All Chapters of His Pretty Little Pup : Chapter 21 - Chapter 29

Chapter Twenty-One: The Heat of Old FlamesElara’s POVI didn’t expect him to follow me.Not after the way his words had cut, not after the way he had pried my hand from his chest like it was poison. But by the time I neared the estate’s outer path, the air shifted—the crisp pine-laced wind parted, and his scent surged through it, sharp, unmistakable.“Wait.”I froze. My body obeyed before my mind did.The cloak around my shoulders stirred as I turned, heart a frantic animal. Caelan stood there, his breath harsh, his eyes blazing as though he had sprinted after me and wrestled with every step not to. His cloak hung open now, disheveled, a man unraveling before my eyes.“Why?” My voice cracked despite me. “Why stop me now? You’ve said all that needs saying.”He closed the distance in three strides. His hand gripped my arm, not cruelly but firmly, like he feared I’d vanish if he didn’t tether me. His jaw worked, no words forming, just raw tension burning in the space between us.And the

Chapter Twenty-Three: Hunger & Hollow PromisesElara’s POVMorning light spilled through the warped shutters of the inn, pale gold painting Caelan’s features where he slept beside me. His arm was heavy around my waist, his breath steady against my hair. For a heartbeat, I let myself believe it—that I belonged here, in this bed, in his arms. That the world beyond these four walls had burned away, leaving only us.But reality crept in, bitter as ash. He had a Luna. A crown. A duty that had no place for me.I shifted, careful not to wake him, but his grip tightened, pulling me closer. His lips brushed my temple, not quite a kiss, more instinct than thought.“You’re awake,” he murmured, voice rough with sleep.“So are you.”He gave a low hum, eyes still closed. For a moment, I thought he might open himself, might whisper something real. Instead, he only said, “Come with me.”“Where?”“Somewhere no one will find us.” His eyes opened now, sharp and unyielding, the softness of sleep gone. “I

Chapter Twenty-Five: Ashes of MorningElara’s POVI moved through the world like smoke. Thin, weightless, fading.My body still ached from him—every step a reminder, every breath threaded with his scent that clung to my skin no matter how I rubbed at it. I’d begged him not to leave, given him all of me, and he had gone anyway. No note. No goodbye. Not even a cruel excuse to cling to.Just absence.By the time I reached the edge of Crescent Valley, the sun was high, but I felt nothing of its warmth. My boots carried me through mud and bracken as though guided by someone else’s will. The village came into sight, roofs crooked against the sky, smoke curling from chimneys. A place I had once called home.I must have looked like a ghost when I stepped through the gates. Conversations faltered. Neighbors froze mid-step, eyes tracking me. Someone whispered my name like a curse.“Elara.”They had been searching, I realized dimly. Two days gone. Two days unaccounted for. And now here I was, wa

Chapter Twenty-Seven — The Hidden Shame Elara’s POVThe sickness had been with me for weeks, shadowing me since that first missed cycle, since the slow bloom of nausea that rose like a tide each dawn. We had spoken of it already—my mother, my father, and I—though spoken was too soft a word. It had been forced out of me one terrible night, when Carlene caught me retching by the well and Gareth smelled what no father ever wishes to smell on his daughter: the clinging trace of another man’s seed shaping itself into life.Since then, the knowledge sat like a stone in our house. Heavy. Unmovable. Not denied, but not embraced either. We lived around it the way villagers skirt a burned-out ruin: pretending it was nothing more than a scar in the landscape, pretending it had not once been a home.But in these last days, the stone grew heavier. The sickness worsened until it ruled me. Food turned against me, the mere scent of roasted meat curdling my stomach. Even bread—once safe, simple—taste

Chapter Twenty-Nine — A Plan to RunElara’s POVSilence became my most useful instrument.When the house slept and the moon poured like cold water across the floorboards, I moved. I learned the hours of creak and quiet, the gap between the cook’s closing footsteps and the guard’s last round, the cadence of voices that meant doors would be opened and slammed again. I learned where sound traveled and where it died in the stone, where my breaths could hide among the rafters and where they would shout like trumpets.At first my plotting felt like childish rebellion—a small, defiant thing against a house that had become a tomb. But repetition turned it into something steadier, a map of possibilities sketched in the margins of my days. In the morning, I performed the role they forced on me: ate the bitter tea, chewed the mint until my mouth bled, kept my face composed, answered only when spoken to. Then I waited until the shadows lengthened and I could move.The small things mattered most.