CECILE

I rested my hand gently on the barely visible telltale of my month-old pregnancy, my fingers drawing idle circles on the fabric of my shirt.

Outside the window, the world went about its business, oblivious to my personal turmoil. Busy streets thrummed with the heartbeat of life, the echoes of footfall, laughter, and aimless chatter punctuating the midday bustle.

And here I was, standing behind the glass facade of my life, a spectator. The chill of the glass seeping into my palm was as good a distraction as any, pulling me away from the reality of my impending decision.

Going home.

Sounds simple, doesn't it? Four words that evoke comfort and a sense of belonging. But for me, it was a Pandora's box of memories and conflicts. Memories that felt too close to the surface and conflicts that had yet to be resolved.

Home is where it all started, where the seed of my present predicament was sown. Should I tell him? Does the man who fathered my unborn child deserve to know he will soon be a father?

Questions tumbled in my mind like clothes in a washing machine, round and round, getting nowhere.

Looking at my reflection in the window, I noticed how my eyes had taken on a curious mix of fear and excitement. Was it the uncertainty that scared me or the idea of confronting my past, face to face?

How did I get here?

A question I had asked myself a million times since that fateful day when two little pink lines turned my world upside down. A part of me was filled with wonder, marveling at the new life growing inside me. Another part, however, was entangled in an intricate web of doubts and fears.

What was I so afraid of meeting back home? An angry, betrayed man? Disappointed friends? Or was it my own reflection, glaring back at me, a woman I barely recognized?

Through it all, though, there was one thing that never failed to bring a smile to my face. A warm, comforting thought that was my solace in these solitary moments of contemplation.

I reached out my free hand, tracing a path on the cold glass as I remembered that night, a memory as clear as a summer sky and as poignant as the scent of roses in bloom.

~1 month ago~

The night it all changed is forever etched in my memory.

There I was, Cecile Watson, a twenty-five-year-old woman who'd had her fair share of life's brutality, but nothing could have prepared me for the ordeal that was to come.

My heart pounded in my chest like a ferocious drum, echoing my fear, as the relentless pitter-patter of rain played a grim symphony against the city pavements.

I remember how the cold droplets slipped down the strands of my blonde hair, sticking them to my forehead, wet and clammy. My clothes clung to my skin, soaked through, the cold wind slicing through me as I ran for my life. I wasn't just running from something; I was running for something—my survival.

What had started as an ordinary rainy night in the city of Elderon soon twisted into a sinister chase. Behind me, I could hear the terrifying growls, the sound of swift paws against the slick pavement, and the eerie echo of beasts in pursuit. They weren't just wolves, they were nightmares brought to life, with eyes gleaming in the darkness, and jaws that could snap a human life in two.

Dear heavens, why did this happen? What sort of forces did I offend to have wolves after me? Why now? And most importantly, what would become of me?

In my frantic escape, I found myself staring at an imposing wrought-iron gate that stood like a dark sentinel before me. Carved into the stone signpost was a name that sent shivers down my spine— 'Lord Tristan.'

The gargoyles and hideous statues adorning the gate were a stark warning, a testament to the danger that lay within, but at that moment, it seemed less terrifying than the wolves nipping at my heels.

So I did what any sane person caught between the devil and the deep blue sea would do, I chose the devil I didn't know. Pushing the gate open, I stumbled onto the grand estate belonging to Elderon's infamous Mafia lord, Tristan Evans.

Finding my way through the garden filled with more shadows than foliage, I sought shelter, a place to hide, to become invisible to my pursuers. The sound of the wolves grew faint, my being hidden had delayed them but not for long. My lungs screamed for air, my heart threatened to burst as I finally found my sanctuary–a slightly ajar door that seemed to beckon me into its darkness.

Should I go in? Why should I care? I might die anyways.

Without wasting a moment, I slipped through, silently shutting the door behind me. As I took in my surroundings, my breath hitched. I had found myself in a magnificent bedroom, its grandeur muted by the dim lighting, casting long, spectral shadows. The scent of rich leather, aged whiskey, and something uniquely masculine filled my nostrils.

