Bloodmoon – Hunt For The Cure

We sat on the floor of her apartment, backs against the couch, legs stretched out like two idiots who’d just survived a natural disaster. Which, honestly, wasn’t far off. My throat still burned from choking on rice. Her eyes were still watery from inhaling soup. Real romantic.

San Myshuno traffic buzzed outside — horns, sirens, someone yelling about rent — but in here, everything felt muted. Like the room was holding its breath with us. My ears buzzed faintly, the way they do when you step out of a loud room into sudden quiet.

She cleared her throat first. “Thank you for not asking if the baby is yours.”

My voice came out low — that deep, rumbling thing I never asked for and couldn’t turn off. The kind of voice that made normies look twice, like something bigger was speaking through me. “Assumed that was implied.”

She gave a humorless little huff. “It was, but then again, you know what assuming usually does.”

“Make an ass out of you and me, yeah.” I glanced at her. “Thinking I don’t need any help with that.” I paused. “Just to be sure for the slow ones in the room, the baby is mine, right?”

She shot me a look sharp enough to cut tile. “Are you serious?! You think I got this giant of a man over to tell him I am knocked up by someone else? Really?! I’m complicated, I own that, but not a moron, nor a whore. And honestly? As much as we went at it, I wasn’t even shocked when I saw the positive test. You always hear of other girls in my situation having total meltdowns and being in utter disbelief — I didn’t have any of that. More like ‘yup, figures.’ Maybe because I found out while still digesting my baby daddy turning into a werewolf without warning and now I might too. And yes, before you ask, I had my gyn confirm it. I am definitely knocked up. Almost eight weeks along. That’s why I came back originally, to break that news to you and because me leaving you and everything behind wasn’t exactly a feasible option anymore. We both screwed ourselves into forever, pun intended,” A beat. “Congrats, dad.”

Something in my chest tightened — not bad, just… big.
“Back at you, Mom. Do you even want kids?”

“Little late to worry about that now,” she said, then softened. “But yes. I do. I mean… I’m twenty‑eight. If not now, then when, right? What about you?”

“Definitely.” I rubbed the back of my neck. “I’ve wanted a family for years. I’m thirty‑two, so by your logic I’m basically overdue. Guess you can figure out why getting there hasn’t exactly been easy for me.”

She nudged my knee with hers. “Yup, that question has been sufficiently answered, thank you very much. And here I was blaming your natural charm. Or lack thereof.”

“Again,” I muttered, “straight back at you.”

She laughed — a real one, warm and tired. I looked at her. She looked at me. She held my gaze. Without fear.

“We’re quite the pair, huh?” she said. “So fucking romantic. Normal people date, meet each other’s parents, get engaged, plan a wedding, go on some bomb of a honeymoon, maybe buy and furnish a house, then try like hell to get pregnant, throw a huge party when they finally manage… and then there’s us. Ass‑backwards doesn’t even begin to cover our nonsense.”

“Yeah,” I said. “I’ve never been accused of being normal much in my life.”

“No shit?” She paused. “Vince?”

“Hm?”

“How is the current issue at hand going to affect the baby?”

“Not at all.” I hesitated. “I guess now’s as good a time as any to break it to you that any baby I father has a very high chance of being born with the… curse.”

Her eyes narrowed. “Define high chance.”

“Ninety‑nine percent.”

She blinked. “Okay then. Wow. So, I guess I won’t just buy the regular baby stuff, but also a tiny muzzle. Lovely. I am going to nope out of breastfeeding then.”

“No,” I said quickly. “It doesn’t activate until puberty. Just like with the vampires—”

I froze. Shit.

Her head snapped toward me.

I closed my eyes.

“Vince,” she said slowly, “are you telling me that… those are real too?”

I nodded without opening my eyes. Then forced myself to look at her.

“Remember Connell and Damon? Or ‘those two hot guys,’ as you call them? They aren’t ‘friends.’ Connell is my maternal grandpa and Damon is my uncle. They just look too young for that to make any sense, so we usually gloss over those details for obvious reasons.”

“I said handsome,” she corrected automatically. Then her face changed. “Wait. Wait a minute. So I have been in a deep forest with a bunch of werewolves and vampires?! Is that what you’re telling me right now? All that while pregnant with a werewolf baby? Holy crap!”

I dragged both hands down my face. Hearing it out loud made it sound… yeah. Bad.

“Vince?” she pressed.

