened to spill again, but she clamped down on the emotion, her body too weary to deal with another outburst.

Damon's rage escalated. He swept a hand across a perfectly dusted side table, sending a small porcelain vase tumbling to the floor. He didn't even flinch.

"I'm sick of it!" he bellowed, his voice thick with barely contained fury. "Sick of your uselessness, your inability to perform even the simplest tasks. A wife should be a pillar of support. You're nothing but a burden!"

He grabbed her arm, his touch rough and bruising. Elara winced, but still didn't react. She felt numb, detached from the anger around her like an observer watching a devastating storm. He dragged her off the bed, her body protesting with a gasp of pain.

"Look at this kitchen!" he shrieked, pushing her toward the surprisingly clean space. "Filth! And the living room! It's disgusting!" He dragged her across the neatly arranged furniture, his touch insistent, his purpose clear – to humiliate.

The living room, far from being a mess, was actually quite tidy. But Damon's rage was blinding him, fueled by his ingrained prejudice and a need to assert his dominance. He didn't care about the actual state of the house. This was about wielding his power. He spun around, eyes blazing, and grabbed a knife from the nearby kitchen counter.

The cold steel gleamed menacingly in the fading light. He raised it, the point aimed at Elara's chest. He was about to strike.

But before the knife could fall, a deep voice cut through the air, stopping Damon in his tracks.

"What in the seven hells do you think you're doing?"

The door swung open to reveal a tall, imposing figure framed in the twilight – Kaelen Thana, Alpha Prince, heir to the throne. His gaze, cool and assessing, swept over the scene, taking in Damon's raised knife, Elara's pale, tear-streaked face, and the untouched cleanliness of the room.

Damon, momentarily frozen in shock, hesitated. His hand trembled, still raised, but the blade remained inches from Elara's heart. He had never imagined anyone would dare interrupt him.

Elara's senses numbed by the threat, only felt a strange sense of relief. A soft whisper escaped her lips, a name breathed unconsciously, a name that resonated with a power that went beyond the physical threat: "Kael..."