Chapter 105: The Journal of Claire

Trishelle’s POV

This time, the library was already prepared. Sofas, plush and inviting, were arranged in a semi-circle. A dark wood coffee table sat in the center, and a few lamps cast a warm, golden glow, pushing back the infinite shadows of the towering shelves. The women marveled at the setup, and I just shrugged again, a shy smile tugging at my lips.

"Told you, I was practising," I said, my voice barely a whisper.

Trishelle sank onto one of the sofas with a grateful groan, propping her swollen feet up on a cushion. "Sometimes I feel like a beached whale," she muttered, staring down at her ankles.

"At least your morning sickness is gone," Nicole pointed out, settling into an armchair.

Trishelle nodded, her expression distant. Those weeks had been hell, a constant nausea that made her question if this blessing was also a curse. She wriggled against the cushions, trying to find a comfortable position for her body and the life within it. Once settled, she closed her eyes, her brow furrowing in concentration. The others wandered for a moment, trailing their fingers along the spines of ancient books before finding their own seats. I could feel their unspoken questions, their own private concerns hanging in the air like dust motes in the sunbeams. I hoped one day they’d trust me enough to share them.

Trishelle’s mind was a whirlwind. That little meeting in my room had opened her eyes to what she’d missed at Bloodmoon: friends, girl-talk, the simple comfort of belonging. But even here, mated to Goldmoon’s Alpha, she felt a chasm between herself and the others. Was it jealousy? The rigid hierarchy of the wolves? She hadn’t realized how deep her loneliness ran until she’d had a taste of what she was missing.

She shook her head, banishing the thought. She wasn’t here for a pity party. She was here for answers. Specifically, a way to be marked. She’d asked Lorenzo a dozen times, but he had nothing new to offer, his medical knowledge failing to penetrate the mystical nature of her unique situation. Hopefully, this library held what medicine could not. She needed to know if it was possible to bear a mate’s mark before the child was born. If she could be tied to both James and Bradley, if they could solidify their bond before announcing their impossible arrangement to the packs, maybe the fallout wouldn’t destroy them all.

She refocused, pouring all her longing and confusion into the silent space around her. She pictured her mates—James’s fierce intensity, Bradley’s steady strength—and let their images fill her mind. A moment later, a book detached itself from a high shelf in the distance. It floated down, smaller than the heavy tomes surrounding it, and landed softly in her lap. Its cover was a dull, worn red, the leather smooth from countless caresses.

Trishelle’s eyes flew open in surprise. She looked down at the book, her heart thudding against her ribs. This could be it. The answer she was desperately seeking.

She picked it up, feeling the strange weight of it in her hands. It wasn’t a codex or a grimoire; it felt like a journal. Eagerly, she opened it to the first page. A date was written in elegant, flowing script—day and month, but no year. Her brows creased, but she began to read.

It was the diary of a woman named Claire. The handwriting was easy to decipher, but the words were anything but simple. Claire wrote of finding her fated mate, only to have another man stake a claim, a dark, possessive one. The pages were a frantic record of her fear and confusion. Then, the entry changed. It described her being forcefully taken by "M," the initial of the man claiming her. He had waited, biding his time until she went into heat, the most vulnerable moment for any she-wolf.

"M" planned to taint her, to ruin her for her true mate. In Claire’s time, purity was everything. An impure female was often rejected by her fated mate, and the one who had taken her might keep her, but never as an equal. She would be a mistress, a slave, a living symbol of her family’s shame. Claire fought him, but he was cruel, letting the heat burn through her for hours until she was a writhing, sobbing mess, shamelessly begging him for relief.

He took her then, hard and punishing at first. But as their bodies joined, even through the haze of her heat-crazed mind, she felt a shift. "M" no longer felt like a lifelong tormentor. As the fever eased, he became gentle, his touch softening. He whispered words that soothed her fractured mind, calling her beautiful and lovely, the complete opposite of the venom he’d spat at her their entire lives.

They spent the night tangled together. Claire woke to find herself held possessively, yet tenderly, in his arms. Her slight movement must have stirred him, for he whispered words of comfort, urging her back to sleep, his warmth and voice lulling her into a dreamless state. When she finally opened her eyes again, it was mid-morning. Her body was a canvas of his bites and marks, his scent a claim upon her skin. The ache in her hips and thighs was a brutal testament to how thoroughly he had ravished her.

The bed was empty. She took the opportunity to gather her torn clothes and escape. She guessed he thought he’d broken her, for there were no guards, no locked doors. Her face fell as the foolish, hopeful thought that maybe he actually wanted her died under the cold reality: he just didn’t want anyone else to have her. Tears blurred her vision as she quickly dressed, striking out into the dense forest surrounding the house. She had no idea which direction she was going, but anywhere was better than facing the man who had ruined her life. Guilt warred with the memory of her own wanton response. Why would her fated mate ever want her now?

She ran, branches whipping at her face, wishing she could outrun the thoughts of self-disgust and the suffocating guilt.

A twig snapped to her right. Panic seized her. Wild animals. She was in no condition to shift, and the scent of sex and the faint trace of her virgin’s blood would act as a beacon to any predator. She veered left, praying her scent was carried upwind, but the increased pace of the pursuit behind her told her it wasn’t. She was being hunted. She ran blindly, searching for a tree, a cave, anything to hide in. A stream, maybe, to wash away "M"’s scent from her body. So focused was she on the sounds behind her that she didn’t notice the threat approaching from another direction until it was too late.

She was tackled to the ground. With her hair flying across her face, she fought like a wildcat, kicking and scratching, desperate to live.

"Claire! Stop! It’s me!"

The voice was warm, concerned, and so achingly familiar it made her sob. It was "T," her mate. Relief and fear warred within her as he helped her to her feet and pulled her into his embrace. He took a deep breath, his entire body stiffening as he scented what had happened. A low growl started in his chest, a terrifying sound of rage. She felt his claws extend against her back.

Claire stepped back, her own fear rising. He was furious. He had every right to be. If he killed her now, she would understand. With a sheer force of will that seemed to pain him, he stopped the shift, but his face was a terrifying mask of partial transformation, his mouth and nose elongated, his claws still fully extended.

He grabbed her arms, shaking her slightly. "Who did this to you?" he demanded, his voice a guttural snarl.

Her look of shame and guilt was all the answer he needed. He threw his head back and howled, a sound of such pure, agonized pain that it shattered what was left of her heart. She closed her eyes, waiting for the end, accepting it.

"T" looked down at her trembling form, his body slowly relaxing. He forced himself back to his human form. He held her again, his embrace fierce. "I will kill him," he vowed, his voice thick with emotion. "I will have my revenge. But I will never leave you. I know this wasn’t your fault. I will claim you as mine, right now."

He leaned in, his mouth opening wide, ready to sink his canines into her neck and mark her as his forever, when a wave of nausea violently surged through her. She shoved him away, stumbling to the side to vomit until her body was weak and trembling. He stepped back, a look of pure shock on his face.

"You’re with child?" he asked, the words filled with disbelief.

The question echoed in her mind. Her? With child?

It was possible, she knew. The chances were higher since she was in heat. "No," she whispered, shaking her head. "I can’t be. ’Twas only one night."

"T" shook his head slowly, his expression grim. "You’ve been gone for three days, Claire."

Her head snapped up. Three days? It couldn’t be. She had been so lost in the fever of her heat that day and night had blurred into one continuous nightmare. Another wave of revulsion rose, and she threw up until there was nothing left in her stomach, but her body still heaved with the effort.