All Chapters of THE PREGNANT SHE WOLF: Chapter 61 - Chapter 70

SHARON’S POVI never imagined I would step foot into the royal library for anything other than sneaking in to read fantasy novels I had no business touching. The irony wasn’t lost on me as I sat at the long mahogany table now, a stack of heavy history books in front of me, none of which had dragons, witches, or star-crossed lovers on the covers.The head historian, Elder Marcellus, cleared his throat for what felt like the hundredth time. The man was ancient, his white beard reached almost to his stomach, and he had the habit of adjusting his spectacles every two sentences even when they didn’t need adjusting.I thought I would at least have Louis teach me but for some reason, Morris believed that I would get distracted by him. And besides, he was not too in-depth with history. He just knew a little bit about everything. Marcellus on the other hand…“As Luna,” he began again, “you are not merely the Alpha’s partner. You are the heart of the pack. The center of its emotional and spiri

SHARON’S POVJustice has a smell.It’s sharp… metallic… charged, like lightning trapped in the air.That is the scent that wraps around the courtyard this morning as the entire pack gathers. Men on one side, women on the other, their expressions a battlefield of clashing beliefs.I stand beside Morris on the raised platform. The sun hasn’t fully risen yet, but the morning light sinks into his presence like it recognizes him as something worthy to illuminate. He looks every bit the Alpha. broad-shouldered, calm, unyielding. And next to him, I feel the weight of eyes on me. Whispers. Judgments.The accused stands in shackles before us, the man who assaulted the maid. His clothes are torn, his face bruised from being apprehended, but there is no remorse in his eyes. Apparently he attempted to flee yesterday, but the patrols caught him before he could cross the border. He really thought he could just go free. He thought he could run from justice. What a joke.He spits on the ground, glan

SHARON’S POVPlanning a wedding was supposed to feel ethereal, dreamy, something out of the fantasies I used to read about in quiet corners of dusty libraries. Yet here I was walking through the sunlit courtyards with Daemon bouncing on my hip and Kelly carrying Daenerys as if she were made of spun gold trying to choose where I would vow my life to a man who somehow became the center of my world.I was supposed to be doing this with Morris but apparently his alpha duties have increased with the new changes to law.“First venue is just up ahead,” Kelly says, shifting Daenerys to his other arm. She coos and grabs his beard. He winces. “Your daughter has an iron grip.”I laugh. “She gets it from me.”“I don’t doubt that for a second.”We walk beneath tall stone archways draped in climbing vines. The palace grounds stretch on endlessly, manicured gardens glistening under the afternoon sun. But nothing prepares me for the clearing that opens before us.“This…” I breathe.The first venue si

SHARON’S POV If I had to describe the moment Roland stepped into view, holding my daughter in his arms on the day meant to seal my future… I would say it felt like someone reached into my chest and twisted my lungs until I couldn’t breathe. But what escapes my lips isn’t a scream, or a gasp, or even fear. It’s the truth. “You look horrible,” I say before I can stop myself. And he does. So horribly, shockingly different from the man I once knew. His cheekbones are sharp like they’d been carved overnight. His clothes hang too loosely on his once-proud frame. And his hair… Dear Moon Goddess, half of it is gone. Fallen out? Pulled out? I don’t know. But he looks sick. Ragged. Ruined. It was satisfying to see. For a heartbeat, Roland’s smile falters. Only a heartbeat. Then he recovers, lips curling with a ghost of arrogance. “Oh, sweetheart… I’ve missed that honesty of yours.” My stomach turns. Morris steps slightly forward, his hand instinctively reaching toward Daenerys, bu

SHARON’S POVIf someone had told me a year ago that I’d one day be wandering through a grand palace with two babies crawling at my feet, choosing fabrics and vases like some sort of interior designer, I would have laughed. Or cried. Or both. Because none of this, none of the gold-trimmed walls, none of the echoing halls, none of the gentle lull of power beneath my skin was ever meant to be mine.Yet here I am, placing a hand-carved flower vase on a glass console table in the eastern corridor while Daemon and Daenerys giggle and chase each other across the polished marble floor.“Daemon, not there!” I call, even though he can’t understand much yet. He crawls straight toward a giant sculpted wolf standing guard near the pillar, touches its paw, and bursts into infectious laughter.Daenerys, on the other hand, is fascinated by the sunlight streaming in through the tall arched windows. She tries to catch it with her chubby hands, squealing each time her fingers close on nothing.Their lau