Lahat ng Kabanata ng THE PREGNANT SHE WOLF: Kabanata 171 - Kabanata 180

SHARON’S POVJordan Pack council chamber smelled exactly the way I remembered: cedar oil, old parchment, beeswax candles, and the faint metallic bite of wolf anger held barely in check. I stepped through the tall double doors with Morris at my side, his hand rested low on my back, it was not possessive, it was just there, steady. The same hand that had held me together when I screamed for dead children who weren’t dead. The same hand that would steady me now.The long table stretched down the center of the room. Twenty-three elders were already seated. Their faces I hadn’t seen in years, some looked older, while some looked exactly the same. All of them watched me walk the length of the aisle like I was a ghost wearing someone else’s skin.Sandra sat at the far end in chains. She had iron cuffs on wrists and ankles. Her black gown was replaced with plain gray prisoner linen. Her hair was loose and tangled. And her eyes were red-rimmed but burning. When she saw me she jerked against th

MORRIS’S POV Moonlight cut through the narrow gap between the heavy velvet curtains and fell across the quilt in a single, unyielding stripe, like a blade laid flat and waiting. I stared at it until my eyes ached, willing the silver line to creep, to blur, to prove the night was still crawling forward. It refused. The room held its breath, Sharon’s slow, even breathing beside me, the faint groan of old timbers settling deeper into the earth, the far-off hoot of an owl that carried too much weight to be casual. Every sound felt deliberate, as though the house itself were listening.But sleep wouldn’t come. Every time my eyelids dropped, Sandra was there, teeth bared in that feral, laughing snarl from the summit hall. The way her voice cracked on Sharon’s name, not in grief but in promise. The absolute conviction in her eyes as the chains yanked her backward: this isn’t the end, it’s only intermission. I could still see the precise angle of her head when she spat the words “sister” l

SHARON’S POVI woke to the pale gray light that arrives just before true dawn, when shadows still feel soft and temporary. The bed was empty beside me, but the sheets held Morris’s warmth. I pressed my palm to the spot where he had slept, then rolled onto my back and stared up at the exposed ceiling beams. The baby moved inside me, slow and heavy, a quiet reminder that life had kept going even after Sandra vanished from our borders.No nightmares had come last night. No flames licking at walls. No chains clanking in the dark. No sister’s voice whispering promises of revenge. Just deep, unbroken sleep. The first I’d had in months.I sat up slowly. The floorboards felt cool under my bare feet. I reached for Morris’s old navy robe, slipped it on over my nightgown, and tied it loosely around my middle. The sleeves swallowed my hands. Downstairs, a single kitchen lamp glowed, spilling warm yellow across the counters. Morris stood at the sink rinsing mugs, his back to me, shoulders loose in

MORRIS’S POV The truck’s engine ticked as it cooled in Mara’s gravel drive, dust still settling around the tires. I sat behind the wheel for an extra few seconds, hands loose on the steering wheel, watching the farmhouse through the windshield. White clapboard catching the late-afternoon sun, red metal roof gleaming, porch swing moving a little in the breeze like it was waiting for us. Everything looked exactly the way it had the last time we dropped the kids here, except now the air felt different. It felt lighter, like the sky had finally remembered how to breathe.Sharon was already out, one hand on the small of her back, the other resting protectively over her belly. She glanced back at me through the open passenger door, her eyebrows raised in that quiet way she has when she’s asking without words: Are you coming?I killed the ignition, stepped down, and shut the door behind me.The front door burst open before my boots hit the second step.Daenerys came flying out, bare feet,

SHARON’S POV The knock came just after lunch, three sharp raps on the front door that made the whole house feel suddenly smaller. I was in the kitchen wiping down the counter when Morris answered it. His voice carried low and polite at first, the tone he used with people he didn’t trust but had to tolerate. I dried my hands on a dish towel, stepped into the hallway, and saw them, four elders from Jordan Pack standing on the porch like they had every right to be there. Elder Harlan led them, gray hair pulled into a tight knot, eyes sharp under heavy brows. Beside him stood Mara’s uncle Tomas, the one who always smelled faintly of pipe tobacco, then two others whose names I barely remembered: lean, quiet men who had never spoken up when Roland’s fist found my face or when Sandra’s schemes nearly burned my children alive. Morris glanced back at me. I nodded once. He stepped aside. They filed in, boots scraping the entry rug. Harlan removed his hat, held it against his chest like a sh