Page 40 of King Luna

After a minute of silence, my nausea reduces enough to stop swallowing as hard. “Wow. That actually helped a lot. Thank you so much, seriously.”

The woman breaks into a bright smile. “Of course! Keep them.”

“What? Are you sure—”

She laughs. “Really, I mean it. From one mom to another.”

Blinking a few times, I’m hit with a wave of excitement. God, I’m a mom.

The flight attendant returns with more than just ginger candies and sparkling water: she also offers me her pregnancy sickness suggestions once she hears us talking about it. As Noah’s eyes light up beside me, enthusiasm lacing every shy,quiet question he asks about how to better care for me during pregnancy, my heart pounds, touched to my core that so many people offered to help. The world might be testing me, but the universe decided Noah was right this morning, and it gave me plenty of practice accepting support—and feeling like a burden.

With how much these strangers seem to delight in sharing their advice, another aspect of my thinking is tempted to change; after months of watching our backs, wherever we go, maybe there are safe strangers in the world too.

I can’t stop smiling. “How are you all so nice? Can I send you both a card, or something?”

We all laugh, but surprisingly, both women share their emails and PO Boxes with me. As we each settle back into our seats, I scribble down my thoughts on the comfort they’ve provided me, vowing to write to them on a postcard from Sweden.

Noah chuckles beside me, kissing my temple. “Goddess, you’re so damn cute. I know you have your concerns, but personally, I’m not worried about you getting along with other Lunas.”

I sputter out a laugh, loving the tenderness I find in his eyes. “I need to write you a card too, after all this. You’re my hero, Noah.”

Noah drops his chin to his chest, easing back into his seat with a smile. I giggle, snuggling in at his side.

Maybe today is a good omen, after all; despite how rough we’ve had it, we’ve continually ended up smiling together, surrounded by kind strangers.

Chapter 10

Fourteen hours later, after two layovers and scattered sleep, we touch down in Kiruna, Sweden. While waiting for our luggage to be loaded off the plane, a luxurious vanilla scent entices my nose. I close my eyes, taking a deep breath. Before I can stop myself, I groan in bliss.

Noah chuckles. “What do you smell, Luna?”

“Something delicious.”

“Yeah? Follow your nose, and go treat yourself. I'll wait here for our luggage.”

My heart clenches in delight. “Thank you, my love.”

I don't wait for his reply, chasing the vanilla scent to the airport's nearest cafe, and Noah laughs in the distance.

But when I spot the delicious scent’s source, my heart sinks; it all looks so good. Cinnamon rolls do, in fact, line the bakery, but so do decadent Swedish pastries I’ve never tried before—glaze, sugar crystals, and vibrant berries glittering beneath the cafe lights. How do I choose just one?

Fuck, I’m about to cry. I clear my throat, half-weeping, half-laughing at myself. But as my stomach rolls, threatening to sour my appetite, it’s no longer funny anymore. Suddenly, I’d kill to eat one of these cinnamon rolls. And if I embarrass myself by crying in this cafe over food, I'm going to be pissed.

I try my best to remain centered and rational, but my wolf begs me to scramble over the counter to snag a pastry.

Okay, enough. I'm paying for one and leaving before my pregnant wolf loses the last of her self-control.

As the cashier hands me my prize, thanking me in Swedish, I have to swallow a few times so I don't drool. I cup a chunky cinnamon roll in both palms, the protective paper barely containing its dripping, hot glaze. I shove a bite into my mouth, my tongue smothered in sugar and cinnamon.

“Ugh,yes—” I breathe.

But as the cashier’s eyes widen, my heart spikes into my throat.

Oops. I moaned out loud, and I’m still at the register. I flush, wiping a drop of glaze off the corner of my mouth. Checking behind myself, I’m relieved to see no one in line behind me. “Sorry, I— I think I’d actually like to order one of each, please.”

On my way back to baggage claim, I devour the cinnamon roll first in three more bites—even after eating my two meals and half of Noah’s on the plane. I check my reflection in my phone screen, making sure I don’t still have sugar on my lips.

But when Noah finds me with my massive haul and one of my pastries already missing, the wrapper crumpled in my fist, he grows serious. “Oh, fuck, wait—maybe we still aren’t feeding you enough of something else, now that they’re growing so quickly. That could make you extra nauseous, right?”

---