Bear Necessities (Bad Boy Alphas): A Post-Apocalyptic Bear Shifter Romance (25 page)

Scotland

Year of our Lord 1504

“An’wha’if she births a son?”

Sibyl heard Darrow’s question, spoken in a harsh whisper outside the big wooden door, and turned her face into Laina’s soft, white fur. The woman was in her wolf state—it was her moon time and she could not change into her human one—but her eyes said everything her mouth couldn’t. Laina heard her husband’s protests and knew they pained Sibyl, far more than the labor she was enduring.

Sibyl wanted Raife by her side, wanted his hand in hers. Instead he was pacing back and forth outside her door, growling at every passerby, while Sibyl labored in front of a warm fire, Beitris, the old midwife, tending her. Laina had come, in spite of her wolf form, knowing her presence alone would give Sibyl comfort, and it did.

“Do’na pay’tention t’em, lass,” Beitris soothed, putting a soft, wrinkled hand on Sibyl’s damp brow.

But how could she ignore them? She knew they were worried. They were worried that this baby would be a boy, who might threaten King Henry VII’s claim to the throne. The king’s first son, Arthur, had died of the English sweating sickness. Rumors ran rampant that King Henry had become paranoid, fearfully keeping a hold of his crown. Advisors of and protectors to the king, of which Sibyl’s uncle, Godfrey Blackthorne, was one, were telling Henry he must purge all illegitimate pretenders to the throne and raise up the only legitimate son had had left—Henry VIII—to take his place.

There was also talk of King Henry keeping his alliances with Spain by marrying off Arthur Tudor’s widow, Catherine of Aragon, to Henry VIII. The younger Henry was just a boy, though, still unable to enter a marriage contract. Sibyl had received a letter from her mother—all her correspondence went through Castle MacFalon, since they had maintained the wolf pact and their amiable ties with Donal, the new laird and warden of Middle March—stating that King Henry VII had lost not only his son, Arthur, but that Queen Elizabeth had died as well, and the old king had set his own sights on Catherine of Aragon as a way to possibly hedge his bets and secure the Tudors on the throne.

Sibyl didn’t care who the king married, as long as he didn’t remember his other, illegitimate son, Raife, and change his mind about leaving the wulvers in peace. Raife was her husband, her mate, and now, he was about to be the father of her child. His brother, Darrow, was worried, she knew—if the baby were a boy, King Henry VII might get word and feel his crown was being threatened. Of course, the rest of the pack was worried this baby would be a girl. They wanted a male, to lead the wulvers.

It didn’t seem to matter what gender child she gave birth to, Sibyl was stuck between a rock and a hard place. And at that moment, she felt as if she was pushing that rock uphill!

“King Henry’s got another son,” Beitris reminded her. “I’m sure he’ll have sons as well and the Tudors’ll reign long.”

““I don’t care if the Tudors have boys or girls or wulvers—as long as
my
mate and
my
children stay with
me
and don’t lay claim to any English or Scottish thrones,” Sibyl panted, trying to will the pain away.

“Women can’na lead!” Beitris laughed at the thought and Sibyl rolled her eyes. Even wulver women, who were so strong and capable, believed women couldn’t lead, whether it was a pack or a country.

“Maybe the Tudors will be ruled by a red-haired woman!” Sibyl snapped, feeling another pain coming on.

“Tis yer time,” Beitris soothed. “Do’na worry. This bairn’ll be leader’o’his pack.”

Sibyl didn’t care if this baby would lead the wulvers or follow another, she just wanted to hold it to her breast and see it open its eyes. Her first baby had been born too soon, a tiny wisp of a thing Raife could hold in one palm. She had insisted, then, he be at the birth, and he’d held her hand through the whole ordeal. But when she’d looked up at his face, when she’d seen the way his eyes clouded over at the sight of his tiny, dying son, Sibyl knew she couldn’t again put him through something so traumatic.

Men might deal every day in matters of life and death, but a woman’s heart was stronger than a man’s when it came to birth. So this time, Sibyl insisted he wait outside. Bad luck, she told him, for a man to be at the birth of his child. It was certainly true in her world, amongst humans, that men weren’t invited into the birthing chamber. This was women’s work. Her work. And she knew she had to do it alone.

“I wish Kirstin was here!” Sibyl moaned as the pain came again and she bit down hard on the leather strap Beitris gave her. Sibyl was trying to be as quiet as she could so as not to alarm her already anxious husband.

Laina licked the back of Sibyl’s hand, her tongue warm and soothing, as if to say, “I understand.”

But Kirstin was gone. Sibyl didn’t like to think about losing her friend, about the sacrifices Kirstin had made to be with the man she loved. Laina’s own sacrifice, the wolf’s sad eyes and soft whine, said enough. Too much. It broke Sibyl’s heart that she had failed them, that she’d been unable to really help the plight of the wulver women—even if she had, in the end, found a way to “cure” the curse.

“Oh no, not again,” she whispered, her fingers digging into Laina’s soft, white fur.

Sibyl thought she just might die from the pain alone. She’d thought, when she birthed Robert—named after her father—that it had been bad, but he’d been so small. This baby was full term, his head like a boulder she was trying to push uphill. She grunted and strained and tried not to cry out, but the pain was too intense. She couldn’t hold out any longer. The man she loved, the only man who had ever claimed her—mind, body and soul—was standing on the other side of that door, and she wanted him.

She needed him.

“Raife!” Sibyl screamed his name, feeling as if she was being split in two. This was pain beyond pain. She couldn’t even see straight. Her body had taken over. Everything was out of control.

“Sibyl!” The door burst open and Raife barged in. He was at her side in an instant, holding her in his big arms, the circle of his embrace safer than any she’d ever known in her life. “Are ye hurt?”