I nodded again.

She leaned back against the couch and let out a long, exhausted curse. Something I can’t repeat here.

Silence settled between us — heavy, but not hostile. Just… too much.

“Okay. Fine. Whatever. One crisis at a time.” Her eyes slid to me. “So. The cure. What do we have to do?”

Planning

I reached behind me, into the back pocket of my jeans, and pulled out the folded sheet of paper my dad and grandfather had shoved into my hand before I left Moonwood Mill. Fresh ink. Fresh handwriting. Fresh panic.

I held it between us.

“Everything,” I said quietly, “starts with this.”

We unfolded it together.

Her brow furrowed. “This looks… intense.”

“That’s one word for it.”

She scanned the list — short, but not friendly.

“Moonflower,” she read. “What the hell is that?”

“A rare bloom,” I said. “But not something we get first. It only opens on the day of a full moon, and once it’s picked, we have a few hours before it dies. The cure has to be fully prepared beforehand — every ingredient mixed, every step done — so once we got the flower, we practically go straight to the river.”

She blinked. “River? What river?”

“Yeah.” I exhaled. “So, when the Bloodmoon rises, I take you to a certain spot in a river. We stand in it at the stroke of midnight, you drink the concoction, and the curse lifts.”

“Does it lift for me AND the baby?”

“No. The baby is already a wolf, just dormant. The baby will be a werewolf — nothing we can change about that. You can only cure those recently bitten, and only before the first full moon, which is when they turn. And they can’t control it like I can — new wolves have no choice, which is why I have to be there, to make sure if anything goes wrong, you don’t go rogue. Rogues get killed for the safety of everyone.”

She let out a breathy laugh. “Wow. Feels like a season of Survivor — Occult Edition, but okay.”

I shrugged.

She nodded slowly, absorbing that. “Okay. So the Moonflower… what else? No offense, but your dad should have been a doctor with that handwriting.”

“Silver nitrate,” I said. “Wolfsbane root. Hemlock bark. Salt from the Sea of Rebirth — that’s a body of water in Ravenwood that kinda pulses purplish. Blood of the Protector — that’s me. And ashes of a burned oath — that’s something I have to ask about. Thinking it’s something you write down, say out loud, then burn the paper and use some of the ash, but I have to ask Dad about the details.”

She stared at the page like it might spontaneously offer her a refund. “So basically… we need chemicals, poison, salt from some nasty‑sounding pond, your blood, a weird ritual, and a flower that barely lasts a day.”

“Pretty much.”

She leaned her head back against the couch, staring at the ceiling. “And I thought my life was gonna be some boring workaholic after peaking in college. HA. We really are doing this, aren’t we?”

“Yeah,” I said softly. “We are.”

She lowered her head again, eyes meeting mine — tired, scared, but steady. “Okay then. Tell me where to start.”

“With anything except the moonflower,” I said. “We get every ingredient ready, my mother will make the brew, and when the Bloodmoon rises… we run.”

She swallowed. “Guessing that will be in Moonwood Mill?”

“Yes, Moonwood Mill,” I confirmed.

She exhaled, long and shaky. “Well, full disclosure, I haven’t the foggiest idea where to go for ANY of that nor how to start, so hopefully you do.”

I hesitated — then added, “Not exactly, but there’s someone who can help.”

She looked over at me, wary. “Who?”

“My cousin,” I said. “Eirwen. Do you remember her?”

Sloane blinked. “The blond girl with the braid? The one from the night my friends and I were almost…?”

“Yeah. That one.”

She frowned. “What about her?”

“She’s a witch. And yes, those are real too. Not the fictional kind. The real kind. I’m sure she can get most of the things on that list, or she knows where to find them. She’ll help us.”

Sloane stared at me like I’d just casually announced I was clinically insane. “Of course. A witch now too. Sure. Why not. Add magic to the pile. Can we ride unicorns there? Oh no, wait — go big or go home, right? Make that dragons!”

“Sloane,” I said quietly. “I really am sorry.”

“For what?”

“For everything.”

She rubbed her face. “Yeah. I swear to God, Vince, every time I think I’ve reached the limit of what I can handle, you hand me a new level.”

“Yeah,” I said. “Welcome to my life. You did ask me about my dating history once and got mad when I struggled to answer. Does it make more sense now?”

“Yes, it sure as fuck does.”

She let her hands drop and looked at me again — tired, overwhelmed, but determined. “So… Eirwen, the witch, can help us get the ingredients?”

