BloodMoon: Captivated by the Forbidden Lycan Alpha
Chapter 301: WHISPERS IN THE WIND

Chapter 301: WHISPERS IN THE WIND

{"Some loves are carved in fire, but ours was built in the quiet, beneath stars and whispered promises, where even the smallest heartbeat could echo forever."}

The morning after the storm passed, the island felt strangely hushed. Tor was down at the cove, shirtless and bronze under the sun, hacking at driftwood like it had personally offended him. I watched him from the half-finished frame of our home, fingers pressed lightly to my stomach. The flutter was still faint, no stronger than a ripple in still water, but it was there.

I did not hear her arrive; I felt her as the air shifted. A subtle tension pulled at my bones, like the moment before lightning strikes, still, electric, ancient. I stood slowly, instinctively bracing a hand against the doorframe. My heart knew her before my eyes did.

"Qadira," I whispered.

She stepped through the tree line as if the forest parted just for her. Tall and statuesque, the edges of her dark robes caught the wind like smoke, and gold embroidery flickered along the cuffs. Her eyes, the same storm-grey as mine, locked onto me with quiet intensity.

"Brother," she said softly.

Tor’s head turned at her voice. His expression sharpened as he dropped the axe and returned up the path to me. I stepped down to meet her. "I didn’t expect you so soon."

"I came as soon as I sensed it," she said, stopping short of me.

"I just found out," I replied honestly, one hand still protectively hovering over my belly.

Her eyes flicked downward, then softened, but not with warmth, but with worry.

Tor came to my side and folded his arms. "He did not want to risk it. We have not told anyone."

"Good," she said immediately. "You must not. Not yet."

I blinked. "You knew?"

"I felt it," Qadira said, stepping closer now. "A shift in the threads. It was not just bloodline stirring. This child..." She glanced at my stomach again, her voice tightening. "It is not just special, Freyr. It is a beacon. And beacons draw attention, and even Raga Mountain senses it.

Tor tensed beside me. "We’re far from everything here, here in Hanka Island."

"For now," she said, her gaze flicking to him. "But secrets like this do not stay buried, and you know how much evil would like to make a mountain out of a mole about a child born of a Vampire and Lycan Alpha.a"

"The mountain feels that evil like that does not vanish. It waits. Clings to whispers, shadowed loyalties, unseen cracks. And this child you carry... it shines too brightly. If the evil stirs again, it will come hunting."

Tor’s jaw ticked. "Are you saying something’s already moving?"

"I’m saying I won’t take the risk," she replied. "You must tell no one for now and keep everyone out of Hanka Island until the child is born."

I blinked. "What about your mate Alpha Rolan?"

Her eyes flared, but not with anger. With pain. "Rolan would burn the world for you, I know. But there are ears everywhere, even among our own, but I want to keep this away from the realm for a while."

Tor shifted closer to me, protective without thinking. "How long will that take?"

"The moon goddess appeared to me and sent me over to the two of you. My visit would never raise suspicion as we are siblings. Hence, before I leave, I will create a Mira ward to keep everyone out of Hanka Island for now."

I swallowed the sudden knot in my throat. "You believe this child is in danger?"

"I believe this child could end something. Or begin it." Her hand reached for mine and squeezed tightly. "That is why we keep it safe. Hidden. Until I say otherwise."

I nodded, eyes stinging for the first time since Tor sensed the heartbeat. Tor spoke then, voice low and firm. "We won’t say a word, not until you give us the signal."

She studied him a moment, then finally gave a short, approving nod. "Good."

From beneath her cloak, she pulled a charm: a small pendant made of jagged black stone threaded with silver. It pulsed faintly against her skin.

"This will shield you from magical detection. Especially on full moons. Wear it always."

I took it carefully, sensing its weight was not just physical. "Thank you," I murmured.

Qadira leaned in and pressed her forehead to mine, an old sibling ritual. Her voice dropped to a whisper only I could hear. "I will protect you. I will protect them. You are not alone."

I closed my eyes. "I know."

She stepped back, her eyes hardening again as she turned toward the trees.

"Keep building," she said. "Keep quiet. And keep watching the skies."

Then, with no more sound than wind on leaves, she disappeared into the forest. I stayed still a long while, the charm heavy in my hand, Tor’s arm circling my back. We did not speak until the birds started singing again. I stood with the charm she had given me clenched in my hand; the silver-threaded stone still warm from her body. The longer I stared at it, the more the weight settled in—not just of what it was, but what it meant.

Tor shifted beside me, his hand still low against my back, thumb gently brushing in slow, steady circles. He had not said anything since she left, but I could feel the tension in him wound tight beneath the calm surface like a bowstring drawn back too far.

"Say it," I murmured. "Whatever you’re holding back."

He let out a slow breath, like he had been waiting for permission. "I hate this."

I looked up at him. "What part?"

"All of it." His jaw clenched. "You, carrying something so precious, and I can’t share it with everyone in the realm." He paused. "And I am unable to tear the world apart fast enough to make it safe."

I rested my hand on his chest. "You’re not supposed to fix everything, Tor."

