The heat of his palm against her neck was not a gentle thing. It was a brand.
Posy gasped, her eyes snapping shut as the physical shock of the touch rippled through her entire body. It felt like a current of liquid gold pouring straight into her bloodstream, warming the frozen corners of her soul that she had kept locked away for years. Her breath hitched in her throat, her chest rising and falling in rapid, shallow jerks. For a single, terrifying second, her body did not feel like her own. It wanted to lean into him. It wanted to press against the hard, solid wall of his chest and let the freezing world outside melt away.
Then, the memory of her mother’s warning flared in her mind like a splash of cold water.
“Once you let them touch you, Posy, the trap is set.”
With a sharp, ragged intake of air, she wrenched herself backward. The movement was sudden and violent. Her boots skidded on the thin layer of frost coating the stone floor, her lower back hitting the edge of the cedar cradle with a dull thud.
Branen’s hand remained suspended in the empty air, his thick fingers curling slightly as if he could still feel the warmth of her skin. His grey eyes, dark and turbulent as a winter sea, fixed on her face. The intensity in his gaze was suffocating. He did not move, but his presence seemed to fill every inch of the small, dim nursery, making the high stone ceiling feel as though it were pressing down on her shoulders.
"Do not touch me," Posy whispered.
Her voice was trembling, but she forced her chin up, her dark eyes locking onto his. Her hands clenched into fists at her sides, her knuckles white. She could feel the pulse hammering in her throat, right where his hand had been. The skin there felt hot, sensitized, as if his touch had left a physical mark.
The silent Alpha did not flinch at her words. He slowly lowered his hand, his gaze dropping to her mouth before rising back to her eyes. The raw, predatory aura radiating from him was heavy, thick with the scent of pine forest, cold wind, and the dark, metallic tang of his own blood. It was the scent of a male who had just run through a blizzard to claim what was his.
Behind them, a tiny, fragile sound broke the tense silence.
The baby had stirred.
The pup gave a small, wet whimper, his tiny arms kicking out beneath the layers of flannel. The movement was weak, his breathing shallow and rapid. Within seconds, the whimper escalated into a thin, desperate wail that cut through the cold air of the room like a small silver bell.
Posy’s medical instincts took over, momentarily burying the chaotic panic of the mate-bond. She turned her back on Branen, dropping to her knees beside the cradle.
"Shh, little one," she murmured, her voice instantly softening into the quiet, rhythmic tone she used for her patients. She reached into the cradle, her hands sliding beneath the baby's warm bundle.
The moment her fingers touched the flannel, a sharp pang of emptiness hit her. The child was cold again. The residual warmth of her magic from his last feeding had faded, and the bitter mountain air was already creeping through the thick wool blankets. The baby’s skin had a faint, translucent blue tint around his tiny nose, his mouth opening and closing in a desperate, frantic search for food.
He was starving.
She had to feed him. She had to give him her life-force, the warm green-blood milk that was the only thing keeping his fragile heart beating.
But she was not alone.
Posy glanced over her shoulder. Branen was still standing there. He had not moved an inch. He stood like a monument of dark stone and frozen fur, his eyes watching her every movement with a quiet, unblinking intensity.
"You need to leave," Posy said, her voice dropping into a hard, professional register. "The baby needs to be fed. He is too weak to handle any distraction."
Branen did not move. He slowly crossed his massive arms over his chest, his head tilting slightly. The gesture was clear. He was the Alpha. This was his house, his son, and he would not be dismissed from his own nursery by a human midwife.
"I mean it, Branen," she said, using his name with a deliberate sharpness to show she was not intimidated by his title. "He cannot feed with you standing there like a specter. Go down to your people. They are dying in the hall. They need their Alpha, not a man staring at a cradle."
He opened his mouth. The muscles in his throat worked, the jagged white scar tightening as he forced the words past his ruined vocal cords.
"No," he whispered.
The sound was a rough, dry scrape, like a heavy stone being dragged over gravel. It was painful to listen to, but it carried the absolute, unyielding authority of his rank. He took a single, slow step forward, his massive leather boots clicking against the frost-covered stone. He stopped right beside the cradle, looking down at the wailing child.
The baby’s cries grew louder, more frantic. His tiny chest was heaving, his mouth gasping for air.
Posy looked from the child to the silent giant standing over them. She had no choice. She could not let the boy starve out of pride, and she could not force a six-foot-four wolf Alpha out of the room by physical means.
"Turn your back, then," she commanded, her tone flat. "And do not look."
She did not wait to see if he complied. She lifted the baby from the cradle, cradling his small, fragile body against her chest. She sat down on the edge of the narrow wooden cot, her fingers going to the laces of her heavy wool bodice.
Her hands were shaking. It was not from the cold.
She untied the laces with quick, practiced movements, pulling the dark fabric aside to reveal the pale, soft skin of her chest. The freezing air of the room hit her bare skin, making her shiver, her goosebumps rising instantly.
She looked up.
Branen had not turned his back.
He was staring directly at her. His grey eyes were fixed on the pale curve of her breast, his pupils dilated so wide they almost swallowed the grey of his iris. His breath was coming faster now, a white mist rising from his lips with every deep, ragged exhalation. The silent wolf inside him was practically vibrating, its raw, possessive hunger rolling off him in waves that made the skin on Posy's arms tingle.
"I told you to look away," she whispered, her face burning with a sudden, hot flush of embarrassment and anger.
He did not look away. He stepped closer, his shadow falling over her, blocking out the weak, grey light from the window. He dropped to one knee beside the cot, his massive frame suddenly level with hers. He was so close she could feel the heat radiating from his winter furs, the scent of him filling her lungs, making her head spin.
The baby gave another sharp, desperate wail, his tiny mouth pressing against her bare skin, searching frantically.
