FORCED TO HAVE THE ALPHA’S BABY
It’s the way the camp has started to breathe differently around me—quiet in some corners, too alert in others.
By the time I reach the armory tent, two rogues are already inside, oiling weapons. One of them—Taron—looks up too quickly when I step in, then clears his throat and pretends to focus on his sword again. The other, Bram, gives me a nod, polite but not steady.
“Everything running fine?” I ask, forcing normal into my voice.
“Yes, Celine,” Bram answers. The name comes out clipped, like it doesn’t fit in his mouth anymore.