“Most of them,” I said. “Not the moonflower. That one we have to get ourselves. But the rest? She’ll know what to do. Either she’ll get them for us or can guide us. Moonflowers only grow in Moonwood Mill, which is werewolf territory, and other occult don’t usually trespass. As you already figured, there are certain exceptions.”

Sloane nodded slowly, like she was mentally rearranging her entire worldview to make space for this new information. “Okay. Fine. Great. Let’s go talk to your… witch cousin.”

I was about to push myself up from the floor, but halted, turning to Sloane “Umm… can I edit what I said and make sure you only call her a mage? She’s pretty adamant about it. Gets really mad when you call her a witch — I do it to push her buttons, but since our mothers are sisters, she has to take it easy on me.”

“Of course. Mage, not witch, duh. Every child knows the difference.” The sarcasm oozed off her words — because nobody who wasn’t a witch or mage knew the difference — but at least she smiled at me.

I smiled back. I grew up with the occult as a reality, and even for me some things were just… a lot. I could only imagine what it had to feel like for her — having her entire worldview rewritten in a single night. Then again, I was still chewing on the pregnancy news. My mom would lose her mind once she found out. And I would have to tell my family because while I sounded confident, I wasn’t really sure if the cure could have an adverse effect on the fetus. I wasn’t gonna gamble on my child.

She rose and extended a hand to pull me up. I humored her, but pushed myself up — I was way too heavy for her to lift even one leg of mine.

She didn’t let go right away.

“Vince?”

“Yeah?”

“Are we going to be okay?”

“I think I should ask you that.”

“Can you just… hold me?”

“Of course.”

I wrapped my arms around her, feeling like I’d just escaped the Grim Reaper himself. She pressed into me, her forehead against my chest, her breath warm through my shirt. I held her tighter, grounding both of us.

And for the first time since everything went to hell, something in my chest eased — not hope exactly, but the shape of it.

We had a plan. We had a list. We had someone who could help.

And we had each other — whether either of us was ready for that or not.

“Vince?” she mumbled into my chest, her voice muffled.

“Yeah?” I murmured back, my face half buried in her hair as I tried to hold her close without crushing her. I needed the contact more than I wanted to admit.

“Do you think one day would make a difference?”

“Not really. Why?”

She pulled away — and before I could feel any type of way about it, she grabbed my hand and tugged me along. Straight toward her bedroom.

I stopped in the doorway, blinking like an idiot. She turned, arms crossed, eyebrow raised, waiting — daring me.

I rubbed the back of my neck. “Umm…”

“‘Umm’ what?” she snapped, that old familiar, mildly aggravating tone slipping back in. “You worried I might get pregnant?”

I stared at her. She stared at me. Her sarcasm was a gauntlet thrown at my feet.

I lifted my eyebrows. Challenge accepted.

I stepped forward, hands finding her waist, and lifted her — her surprised gasp hitting me like a spark — before tossing her onto the bed. Gently, but with enough certainty that she let out a startled laugh as she landed. The sound hit me like sunlight breaking through storm clouds.

She looked up at me, breath catching, eyes bright with something fierce and alive.

“Vince…” she whispered.

I joined her on the bed, the air between us charged, her hands already reaching for me. The way she looked at me — like I was something she chose, not something she was stuck with — unraveled every knot of fear I’d been carrying.

I moved slowly, deliberately, brushing my fingers along her arm, her shoulder, her jaw — memorizing her. She responded to every touch, every shift, every breath, like she’d been waiting for this moment just as much as I had.

Her reactions — the soft sounds, the way she pulled me closer, the way she held on — washed away every moment of doubt I’d had in the past days. Every worry. Every fear.

She was still here. Still choosing me. Still mine in all the ways that mattered.

And I was hers — fully, fiercely, without hesitation.

This future Alpha had chosen his mate. And she was going to make me a father.

I would help her be free from the curse. She and I would raise our child. My child. The next Shaw.

A child born of something real — something that had never been casual, no matter how we pretended. Something that felt like salvation.

Ravenwood Bound

Two days later, we were in my truck heading west, towards Ravenwood, about 2–3 hours away from Moonwood Mill, add another hour or two for the traffic congestion coming from San Myshuno where I picked her up.

