Revenge to the Alpha Mate novel Chapter 249

Chapter 249: Chapter 249

Celena’s Perspective

After getting married, life became so simple that I sometimes forgot I was a werewolf.

I’m not joking. I’d wake in the morning, usually to find Jacob already up—either making breakfast or back from an early patrol, smelling of dew and pine needles. Rubbing my eyes, I’d shuffle into the kitchen. He’d turn from the stove with a lazy, morning-only smile. "Sleep well, love?" Then he’d hand me a mug of coffee, always the perfect temperature, with double sugar and milk. He still teased me about my childish sweet tooth, but he never forgot.

We’d eat breakfast together, listening to Lily chatter about some "earth-shattering" new mischief Aurora had gotten into, or the twins complain about an uncooperative family on the patrol route.

Sunlight streamed through the kitchen’s checkered windows, pooling on the wooden table and making the honey jar gleam.

During the day, we had our own routines. Jacob handled pack business with the Alphas and Betas—discussing borders with Ethan, checking the rarely-used traps, training the younger ones to control their shifts. I found my own rhythm. I tended the small vegetable patch behind the lodge, growing tomatoes, herbs, and berries. I learned more about herbs from Renee. I even started using Lily’s ancient, creaking sewing machine to mend Jacob’s shirts, always torn by his claws or branches. My stitches were crooked, but he’d wear them every time, praising my "skill" with a straight face until Lily’s raucous laughter gave him away.

We were like any ordinary couple living at the forest’s edge. We’d walk hand-in-hand at dusk, debating fish or venison for dinner. We’d bicker quietly over who forgot to feed the woodstove. On winter nights, we’d curl under the same blanket by the fire, me reading aloud while his wolf ears twitched at the story, even though he’d always claim, "These romance novels are stupid."

Of course, it wasn’t all a pastoral idyll.

We still shifted, chasing each other under the moonlight, feeling the wildness coursing in our blood. I’d learned better control. It wasn’t something to fear anymore, but a part of me, as natural as breathing. Jacob was right. I was no longer the "girl who stole apples" or the "poor survivor." I was Celena. Part of this territory. His wife. Myself.

This ordinary, dirt-under-your-fingernails happiness lasted for three years.

Then two thin blue lines changed everything.

That morning, I stared at the pregnancy test result, sitting on the bathroom floor for a full ten minutes. My hands were shaking. Not from fear, but from a huge, dizzying joy mixed with utter disbelief. A tiny life. Inside me.

How did I tell him? I barely remember. I think I just walked up behind him as he fixed a porch step, and pressed the stick into his sawdust-covered hand. He looked down at it for a long, long time, so long I started to worry he wasn’t happy. Then he looked up. His eyes were a little red. His blue-grey eyes looked like the sky after a storm—clear and churning. He didn’t say a word. Just stood up abruptly and crushed me against him, holding me so tight my bones creaked. But I could feel a fine tremor running through him.

"God," he finally mumbled into my neck, his voice thick and muffled. "Celena... God."

The news spread through the pack like wildfire. Lily screamed, hugging me, crying and laughing, immediately declaring herself the "coolest godmother." Ethan gave a solemn nod, clapped Jacob on the shoulder, and said, "Great responsibility." The twins started excitedly betting on the baby’s sex, each vowing to teach the kid "all the best tricks." Even Marcus made a special trip, bringing Sophie, his smart and effortlessly cool human mate who was now fully part of our odd family. Marcus looked at my stomach, his expression complicated, then just ruffled my hair and muttered, "A mother, little sister. Be strong."

The pregnancy was harder, but more wonderful, than I’d imagined. Early morning sickness left me wilted for weeks. Jacob fretted, trying every herbal remedy Renee suggested. Lily took charge of forcing various "good for the baby" concoctions down my throat daily. I felt my body changing, not just to make room for new life. My wolf side seemed to adjust too, running in a gentler, more protective mode.

Jacob... he grew softer, and more watchful. Late at night, he’d rest his hand on my gently rounded stomach, feeling the faint but determined kicks, his face holding an almost reverent tenderness. He insisted on walking with me every time, even if it was just around the lodge. He started talking to my belly, using that low, gentle voice he reserved for me and the pack pups, telling stories about the woods, the stars, and the pack. Sometimes, I swear the little one inside listened quietly.

The birth came on a spring night. When the pain hit, I wasn’t afraid. Lily and Nate were with me, their hands steady and experienced. Jacob was right outside the door. I could hear his anxious pacing and the low, stifled growls—his wolf agitated at being unable to share my pain. When the first sharp cry sliced through the night’s silence, the door burst open and Jacob rushed in. He looked pale, as if he’d been the one in the fight.

They placed the tiny, red, squalling bundle in my arms. I looked down at the wrinkled little face, the sparse light fuzz, and the blue-grey eyes that had just opened, still unfocused—exactly like his father’s. A tidal wave of love slammed into me, so fierce it stole my breath.

Jacob knelt by the bed, his fingers trembling as he carefully touched the baby’s cheek. Then he looked at me, his eyes swimming. "He’s perfect, Celena," he said, his voice hoarse. "You’re amazing."

We’d talked about names. If it was a boy.

"Brett," I whispered, warm tears finally spilling over, cleansing tears. "Call him Brett. Okay?"

Jacob looked deep into my eyes, then leaned down to kiss my forehead, and then the tiny, smooth skin of baby Brett’s brow. "Okay," he said, his voice catching. "For the good man. For all the family we lost."

Little Brett Jacobsen had arrived.

*

When Brett was six months old, the feel of the mountains began to change. A tense, metallic stillness hung in the air, carried on the wind.

The Hunters were active again. Not scattered adventurers stumbling into our territory, but organized groups with clear hostility. Well-equipped, cunning. They weren’t satisfied with just driving us out anymore; their intent was clearly to kill. Skirmishes erupted at the territory edges. Small, but the smell of gunpowder grew stronger.

The Frost Moon pack—a complex ally-rival to our north—lost several of their best warriors. They sent out a call for representatives from nearby packs to form a temporary combat alliance against this organized threat. Jacob’s name was on the list.

"I have to go, Celena," he told me. "This isn’t personal. If they pick us off one by one, our home could be next. Brett could be next."

I stood on the porch, holding our son, watching him. My heart felt gripped by an icy hand. I knew he was right. He was a warrior. Protecting the pack was his nature, his duty. But watching him shoulder his pack, kiss me and our babbling baby goodbye, and turn to join Ethan and Xavier... that familiar, cold fear seized me again. This time, not just for him, but for the soft, small life in my arms.

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