She couldn’t help her short, strangled laugh. She wasn’t hurt, no, but she was hurting. Beyond hurting. But with him there, it was instantly better. He made everything better.

“Tis almos’time,” Beitris told him calmly, pressing a warm cloth between Sibyl’s open legs. “Yer son’ll be’ere soon.”

“It could be a daughter!” Sibyl panted, clinging to her mate, cheek pressed against the broad expanse of his chest.

“Aye.” Raife chuckled, kissing the top of her head. “A bonnie red-haired lass like ‘er mother.”

“Tis ginger, that’s fer sure,” Beitris gave a nod between Sibyl’s thighs.

Sibyl blinked in surprise as Raife bent his dark head to look but then another pain hit and she was sinking. There was nothing but a red, thrashing haze of pain and an overwhelming urge to bear down.

“Noooo! Please! Raife!” Sibyl screamed, abandoning the leather strap and giving into the agony. She turned her face against his upper arm—the marked one. She carried a matching mark, intricate Celtic swirls, down her hip and thigh. Her marking had been painful, she remembered, but it had been nothing like this.

“Yer safe, lass,” he whispered, stroking her damp hair, her shaking body, as she strained and thrashed in his arms. “I’ve got ye. Let’im come. He’s strong. He wants t’meet ye.”

“Tis time!” Beitris was doing something between Sibyl’s legs but she didn’t know what. She had her eyes closed, face buried against Raife. “One more good push!”

Sibyl screamed, digging her nails into Raife, doing as the old midwife asked. The world was on fire. Everything burned.

“Balach!” Beitris announced proudly, as if she had been the one who had done all the work.

“A boy,” Sibyl whispered, opening her eyes to see the little red-haired, wailing child between her legs. “Raife, it’s a son!”

“Aye.” Raife’s voice caught in his throat as she lifted the child, still attached to his mother by the pulsing cord, and brought him to his wife’s breast.

“He’s perfect,” Sibyl whispered, glancing up to see Darrow standing in the doorway, watching. How long had he been there? She wondered.

Her usual modest nature had abandoned her. Now she just wanted everyone to see her child. Sibyl motioned for Darrow as Laina licked the baby with her pink, wulver tongue, making him startle. Robert, her little black-haired bairn, had been less than half this boy’s size. No wonder she had felt as if she’d been pushing a rock!

“Balach,” Darrow murmured, taking a step into the room, and sinking to his knee before his brother’s new son. “What’ll ye call’im?

“Griffith.” Raife traced a cross over the newborn’s forehead with his index finger.

“Griff.” Sibyl pressed her lips to the baby’s forehead. The Gaelic name meant red-haired and was more than fitting. “Will he be a red wolf?”

“Aye.” Raife smiled fondly at her, running a hand through her red tresses as Beitris covered up mother and child with a sheet, tucking them in for warmth now that the hard work was done. “He’ll fulfill the prophecy a’last.”

“What prophecy?” Sibyl frowned at her mate, looking at Darrow and Laina as they both admired the little red-faced, red-haired child in her arms.

“The red wulver.” Beitrus, the old midwife, crossed herself, her wide, rheumy blue eyes meeting those of her pack leader’s. Raife gave a slow nod and met his brother’s eyes. Darrow looked like he couldn’t quite believe his own.

Laina threw back her shaggy, white head and howled. The sound never failed to send a shiver down Sibyl’s spine and this time was no exception. But Laina wasn’t alone. Out in the den, where the rest of the pack had been waiting to hear word of their pack leader’s new bairn, the call was returned. Answering howls echoed through the tunnel’s deep walls. Sibyl heard the word
banrighinn
being repeated in Gaelic out in the tunnel. Banrighinn meant queen. They were speaking of her, of the birth of their new leader.

“I told ye, lass.” Raife’s arm tightened around her. “I knew ye were meant to be me mate the moment I laid eyes on ye.”

Sibyl smiled at his words. She couldn’t imagine belonging to anyone else—man, wolf, or wulver. But what was this talk of some wulver prophecy? She had poured over the wulver text—what amounted to the wulver’s “bible”—and had never read anything about a “red wulver.”

“What is this prophecy?” Sibyl demanded as the baby in her arms squirmed. Laina whimpered, nuzzling her husband’s hand, and she knew if the woman had been in human form, she would have been forthcoming. “Beitris?”

Clearly the men didn’t want to tell her.

“The red devil’s savior.” Beitris whispered the words, crossing herself again.

“He’s jus’a bairn.” Raife scoffed, leaning over to look at his son. Sibyl noted he had Raife’s strong jaw and dimpled chin. But he definitely had her thick, red hair. “No need puttin’ too much on’him t’start.”

“His eyes.” Darrow’s voice broke as he looked down at the child in Sibyl’s arms. “He
is
the red wulver.”

Sibyl saw Raife’s expression change. She saw the face of a new father change from pride and wonder to something akin to awe and maybe even a little fear. She’d never seen her mate afraid of anything in her life and seeing that expression, even fleetingly, on Raife’s face, gave her pause.

Then Sibyl looked down at her newborn son.

He had opened his eyes, but instead of the deep, wulver blue she expected, they were red.

Redder than his hair.

As red as blood.

“Raife?” She turned her own, frightened face up to her husband’s. She was so surprised by her son’s features, she might have actually dropped the baby in her arms if he hadn’t turned his head and latched onto her breast, suckling deeply.

“Tis a’right, lass,” Raife soothed, smiling down at the bairn. He didn’t look frightened anymore. Now he looked resigned. “He’s perfect, jus’like ye.”