When I turned the key, the radio kicked on — loud — blasting Sweet Home Alabama, the kind of gravel‑voiced, whiskey‑soaked guitar riff every Shaw male was basically raised on. The speakers rattled like they were humming along.

Sloane’s glare spoke volumes.

“What the hell are you listening to?”

“Good music, that’s what.” I grinned at her. She grimaced and reached over, changing the station, and suddenly synthetic beats and some repetitive auto‑tune voice that could be male or female assaulted my eardrums, so I reached over and changed it back.

Instantly she tried to change it again. I caught her hand, giving her a glare.

“Rule number one: never ever mess with a man’s radio. My truck, my music. You want this audible diarrhea, then we need to take your car.”

“I would love nothing more, but it’s at the shop for warranty service until Monday afternoon. Fine. We’ll listen to… whatever that even is.”

“Classic rock, that’s what. And some old‑fashioned country sprinkled in.” I proclaimed, turning up the volume. While fastening my seat belt, Sloane turned it back down to a whisper.

“We’re not in the South, Vince. We haven’t even left San Myshuno, one of the largest metropolitan areas of the world, fashion and music hub, not El Dorado! I can live with your constant flannel, but that awful howling is a total non‑starter for me!”

Yeah, yeah, yeah. By the time we were on the freeway westbound towards Ravenwood I had her singing along to Sweet Caroline with me — loudly, even doing the stupid little “bam bam bam” part under her breath like you should.

Then Wichita Lineman came on and, much to my shock, she absolutely loved it and started humming along halfway through. There was hope for her taste in music then — definitely trainable into something decent. I smirked to myself while checking the rear‑view mirror to change lanes.

Hunt for the Cure

After a few hours, countless restroom stops, her feeding me gas station snacks and overpriced Starbucks coffee, we finally exited at the Ravenwood exit.

A few turns and the forest thinned just enough to show the first hints of Ravenwood’s skyline through the trees. Sloane sat beside me, one hand on my thigh, the other gripping the door like the woods might reach in and grab her.

“This place feels… different,” she murmured.

“It is,” I said. “Ravenwood’s kinda old‑worldly and laced with ancient magic. Older than Moonwood Mill. Older than most things.”

She glanced at me. “And we’re just… driving in?”

“Yeah. It’s just another town, like any other town, safe for all kinds of beings. Mostly.”

“Mostly?”

I cleared my throat. “As long as we keep our heads down. Most here are normies — regular people with regular lives. Then there’s a hodgepodge of occult. Like Leeora and Artemus — a powerful witch who’s the daughter of a vampire and married to one. They can’t live in Forgotten Hollow, where the vampires live, nor in Glimmerbrook, and it’s too complicated to live among normies, so they live here. Then Eirwen — whose father is a very ancient mage, mythology says he was reborn a million times, who knows — and her mom is my aunt and a vampire. So, the relevant part is that vampires, witchfolk, and werewolves usually do not mix. At all. As in… instant war on sight. This place is a lot more forgiving for all that, as long as none of us start anything dumb.”

She stared at me. “Vince.”

“What?”

“What are the chances we will leave here in one piece again? No offense, but neither one of us is famous for being level‑headed in moments of… adversity.”

Before I could answer, the Ravenwood border marker came into view — a carved obsidian monolith with runes that pulsed faintly as we passed. The air shifted instantly, like stepping from sunlight into cathedral shade.

Sloane shivered. “Yikes. Okay. Yeah. I felt that.”

“You get used to it. You wouldn’t have felt it before, but the curse within you — and our child — is making you susceptible to magic now.”

“I don’t want to get used to that. I already miss my normal, boring life.”

“I’m afraid that might be over for good — at least the way you knew it. Things are going to change. You carry part of me inside you now and… well, I am a lot of things, most not flattering, but normal isn’t among them. Never has been.”

Ravenwood rose ahead — steep roofs, wrought‑iron balconies, lanterns glowing with early light in the sometimes‑gloomy alleys, cobblestone streets that looked like they remembered every footstep ever taken on them. It was beautiful in a way that made your skin prickle.

Sloane whispered, “This looks like a gothic novel and a Renaissance festival had a baby.”

“That’s… not inaccurate.” I smirked.

We drove alongside the outskirts of town, then toward Mourningvale, which always had this purplish haze about it.

“Yeah, creepy,” Sloane confirmed, peeking out the window. “I didn’t know what magical would look like before this, but now… yeah. This.”