His eyes flicked down to mine, sharp but shining. "As your mate, why should I step back?"

I tilted my head. "You are supposed to build something with me. Remember?"

He cracked a faint smile at that. "I do. It is just hard to think about walls and windows when your sister walks out of the forest asking us to hide this good news about our pup."

"Don’t forget the skies," I said dryly. "She told us to watch those too."

Tor huffed. "I’ll build a roof first."

That made me smile, just a little. Just enough to exhale, and we stood in the frame of our not-yet-home, bare wood and fresh nails still smelling like sun and sap. The ocean wind curled up from the cove, stirring my hair, carrying salt and sawdust. For a moment, I let myself lean into him, let the curve of his body soften the hard corners of my thoughts.

"She’s scared," I said quietly. "Qadira doesn’t show it, but I could hear it in her voice."

"She’d burn everything before letting it reach you," Tor said. "You know that."

I nodded. "I do. But it does not stop the fear from crawling under my skin. What if she is right? What if this... life inside me... draws out what we have spent years fighting to destroy?"

He took my hand then, gently pried open my fingers, and curled the charm into my palm. "Then we fight harder. Quieter. Smarter."

I looked at him. "What if everyone sees this as a threat?"

His gaze did not flinch. "Then I’ll make them regret ever existing."

I exhaled and leaned my head against his shoulder. "We have to be careful."

"I will be." He pressed a kiss to the top of my head. "But do not ask me not to love you aloud. That is the only part I will not hide."

I closed my eyes, and for a moment, I imagined what it would be like if there were no danger. I imagined our child running barefoot through the waves, laughing. I imagined Qadira smiling instead of warning. I imagined freedom. Someday but not yet. I turned the charm over in my hand and tied it around my neck, and its weight settled over my heart like armor.

Then I looked up at Tor and said, "Let’s finish the roof."

He nodded once. No hesitation. "We build and we wait."

Hours later, as dusk crept in, the stars arrived slowly that night, one by one like lanterns lit just for us.

Tor and I sat beneath the skeleton of our roof, surrounded by soft blankets and the warmth of a small fire we had made in a shallow stone pit outside our home. The wind had quieted to a hush, just enough to carry the scent of pine and sea. He was beside me, legs stretched out, shoulders dusted in moonlight, skin kissed by fire glow. I could not look away, and he caught me staring and smirked. "Again?"

"Always," I said, honest and without shame.

His hand found mine easily, like it belonged there. He ran his thumb over my knuckles, slow, reverent, like I was something sacred. I breathed him in salt, cedar, and smoke, and leaned my head on his shoulder.

"I keep waiting for the moment this starts to feel ordinary," I murmured.

"Does it?" he asked.

"No," I whispered. "It never does."

The fire popped softly, sending sparks into the dark like fireflies. I tilted my head to look at him, watched the play of light over his face, the gold in his eyes catching the flames, the curve of his mouth soft with contentment. Tor reached behind us and pulled the blanket tighter around our bodies, wrapping me closer into his warmth. "You’re cold."

"No," I said, curling into him. "Just greedy."

He chuckled, low and fond. "That, I can handle."

We lay back together, my head against his chest, his arm around my waist, our legs tangled under the shared blanket. Above us, the wooden beams framed the sky like a picture—stars gleaming in every open corner. The ocean whispered nearby, distant and eternal.

"I want forever to look like this," I whispered.

Tor’s fingers drifted across my stomach so gently, as if he were already memorizing every inch of the life we had not yet met. "You deserve softness, Freyr. Even now. Especially now."

I blinked up at the stars. "I did not think I could carry a life. Not just physically, but inside me. I did not think that I would be this blessed. "

"There is," he said. "Because we made it and we carved it out of fire and blood and stubborn hope and our mating bond."

I smiled into his skin. "That sounds like us."

He turned, brushing his lips to my temple. "You are not alone in this. We are in it together. Every heartbeat and every breath."

I let out a slow breath. "Even if it means waiting and keeping it safe away from the world."

He was silent for a moment, then said softly, "Yes. If it keeps you safe, I will bury the truth a thousand times."

My throat tightened at that. I turned toward him, pressing my forehead to his. "You love hard, Tor."

"It’s the only way I know how."

I kissed him then slowly and lingering, the kind of kiss that said everything without needing a single word. His lips met mine with equal quiet fire, and the world slipped away for a little while. Just the stars above. Just the sea beyond. Just the steady thrum of his heart beneath my hand and the gentle echo of our child somewhere deep within me.

When we finally parted, he rested his hand on my stomach again, and for the first time, I did not feel afraid.

"We’ll tell them when it’s time," I whispered. "When the danger’s passed."

He nodded. "And until then we dream."

So, we lay there, under our not-quite-home, in the cradle of moonlight and shadows, whispering stories of what could be. We talked about names. About futures. About what it would mean to raise something beautiful in a world that had not always been kind to us. And when I finally closed my eyes, it was with his arms around me, his voice in my ear, and the quiet hope of a future not just imagined but promised.

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