My heart wasn't just pounding—it was slamming against my ribs, a frantic, panicked rhythm. As if it could somehow outrun the dread that had twisted in my gut since the moment I got the news.

A servant appeared at the entrance, face pale, eyes wide, and for a second, I thought he might be a ghost himself, some harbinger of bad news. "Sir, my lady—" 

I didn't wait. 

I took the stairs two at a time, almost knocking over some servants who scrambled out of my path. 

My boots pounded through the manor, louder than the blood rushing in my ears, and not for the first time, I was annoyed by the sheer size of our family home.

I could hear her screams and picked up my pace, rushing to the marchioness's room.

Her scent hit me first, stopping me cold at her door.

It was sour and acrid, like something rotting in the summer heat—nothing like the scent of honey and fig that usually clung to her skin.

I hesitated at the door, half terrified of what I'd find, but I forced myself to push open the door. 

And there she was.

Barnaby was hunched over Cordelia, his movements quick but measured, his voice low and gentle, though I could hear the tremor threading through it. "Stay with me, my lady," he urged, almost pleading. "Breathe. Just breathe through it."

"You—" 

Her scream tore through the room, and for a second—one measly second—I wished I was anywhere but here.

Knowing there was no choice, I forced myself to move.

The dim light of the oil lamps flickered, casting trembling shadows across the walls, making everything in the room seem distorted. 

Bloody cloths, stained dark and discarded, were strewn about in a haphazard, desperate mess and I had to swallow the bile rising at the sight and force myself to keep moving, to keep looking. 

The bed itself was soaked through. The sheets clinging to Cordelia's body, damp with sweat and blood. Cordelia lay there, her hair matted against her forehead, tendrils sticking to her cheeks, and her skin was as pale as bone. 

Barnaby's hands were stained, too, coated in blood as he worked, desperately trying to stem the flow, his fingers moving with a surgeon's precision even as they trembled.  

And as I stood over her, as I watched her chest rise and fall in shallow, ragged gasps, I realized something—her scent was fading.

"Barnaby, do something, damn it! " 

"I'm trying!" His voice cracked, raw with frustration, and I could see the hours of fatigue etched into his face.

Cordelia's body convulsed once more, violent and uncontrolled, another scream tearing from her throat, and I watched as Barnaby flinched. He lunged forward, his hands pressing down on her shoulders, desperate to keep her still, to stop her from thrashing. "Help me—help me tie her down!"

"No!" The word ripped out of me as I scrambled to her side. I reached for her, forcing myself to be gentle, to be steady, to be the alpha she needed, even though everything inside me trembled with fear. 

"I'll calm her myself," I muttered, more to myself than to Barnaby, because I had to believe it—had to believe there was still something I could do. 

"How long?" The question stumbled out, raw and tangled, choked with everything I couldn't say, every fear I refused to face. "How long has she—how long has she been in labor?"

But even as I asked, I knew it didn't matter. I released more pheromones and poured out everything I had left to give because if I could just—

But she didn't react. 

Didn't even blink. 

"Is her suffering due to the child arriving nearly three months before its time?"

Barnaby didn't answer. 

He couldn't. 

Wouldn't. 

His eyes flickered away, jaw clenched so tight I thought his teeth might crack.

But before I could question his reaction, Cordelia's eyes flew open. 

Wild.

Glassy.

Darting around like she couldn't see anything at all.

"Godfrey?" Her voice, barely a whisper, cut through me—desperate and raw. 

Why was she calling for him? 

"Help me," she rasped. "This child—your child—it's… it's ripping me apart from the inside." The words came out choked, broken, like every syllable was carved out of her. "Kill it if you must. Just. Just kill the damned thing. Get rid of it before Cedric—" She swallowed hard. "He must never know."

And everything in me just…

My breath—I couldn't breathe.

It just… caught. 

Stuck somewhere in my throat, thick and heavy, choking me.

Everything blurred. 

The room around me, the walls, the faces, all started to fade, and I blinked, trying to clear it.

"Cordelia—" 

I eased back, pulling my hand away like her touch burned. 

And maybe it did. 

"What... what are you saying?" My voice didn't even sound like mine. 

None of this made sense. 

"Cedric, you need to leave," Barnaby urged. "Go to your study. I'll come for you when it's over."

I nodded. 

Maybe I was agreeing. 

Maybe I wasn't. 

Didn't matter. 

Nothing mattered. 

I was just... moving, one foot in front of the other. 

Somehow, I ended up in the library, though I couldn't remember how. 

The hours bled together, slipped through my fingers, and I sat there, staring at nothing, until Barnaby finally appeared. 

He looked like hell.

"Was the child—" I choked out. "Was it… three months early?"

Barnaby hesitated, his lips parting, then closing again, as his eyes flicked away. "No," he whispered, voice rough. "No, Cedric. The baby wasn't early."

And that was it. 

He didn't say more. 

He didn't need to. 

Because somehow, at that moment, everything just... 

It wasn't my mind that shattered—it was my heart. 

Christ, it was my everything. And it broke apart like glass, splintering into a thousand jagged pieces that cut deep.

Not mine. 

Not... mine. 

That child... his child. 

I couldn't—no, that couldn't be right. 

It couldn't be true.

But it was, wasn't it? 

It was. 

Those words kept coming back, hammering at me, ricocheting, echoing, like some sick chant.

Every time I tried to breathe, they'd slam into me again. 

Not mine. 

His. 

And nothing else—no, nothing made sense anymore because that truth... it swallowed everything.

Every thought.

Every heartbeat.

Every breath—it was all wrapped around that one unshakable truth. 

And I... I couldn't...

Barnaby's eyes softened, pity pooling in them. 

And I hated it. 

Hated him for looking at me like that. Like I was broken. 

"I know how much you loved Cordelia."

I tried to move, tried to speak, tried to feel something other than the burning in my chest. But all I could do was sit there, staring at Barnaby, at his goddamn pity. 

My hands—Christ, they were shaking, trembling so violently that I had to clench them into fists, nails digging into my palms until I felt the bite of pain.

Numbers.

The thought came from nowhere.

Numbers. 

Something solid, something I could hold on to, something that made sense. 

I latched onto them, desperate, clinging to the rhythm, the familiarity.

One. The day I met her. Her laughter, bright and clear, ringing out like a bell in the spring air.

Two. The first time, Cordelia kissed me, soft and hesitant, like she was testing the waters.

Three. The nights we spent tangled together, her warmth, her scent, the way she'd trace circles on my skin and whispered promises in the dark.

Four. The day I claimed her as my mate and swore I'd spend the rest of my life loving her, protecting her, being hers.

Five. The months—the years—that followed, the way she'd smile at me, touch me, made me believe that maybe, just maybe, I was enough.

Six. The child she carried, the child I thought was mine, the child that was never mine at all.

Seven. The lie that unraveled it all.

Eight. The number of times I'd been a fool, the number of times I'd let myself believe in something that was never real.

Nine. The seconds it took for my world to come crashing down.

Ten. The years of my life Cordelia took with her, the years I'd never get back.

Eleven. The pain.

And twelve. Twelve breaths. 

Twelve ragged, shallow breaths that I forced into my lungs, one after the other, as I stared at Barnaby and realized that no matter how many numbers I counted… it would never be enough.

"Barnaby!"

He stopped talking immediately, his eyes snapping to mine, and I could see the fear, the concern etched into every line of his face. 

"There's one task—one thing I'd ask of you."

 "Anything," Barnaby said quickly, his voice full of relief, as if eager to do something—anything—that might help.

"Let my brother know," I ground out, each word laced with bitter finality, "that his mistress and bastard are dead."