I pulled up in front of Eirwen’s home — tall, ancient stone, ivy‑covered, with a stained‑glass phoenix window that definitely wasn’t just decorative. Before we even reached the door, it swung open.

Eirwen stood there, braid over her shoulder, violet eyes bright, wearing a shirt that said Mages Do It With Precision. She took one look at us — at Sloane, at her stomach, at our joined hands — and gasped so loudly a raven on the roof startled and took off like it had somewhere better to be.

“Oh. My. GOD.”

Sloane froze. “What?”

“You’re PREGNANT!” Eirwen shrieked, pointing at me like I’d committed a felony. “VINCE DID A THING! Good, I was starting to think you were shooting blanks or needed someone to go over the birds and bees thing with you again.”

I groaned. “Wow, Eirwen—”

She ignored me completely, grabbing Sloane’s hands. “You poor thing. You absolute warrior. You’re dating a werewolf and pregnant with a werewolf baby and you’re STILL mostly sane. And you still run around with my dorky cousin. I love you already.”

Sloane blinked. “Yeah… okay?”

Eirwen spun toward me, slapping me in the chest. “You lil’ sneaky bastard! Here we all were thinking you were just some big, buff dork who can’t land a date to save his life, and you’re out there starting a family before Damon or I even get our coats on! Duuuuude! Does Damon know?”

“Eirwen, that baby thing isn’t public yet,” I said. “Can we keep it that way, PLEASE?”

“Oh! So we’re still pretending shit? Got it.” She waved a hand like she was clearing smoke. “Relax. Mom and Dad aren’t home for hours. We can talk freely.”

She turned to Sloane, eyes bright with mischief. “Vince‑y here is terrified of my daddy — and honestly? Good. Anyone with a functioning brain cell should be. He’s… a lot.”

She leaned in conspiratorially. “Ever skimmed Welsh mythology and stumbled across the name Gwydion? Yeah. That’s him. Not ‘inspired by.’ Not ‘loosely based on.’ Straight‑up him. Ancient mage, reborn a ridiculous number of times, terrifying résumé, zero chill.”

She flicked her braid over her shoulder. “Before I was born, he was all ‘I want a male heir, rawr rawr rawr,’ like some medieval warlord with a superiority complex. Then I popped out — and boom. Instant meltdown. Total sucker. The man who once leveled a mountain because someone annoyed him now cries if I get a paper cut.”

She shrugged. “He didn’t even try for another kid after me. Didn’t need to. Didn’t want to cos he loves my mom and she had a really rough time with my birth, and he just didn’t want to risk it again. Also, my mom’s from a very strong vampire line, he’s an ancient mage, and mixing those two usually ends in catastrophe. Which, hi — catastrophe is basically my middle name. I don’t really have any of the fancy gimmicks vamps get, but I do have some of their senses. Comes in handy. For everything else there is my magic.”

She pointed at Sloane with a grin that was both adorable and vaguely threatening. “So as long as I like you? You’re safe. My dad won’t touch a hair on your head. But if you ever screw me over—” She smiled sweetly. “—you’re already dead. You just don’t know it yet.”

She spun on her heel. “Come on inside!”

She spun around, braid nearly smacking us both in the face.

Sloane leaned in and whispered, “Is she always like this?”

“I can hear you,” Eirwen called from the dark hallway.

“She is,” I muttered. “Unfortunately. You’ll get used to that too.”

We wiped our shoes on the doormat and stepped inside. The house smelled like old books, lavender, and something faintly metallic — mage magic always had a scent, like ozone and ink.

“Eirwen,” I said, “we’re not pretending. But you know my side of the family needs time to inch toward change. One battle at a time.”

My voice echoed off the old wooden walls — deeper here, heavier, like the house itself listened.

Eirwen clapped her hands. “I think you don’t give them enough credit. But alright! Show me that list!”

I handed it over. She scanned it in three seconds flat.

“Okay,” she said. “Easy. I can get you everything today except the Moonflower. That one’s wolf territory and on you. I’m not stepping foot in Moonwood Mill unless I want to get disemboweled. You can handle one single little ingredient yourself, can’t you? I’ll do the rest for you. I’ll help Auntie Jaymie prepare it. Knowing you wolves, you’d probably try to deep‑fry it or something.”

“Since when do you not set foot in wolf territory?” I asked. “You show up whenever you feel like it.”

