The Woman Blessed by the Moon

My mother was the heroine of a breeder romance.

At least, that was what everyone in North Hollow Pack believed.

They said Selene Thorn had been kissed by the Moon Goddess herself. They said no woman in the northern territories had a womb as blessed as hers.

Seven years after marrying Alpha Kael Thorn, she had given him seven wolf-born sons.

Seven.

One after another.

Before one child was weaned, another was already growing beneath her ribs.

The women in the pack envied her. The elders praised her. My father called her his little moon, his miracle, his soft-bellied blessing.

And my mother believed every word.

She believed it even when her hands began to tremble.

She believed it when her hair fell out in clumps.

She believed it when the healer warned her that another pregnancy would kill her.

I was the only one who begged her to stop.

“Mother,” I said, kneeling beside her bed, “please. Your body cannot take another child.”

Her face changed as if I had slapped her.

“You wicked girl,” she hissed. “Are you cursing me?”

“No, I only—”

“You are jealous.” Her fingers dug into the blanket over her swollen belly. “Jealous that the Moon Goddess chose me. Jealous that your father loves me. Jealous that you were born useless while I was born blessed.”

I stared at her, unable to speak.

Outside the room, my six younger brothers were crying. The seventh child, the one inside her, had not moved for two days.

The healer had already told my father the truth.

The baby was dead.

But my father did not tell her.

He only stroked her hair and whispered, “My Selene is strong. My blessed little mate will give me another son.”

She smiled through her pain.

And I finally understood.

She did not want to be saved.

She wanted to be worshipped.

The labor lasted one day and one night.

When the child came out, he was blue, silent, and cold.

No wolf soul.

No cry.

No life.

My mother woke near dawn.

Her eyes moved from the bloody sheets to the dead infant wrapped in linen. Then they found me.

Something inside her broke.

“You,” she whispered.

I stepped back.

“You cursed him.”

“Mother, no—”

The silver candlestick struck my forehead before I could finish.

Pain exploded behind my eyes.

I fell to the floor.

She climbed over the blood-soaked sheets, grabbed the candlestick again, and brought it down.

Again.

Again.

Again.

“You killed my son!”

Warm blood ran into my mouth.

It tasted like rust.

The last thing I saw was my mother’s beautiful face twisted with hatred.

Then darkness swallowed me.

When I opened my eyes again, I was lying on the kitchen floor.

My skull still ached.

My ribs still remembered the weight of death.

But the room was whole. The snow outside the window was thin. The seventh pregnancy had not yet been announced.

I had returned to six months before my death.

From the bedroom, my mother’s sweet, lazy voice drifted out.

“Aveline, are you deaf? Get up. The pups need breakfast, and the water won’t boil itself.”

I pushed myself up slowly.

Then I smiled.

Yes, Mother.

Keep giving birth.

Let us see who can survive your blessing.