Chapter 151
The world felt different. Colder. Emptier.
Days had passed since I lost my baby, but it felt like time had frozen. The sun still rose, but it didn’t shine the same. The wind still blew, but it didn’t carry warmth. The pack moved around me as if life continued as usual, but I couldn’t feel it. Everything had dulled, stripped of color and meaning.
But the worst part of it all—the thing that made it unbearable—was Jake.
He was slipping away from me.
At first, I thought it was just grief. He buried himself in work, focused on rebuilding the pack, strengthening its warriors, and tightening its defenses. I understood. I did the same in my own way, throwing myself into research, looking for answers, hoping—praying—that there was still something I could do.
But it wasn’t just grief. It was something more.
He was changing.
The first time I noticed it was during training.
I stood on the edge of the training field, watching him spar with his warriors. Normally, Jake was controlled, strategic, a leader who taught his men through discipline and experience. But that day, he was brutal.
His movements were sharper, faster, more violent. Every strike landed with bone-crushing force. His opponent—a strong warrior named Darius—was barely holding up against him. The fight should have ended minutes ago, but Jake wasn’t stopping.
I stepped forward, my pulse quickening. “Jake—”
Darius grunted as Jake’s fist connected with his jaw, sending him sprawling into the dirt. He tried to rise, but Jake was on him in seconds, grabbing him by the throat and lifting him off the ground. Darius’ eyes widened as he clawed at Jake’s grip, struggling for breath.
“Jake, let him go!” I yelled, running toward them.
For a moment, I wasn’t sure if he even heard me. His obsidian eyes were locked onto Darius with a feral intensity, his muscles taut with barely contained rage. Then, suddenly, his grip loosened, and Darius collapsed to the ground, coughing and gasping for air.
Jake stepped back, breathing heavily. His hands trembled at his sides.
I reached for him. “What the hell was that?”
He flinched away from my touch. “He wasn’t trying hard enough,” he muttered, turning his back to me. “They all need to be stronger.”
Stronger for what? The battle was over. The threats had passed. We had already lost.
That was just the beginning.
The days that followed only proved what I feared—he was slipping into something dark.
He barely slept. When he did, it was never more than a few hours, and it was restless. I’d wake up to find him sitting at the edge of the bed, head in his hands, staring at nothing.
He barely ate. He forced himself to, but it was mechanical. Fuel, not pleasure.
And he barely spoke.
The only time he showed any emotion was during training—when he was fighting. It was the only thing that made him feel alive.
And it terrified me.
I tried to talk to him. Tried to reach him.
“Jake, please,” I whispered one night as we lay in bed. “Talk to me.”
Silence.
He was there, but not really. His back was turned to me, his body tense.
I placed my hand on his shoulder. “I know you’re hurting. I am too.”
He inhaled sharply, as if my words cut through something inside him.
Then, finally, he spoke.
“I should have protected you.”
I blinked. “What?”
He turned toward me then, and the look in his eyes made my chest tighten.
“I should have done more,” he said, voice hollow. “I should have been stronger. If I had been—”
I sat up and grabbed his face, forcing him to look at me. “Don’t you dare blame yourself for this,” I said fiercely. “Don’t you dare.”
His jaw clenched. “I was supposed to keep you safe.”
“You did!”
“Not enough.”
I exhaled, my heart aching. “Jake…”
His hands gripped the sheets so tightly that his knuckles turned white. “I can’t lose you too.”
“You won’t,please stop this baby stop blaming yourself it wasn't your fault and it wasn’t mine. We have to accept this.”
He shook his head, frustration flashing in his eyes. “You don’t understand. I’ve already lost too much. I won’t—” His voice cracked. “I can’t—”
I leaned forward and pressed my forehead against his, tears stinging my eyes. “I’m right here,” I whispered. “I’m not going anywhere.”
His arms wrapped around me, holding me as if he was afraid I would disappear.
That night, he stayed in my arms, but I knew it wasn’t enough.
Because the next day, the darkness returned.
I found him at the training grounds again, pushing himself harder than ever. Sweat dripped from his body as he struck the wooden training post repeatedly, his fists raw and bloodied.
“Jake!” I called, running to him. “Stop this!”
He ignored me, landing another brutal punch.
I grabbed his arm. “Jake, stop!”
He whirled toward me, his chest rising and falling rapidly, his eyes dark and unreadable.
“This isn’t you,” I said, my voice breaking. “This isn’t the man I fell in love with.”
He looked at me for a long moment, his expression unreadable.
Then he stepped back.
His gaze dropped to his bloodied hands, as if he was only now realizing what he’d done.
I reached for him, but he shook his head. “I need air,” he muttered, turning away.
I watched him walk off, my heart sinking.
I couldn’t let this go on. I couldn’t lose him too.
So that night, I did something I hadn’t done in a long time.
I prayed.
Not to the Moon Goddess. Not to any higher power.
I prayed to the stars, to the spirits of my ancestors, to whatever force might be listening.
Please.
Please don’t take him from me.
I don’t know if anyone heard me.
But the next morning, Jake came to me.
He looked exhausted, but there was something different in his eyes—something softer.
“I don’t want to keep living like this,” he admitted. “But I don’t know how to stop.”
I swallowed the lump in my throat and took his hands in mine. “Then let me help you.”
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