“Okay, I set foot into certain parts,” she corrected. “But not anywhere near the wolfhill. That’s your domain, Vincey-pooh. I’m sure you can handle one ingredient, sweet cousin o’ mine? I’ll bring you the rest once I have it all. Should be tomorrow during the day. I have some things to do first.”

“Of course. And thank you, cuz.”

Sloane crossed her arms. “Thank you, Eirwen. So what exactly do we do? Vince and I, I mean.”

Eirwen grinned like chaos incarnate. “Oh, YOU keep growing that baby, while my dorky cousin drives you both back home to tell my Auntie Jaymie and the rest of the funky bunch he’s finally going to be a daddy. She’s been dying for it. As have the others. About time.”

Sloane’s eyes widened. “Wait—no. Look, we are going to wait a while before telling anyone. My family doesn’t even know yet…”

“Sloane… my dear, pretty Sloane. Let me be clear… in case it sounded like I was suggesting,” Eirwen continued, “I wasn’t. The minute your asses hit the seats of his truck, and his terrible backwoods lumberjack music starts blaring, the timer is on. I have to go see Alder Davenport for some of the things on your list, and he is a talker — sweet but long‑winded AF — so once I get back from his place, my parents will be back too, and I’m going straight to my mommy to tell her all about the happy news.”

She pointed at me. “You know better than to challenge the sibling grapevine, don’t you Vince‑y? By the time you get home, you have about one hour, two tops, to drop the happy news on your furry fam or your mom will find out from my mom — and knowing Auntie Jaymie, that will hurt. So make it good and speedy. I mean, you have a few hours’ drive ahead of you to lay out the right words to drop that bomb.”

She gave me a peck on the cheek, winked at Sloane, and marched past us like she owned the entire street, leaving us standing in her hallway like peasants.

Sloane stared after her. “Vince… your family is insane.”

“Tell me about it. The funniest and ironic part? They’re kinda your family now too, in a way — via our child. HA!”

Rolling Home

She slipped her hand into mine. “You’ll think ‘Ha!’ whenever you meet MY family. Hey, what are the chances your family is going to shred me to pieces for all of this?”

“Less than zero. My mom has been wanting me to find a nice girl and procreate since I was about twenty‑five. If we ever break up, she’ll keep you and kick me to the curb. That’s what your odds are.”

She exhaled. “Alright, then let’s drive back.”

We stepped outside, the Ravenwood air colder now, sharper — like the town itself was watching us, whispering in a language only magic understood.

I opened the truck door for her. She climbed in, still pale, still processing, still holding on.

As I rounded the hood and slid into the driver’s seat, she whispered, barely audible:

“Vince… what if they don’t like me?”

I reached over, took her hand, and squeezed.

“Sloane, you’re not a stranger. They already know you — you’ve had dinner with us, you’ve been to my home more than once. They adore you,” I said. “And they will love you, because I do.”

She looked at me — tired, scared, but steady.

“Okay,” she breathed. “Let’s go.”

I started the engine. The road home stretched ahead — dark, winding, full of things we couldn’t predict.

But for the first time in days, I didn’t feel dread.

I felt purpose.

And the faint, fragile shape of hope.

The drive back to Moonwood Mill was quiet — not tense, just overloaded. Sloane kept her hand on my thigh the whole way, like she needed the contact to stay tethered to something real. Truth was, I needed it too, my hand holding hers.

The forest thickened as we approached the Mill — the air shifting, the scent of pine and damp earth growing sharper. The closer we got, the more the wolf in me stirred, recognizing home.

Sloane noticed. “Your eyes are doing the glowy thing again.”

“Yeah,” I muttered. “Territory instinct.”

“Is that… good?”

“Depends who you ask.”

She didn’t look reassured.

We turned onto the gravel road leading to the house — the big, old, creaky place that had held three generations of Shaws and more arguments than I could count. The porch light was on. That meant one thing:

They were waiting.

I had told them I’d spent the night at Sloane’s after talking with her two days ago, and they knew I went to pick her up to see Eirwen about the cure. And I’d told them we’d swing by afterward to talk.

I had intended this to be some sort of official introduction — Sloane meeting my family as my official girlfriend. Yes, we were official. Again. Or at last. I still wasn’t sure what we had been before. Didn’t matter now.

Because of Eirwen, we were adding the baby news tonight — something we’d decided on the drive back.

I wasn’t sure how I felt about that part.

