Page 65 of Fat Forced Mate

He cuts himself off, perhaps aware that some words can't be rushed.

I search his face for any hint of the calculation or duty-bound resignation I'd feared. Instead, I find only sincerity and something warmer, something that makes my heart beat faster despite my best efforts to remain detached.

"I'm afraid," I whisper, offering him honesty in return for his. "Not just of you, but of myself. Of wanting this too much and having it fall apart again. I've worked so hard to be independent, to not need anyone or anything from Silvercreek."

"I know," he acknowledges. "And I'm not asking you to give up who you've become. You're stronger now, more confident. I see that, and I admire it." His thumb strokes my cheek again. "I'm just asking for a chance to show you that Silvercreek can be different. That I can be different."

"And the bonding ceremony?" I ask, the question that's been hanging over us since I passed the final trial. "It's in three days."

"It can wait," he says firmly. "Until you're ready. Until you're sure. I’ll make them delay it. God knows we’ve got an excuse now, with all of this. We all need time to recover.”

The gesture—offering to delay what pack law and tradition demand—speaks volumes about how much he's changed. Five years ago, Nic Blackwood would never have put personal feelings above pack protocol.

"Thank you," I whisper, the knot in my chest loosening slightly.

"Can I hold you?" he asks, the question careful, leaving space for my refusal.

I hesitate only briefly before nodding. Nic moves carefully, mindful of my injuries, as he shifts to lie beside me on the narrow bed. His arm slides around my shoulders, drawing me against his chest with gentle pressure. I let myself be held, surprised at how right it feels to rest my head against his shoulder.

"We'll figure this out," he murmurs against my hair. "All of it—the pack, the baby, us. Together."

"Together," I echo, the word both a promise and a test.

His heartbeat is steady beneath my ear, a rhythm that once meant safety, home, love. Maybe it can again. The thought terrifies and comforts in equal measure.

We lie in silence for a while, the quiet broken only by the soft beeping of monitors and our synchronized breathing. Gradually, I feel the tension seeping from my muscles, replaced by a bone-deep exhaustion that even eighteen hours of sleep hasn't erased.

"Rest," Nic says softly, sensing my fatigue. "I'll be here when you wake up."

"You should rest too," I murmur, already feeling sleep pulling at me. "You're injured."

"I will," he promises. "Right here, if that's okay with you."

I nod against his chest, too tired to analyze whether this is wise. In this moment, after everything we've been through, all I want is the comfort of his arms around me, the security of knowing our child is safe, the hope that maybe—just maybe—we can build something stronger from the ashes of what was broken.

As I drift toward sleep, I find myself thinking of the mating ceremony. Nic said it could wait until I'm ready, a concession I appreciate more than he knows. But as his arm tightens slightly around me, as his breath stirs my hair, I wonder if I'll want to wait as long as I thought.

Some bonds, it seems, have already begun to heal.

Chapter 24 - Dominic

Luna kneels in the community garden, morning sunlight catching in her fiery hair as she demonstrates the proper way to harvest yarrow without damaging the plant. Around her, a small circle of pack members watch attentively—including, surprisingly, Elder Roberts' wife Margaret, who until recently wouldn't even acknowledge Luna's presence.

"The flowers and leaves both have healing properties," Luna explains, her hands moving with practiced grace. "But you want to cut them before the heat of the day, when the essential oils are strongest."

I lean against the garden fence, content to observe without interrupting. It's been a week since the Cheslem attack, since Luna nearly died protecting our territory, since I learned I was going to be a father. The pack is still healing—physically and emotionally—but watching this scene unfolds a quiet satisfaction in my chest.

"Could we use this in the healing salve for Sarah's burns?" Margaret asks, actually deferring to Luna's expertise.

Luna nods. "Combined with comfrey and a touch of witch hazel, it would speed healing considerably."

The interaction is small but significant. No snide remarks about "witch remedies," no subtle undermining—just respect for knowledge that might help the pack. These small shifts have been happening all week, as if Luna's courage during the attack finally opened eyes that had been deliberately blind.

Later, I find her in our quarters in the pack building—formerly mine alone, but it seemed pointless to maintain separate spaces after everything that's happened. She'sorganizing her books on a shelf I cleared for her, humming softly under her breath.

"Need help?" I offer, sliding my arms around her waist from behind, careful of the still-healing bruise on her back.

She leans into me slightly, a gesture of trust that means more than any words. A mere week ago, this would have been unimaginable. But we’ve been taking time to explore one another, to get comfortable. And I’m willing to wait as long as it takes for her to get comfortable with me, in every possible way.

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