Panic swelled within me as the gravity of my situation sank in. The wolf might be on my tail, but I had walked straight into a mafia's lair.

"Who the hell are you?!!!"

You've got to be kidding me! For once the owner couldn't have been out on some vacation?

I spun around to find the source of the deep, thunderous voice. A figure emerged from the shadows, tall, and intimidating. His chiseled face was as hard as marble, and his eyes, a piercing blue, seethed with fury.

Tristan Evans was nothing short of a Greek god wrapped in a dangerous aura. He wore his authority like a second skin, his presence filling up the room, threatening to drown me. He was shirtless, revealing a sculpted torso that hinted at raw strength beneath the skin. His hands were clenched, and his gaze was fixed on me, a stranger in his private sanctuary.

I'm screwed!

"I..." I started, my voice coming out as a frightened whisper. His accusing finger was still pointing at me, and it felt like a loaded gun.

His voice boomed again, his question resounding like a gong in the room, "What are you doing in my room?"

There was no right answer, no way out. I was caught like a deer in the headlights. But for better or worse, I was Cecile, an unyielding woman who wasn't afraid to speak her truth, even when staring at the cold face of death.

"I...I was chased," I managed to get out, struggling to keep my voice steady. "There are wolves with glowing blue eyes after me." The words seemed ridiculous as they left my lips.

"Wolves?" he scoffed, a hint of mockery playing on his otherwise stoic face. The disbelief in his eyes was as clear as day. But then he froze, his gaze narrowing as he inhaled sharply as if tasting the air around me. A flicker of something—recognition, perhaps?—passed over his face.

"Wolves," he echoed, his voice quiet, almost thoughtful. His gaze turned icy cold, his expression unreadable. "Do you know what you've gotten yourself into?"

It was then I noticed the shift in the room. His anger had faded, replaced by a strange sense of understanding. He knew more than he was letting on, and the sudden realization felt like a cold hand tightening around my heart.

"I..." My voice wavered, a sense of urgency fueling my desperation. "I don't understand what's happening. All I know is that I need help."

Suddenly, the room felt small, the walls closing in. My instincts screamed at me to run, but where could I go? I was trapped in a room with a man whose reputation preceded him, with unknown monsters waiting for me outside.

"I beg you, my lord. Help me," I pleaded, reaching out to touch him. My fingertips grazed his bare arm, the heat radiating from his skin startling in the chilled room.

Astonishment washed over his face, his sharp eyes wide in disbelief. Perhaps it was the audacity of my touch, the very first to not flinch under his reputation, or the earnest plea in my eyes that surprised him.

It was said that Tristan Evans couldn't stand women, and found their touch repulsive. But as I stood there, begging for his help, he didn't flinch, didn't pull away.

Perhaps it was the adrenaline or the proximity of danger, but at that moment, I saw something in his eyes, a flicker of humanity that was as surprising as it was reassuring.

"I can offer you protection, but at a cost," he said, his voice a low rumble in the silence of the room.

My mind raced, contemplating what he was asking. I knew the tales, the dangerous liaisons of this mafia lord. But faced with the prospect of a certain death outside, I had no other choice.

"Whatever it takes," I said, my voice barely more than a whisper. "I accept."

For a moment, he stared at me, the azure depth of his eyes searching my face. Then, to my surprise, he offered a curt nod.

"I'll protect you, miss. But know this-you're playing with fire."

Little did I know then, how true his words were. In the quest for survival, I had forged a pact with a monster, stepping into a world of unknown dangers. It was the night of many revelations, the night when I found out that wolves prowled not just in the wilderness, but in the confines of a luxurious bedroom, behind the icy-blue eyes of a man named Tristan Evans.

"Whatever it takes," I repeated, my voice hoarse.

"Then, so be it!" Tristan said with a smirk, turning towards the door. "I'll be back shortly."