Mom would probably do backflips through the entire house. Dad would give me his hesitant Alpha worry glare. Grandpa Mike was always a mixed bag — either laughing until Esmee panicked about his heart, or dropping a stack of zesty remarks. Esmee would probably say nothing, which was for the best — she never liked kids.

I parked. The engine clicked as it cooled. Sloane stared at the house like it might lunge at her.

“Ready?” I asked.

The look she shot me said it all.

I smirked, patted her thigh, got out, rounded the truck, and opened her door, offering my hand.

I kept my hand on the small of her back as we walked up to the front door. I opened it for her, and as we stepped through, my entire family was in the living room — TV on, heads turning toward us.

Here we go.

We walked in. Esmee turned off the TV.

“Good evening,” Sloane said, smiling like she was being led to her execution.

“Hello again, Sloane. Nice to see you,” Mom said, standing up, nudging my dad so he stood too. Grandpa let out a long‑suffering sigh and got up, and Esmee followed him.

“How are you doing?” Dad asked, meaning her bite and processing that mentally.

“I am okay… all things considered,” Sloane answered.

I sat everyone down at the table. We each got beverages.

“So, is Eirwen able to help?” Grandpa asked.

“Yes,” I said. “She’ll have everything tomorrow except the Moonflower. Guys, look — we need to discuss a few things. As you can see, Sloane and I are together again… still…?”

I looked at her. She shrugged.

“Well, either way, we’re together. And… umm… well… she is… pregnant.”

Eyes widened. Glances were exchanged. Throats cleared. Yeah, I know — not the way most guys told their families, but I wasn’t a man of speeches, and after the days we’d had, ripping the Band‑Aid off felt like the only option.

“Before anyone asks or wonders,” Sloane added, steady as stone, “there is no doubt — it’s Vince’s.”

Dad nodded once, slow. Then he looked at me. “Have you told her what that means?”

Mom elbowed him sharply. “Excuse you?!” Then, with a softer look at Sloane and me: “What my husband MEANT to say was ‘congratulations!’”

“Yes, of course. That. Congratulations to you both,” Dad added stiffly.

Yeah. He was the Alpha — respected and feared by all… except at home. Mom wore the pants here. It had been the same when Grandpa Mike was Alpha — Esmee ruled the house and the finances.

I had to smile when I realized it would be no different for me. Sloane was still confused and overwhelmed, but I was already whipped, whether she realized it or not. I hadn’t until recently, but now the writing on the wall was clear.

Growing up, I never understood it. But now? It made sense. When you spend all day making hard decisions, it’s a relief to come home and hand the crown to your wife.

Grandpa spoke next, his voice carrying the same low rumble Dad and I had. Oddly, the female wolves didn’t have that — their bodies were more muscular than most women’s, but their voices stayed their own.

“Congratulations from me as well,” he said. “But I second my son’s notion. Have you told her what that means?”

Sloane’s head snapped to me. I turned to face her.

“The child will have to live with me,” I said. “Wolf children can be very destructive. I was that way, and so was my dad. No way the baby can live with you once it starts crawling.”

Her eyebrows did that thing that meant we can’t talk now, but this will be a discussion later.

Mom laughed — and I already knew something embarrassing was coming.

“Vince used to chew electric cables as a toddler.”

Yup. Just what I wanted Sloane to hear.

“That explains a lot,” she quipped, making my family laugh. I smiled, sipping my beer.

“So, the pregnancy will be… normal?” she asked.

“Yup,” Mom said.

“What about the birth?”

“Nothing out of the ordinary. The trouble starts when they start crawling. Trust me, you cannot keep a lid on wolf kids. The older they get, the more trouble they find. And Vince as a teen was unbearable.”

“Thanks, Mom. Way to sell me.”

“Oh, I can tell Sloane already knows.”

“Well, his charm precedes him. Especially when the claws and fangs come out when you least expect it,” Sloane said — and while it was starting to feel like a Vince roast, I liked her being so outgoing. This was going better than expected.

The night wound down after more questions, more explanations, more getting‑to‑know‑you moments. It had gotten late, and while I would have driven her home, I was glad Sloane agreed to stay over.

I led her to my room and felt like a teenage boy bringing a girl into his room for the first time.

“Rustic,” Sloane said — her polite way of calling me a slob, confirmed when she lifted a pair of worn underwear off the bed. I snatched it from her, trying not to blush.

It was strange, but somehow felt like leveling up again.

We both fell asleep fast and slept until the sun had already risen.