Posy closed her eyes, forcing herself to focus. She had to block him out. She had to block out the mate-bond, the heat of his body, and the terrifying intensity of his gaze.
She reached deep inside her chest, searching for the quiet, dormant spark of her green-blood magic.
It was hard to find this time. The panic of the mate-bond had scattered her focus, her heart rate too high, her breathing too shallow. But she forced herself to breathe, letting her mind drift down into the dark, earth-warmed depths of her soul.
Come, she thought. For the child.
She found the spark. It was a tiny, warm ember, buried beneath the cold weight of her fear. She pulled on it, drawing the green light up through her body.
The physical sensation was immediate and intense.
A heavy, sweet warmth flooded her veins, moving up from her belly, through her chest, and into her breasts. It was a tingling, pulling sensation that made her gasp, her fingers tightening around the baby's flannel blankets.
A single drop of thick, pale milk pearled on her nipple.
Branen’s breath hitched.
He leaned closer, his eyes widening in absolute, silent awe as he witnessed the magic. He saw the soft, golden-green light that hummed beneath her skin, the way her veins glowed with a faint, earthy warmth before fading back into the pale flesh. He smelled the scent of the milk—not the sour, thin scent of human milk, but a rich, sweet liquid that smelled of wild chamomile, damp earth, and life itself.
The baby smelled it too.
The pup’s wailing stopped instantly. His tiny mouth found her nipple, his lips locking onto her skin with a desperate, heavy latch.
Posy let out a soft, shuddering sigh as the baby began to drink. The pulling sensation was deep, draining, as if the child were drawing the very marrow from her bones. She felt her body grow lighter, more fragile, her energy melting away into the boy’s veins.
But the baby was transforming before their eyes.
The pale, blue tint around his nose vanished, replaced by a healthy, dusky pink. His skin grew warm, his breathing steadying into a strong, rhythmic beat. His tiny, blunt fingers reached out, his hand pressing flat against the warm skin of her breast, his fingers curling as if he were trying to hold onto the source of his life.
Branen watched, his chest heaving with an emotion so raw it made his scarred throat work in silent spasms.
He reached out, his thick, calloused finger gently touching the baby’s tiny, dark-haired head. He was so careful, his movement so incredibly light, as if he were afraid his massive strength would shatter the child. His finger rubbed over the soft hair, his grey eyes softening with a deep, maternal tenderness that Posy had not expected from the brutal warrior-king of the north.
Then, his gaze rose to her face.
The grey of his eyes was glassy, filled with a mixture of grief, awe, and a desperate, driving need that made Posy’s heart stop.
He slid his hand from the baby’s head to the side of her face. His thumb gently rubbed over her cheekbone, his skin rough and warm against her cool flesh.
"Stay," he whispered.
The word was a tiny, wet scrape of sound, but it carried the weight of a mountain.
Posy froze, her breath catching in her throat. The baby continued to feed, his small, rhythmic gulps the only sound in the quiet room.
"Be... his... mother," Branen whispered, his scarred throat straining as he forced the words out. His eyes searched hers, pleading, desperate. "Be... my... Luna. Stay... with... us."
The words did not warm her. They did not bring her joy.
They hit her like a bucket of ice water, freezing the blood in her veins.
The trap.
It was exactly what her mother had warned her about. The beautiful, golden cage. The moment they realized what she was—the moment they saw she could heal their sick, feed their heirs, and warm their beds—they would never let her go. They would wrap her in silks, call her their savior, and place a crown on her head, but she would still be a prisoner. She would be a tool, a breeding and healing vessel for the pack’s survival, her own identity erased by the crushing weight of duty.
“Be his mother. Be my Luna.”
He didn't see her. He didn't see Posy Hale, the independent woman who had spent ten years carving her own path through the world. He saw a solution to his problems. He saw a functional replacement for his dead wife. He saw a wet nurse with magical blood who could keep his heir alive and heal his dying people.
The anger rose in her chest, hot and sharp, burning away the residual warmth of the mate-bond.
She slapped his hand away.
The sound of her palm striking his wrist was loud in the quiet room. Branen flinched, his hand dropping back to his side, his eyes widening in surprise.
"No," Posy said, her voice dropping into a cold, hard hiss. "Do not say that to me."
She quickly pulled the baby from her breast, though he gave a small, frustrated whine at the sudden interruption. She held him close, her hand shielding her bare skin as she quickly pulled her wool bodice together, her fingers working the laces with a furious, jerky speed.
"You do not know me, Branen," she said, her dark eyes flashing with a fierce, wild light that made him take a half-step back. "You look at me and you see a wet nurse. You see a quick fix for your broken pack. You see a woman who can fill the empty space your wife left behind. But I am not your replacement. I am not your Luna. And I will never be your prisoner."
"Posy..." he whispered, his hand reaching out again, his fingers twitching in a silent plea.
"Do not," she snapped, her voice cutting him off like a whip. "The moment the Shatter-Frost lifts, the moment the pass is clear and the ice is gone from the gates, I am leaving. I will take my pay, I will pack my bags, and I will walk down this mountain. And you will not stop me."
Branen stood up, his towering height once again casting her in shadow. His face had gone pale, his jaw clenching so hard the muscles in his neck stood out like thick cords. The silent wolf in his mind was roaring in protest, its raw, possessive instinct outraged by her rejection.
But Posy did not back down. She stood up to face him, the baby held tightly against her chest, her dark brown eyes staring into his with an unyielding, iron-hard determination.
"You have your heir," she said, her voice steady and cold as the ice outside. "I will keep him alive until the spring. That is my job. That is what you hired me for. But that is all you will ever get from me."
The wind outside gave another massive, howling scream against the stone, and the room seemed to grow even colder, the silence between them a heavy, frozen wall that neither of them could break.
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