The days began to fall into a gentle rhythm. Breakfasts in soft light, walks through the gardens, evenings spent by the fire where they sometimes spoke, sometimes just sat in silence. It almost felt normal — until the mornings began to change.
At first, she brushed it off. The faint nausea when she woke, the heaviness that followed her through the day. She told herself it was just nerves — new air, new food, new life. But when she nearly fainted one morning while tending to the flowers outside, he caught her before she fell.
"Diana," his voice was low, firm with concern, "you're pale. Sit down."
"It's nothing," she tried to insist, though her vision swam for a moment.
He didn't argue. His hand pressed lightly against her back as he led her inside. She could feel the tension in his touch — not anger, but something sharper. Worry.
Within the hour, a doctor arrived — discreet, clearly trusted. He was older, calm, the type who had seen too much to be startled by anything. She sat on the couch, nervous fingers twisting at the hem of her sleeve, while the doctor performed his quiet examinations.
The silence stretched. Then came the faint hum of approval, the soft smile.
"You're in good health, my lady," the doctor said gently. "But I think congratulations are in order."
Her heart stopped.
"What?" she whispered.
"You're expecting," he said simply. "About six weeks, I'd estimate."
For a moment, everything froze — her breath, her thoughts, the world around her. She looked up, meeting the dark eyes watching her from across the room. His expression didn't change at first. Just stillness. Deep, unreadable stillness.
Then he spoke, voice quiet but carrying weight.
"You're sure?"
The doctor nodded. "Completely, sir. She'll need rest, proper meals, and care."
He turned away slightly, one hand dragging through his hair. She didn't know what to say — if she should apologize, or smile, or cry.
When the doctor left, silence filled the room again. Only the sound of her own heartbeat echoed in her ears.
"I didn't… I didn't know," she finally said, voice trembling.
He turned back toward her, stepping close. For a second, she feared he'd be angry — that this would change everything. But instead, he knelt in front of her, his gaze locked on hers.
"You don't need to explain," he said quietly. "It's not your fault. It's not… anyone's fault."
She could barely breathe.
"Are you upset?"
He exhaled, his hand brushing lightly against her knee. "No. Just… surprised."
There was a flicker of something softer in his eyes — protectiveness, maybe even wonder. Then, after a pause:
"You'll be safe here," he said. "I'll make sure of that."
As he stood, she noticed his hands trembling slightly — not from anger, but from something far more vulnerable.
And for the first time, she realized… the fierce, composed man she thought could never be shaken, was.
And it was because of her.
The news settled between them like a delicate thread — fragile, glowing, impossible to ignore. After that morning, something in the air changed.
He didn't speak much about it, but his actions did. Meals began arriving exactly when she could stomach them. Warm soups, fresh bread, tea that soothed the nausea. He even learned the scent of what calmed her most — lavender — and had it burned gently through the halls.
At first, she thought it coincidence. But then, one night, she caught him standing at the door, speaking quietly to the maids.
"No spices. No strong smells. She needs rest."
When their eyes met, he only said, "Go back to bed," in that deep, steady tone.
But his gaze lingered a moment longer than it should have — softer than before.
Days passed in that quiet care. He would sometimes bring her books, old ones from his family's library, and sit across from her, pretending to read while really just watching. He noticed every small change — the way her hand rested on her stomach now, almost unconsciously, or how she smiled faintly when the morning light hit the window.
She caught him once, standing beside her chair as she drifted asleep, brushing a loose strand of hair from her face. His fingers hesitated in the air — then moved away before touching.
But he couldn't lie to himself forever.
That night, after everyone had gone to bed, he sat alone in his study. The fireplace burned low, the papers on his desk long forgotten. His mind wouldn't stop turning.
She shouldn't matter this much.
He told himself that again and again. Females from sanctuaries were meant for service, for continuation of bloodlines — not for stirring this chaos inside his chest. Not for softening the man he had trained himself to be.
But the memory of her eyes when the doctor told her the news — wide, frightened, and shining — would not leave him. Neither would the way she had whispered thank you when he brought her a blanket later that night.
He clenched his jaw, glaring into the fire.
"I'm protecting her because it's my duty," he muttered. "Nothing more."
Yet when the faintest sound came from the hall — her quiet footsteps, unable to sleep — he was on his feet before he even thought about it. He opened the door to find her standing there, pale but calm.
"I couldn't rest," she said softly. "It's too quiet."
He hesitated. Then, almost awkwardly, he nodded toward the couch by the fire.
"Sit."
She obeyed. He poured warm tea into two cups, hands steady despite the pulse hammering under his skin.
"Why are you doing this?" she asked after a moment. "You don't have to care so much."
His gaze flicked toward her.
"You're carrying my child," he said simply. "That's enough reason."
But his voice betrayed him — a small roughness, too human, too real.
She smiled faintly, resting her hand on her belly. "Still… thank you."
He didn't reply. He just watched her, firelight reflecting in his dark eyes, and thought to himself:
If she keeps looking at me like that… I'll lose the part of me that used to be untouchable.
The night had been quiet — too quiet — until the sound of doors bursting open shattered the stillness.
Diana startled, her hand instinctively on her stomach. He was already on his feet, the warmth of the fire replaced by a storm of heavy steps.
His father and several family members entered, the air thick with tension.
"So this is where you hide," the old man said coldly. "You take one of them and keep her here like some treasure?"
"She's under my protection," he said evenly, his voice low and dangerous. "You will not touch her."
"Protection?" His father's eyes glinted, his voice rising. "She's from a sanctuary. You know what they're for. You disgrace our bloodline by letting her pollute it!"
Diana backed away slowly, feeling the pressure in the room build until it hummed in her bones.
"Enough," he growled.
The words came out as a rumble from deep in his chest. Then came the sound — sharp, echoing — of bones shifting, muscles stretching.
In seconds, his father's form tore into something massive and striped — a tiger's fury filling the hall.
He followed, unwilling but pushed beyond control. Black fur rippled across his skin, his body expanding, claws scraping against the marble floor.
The black panther met the tiger head-on.
The house trembled with their roars.
Furniture splintered, glass shattered, and the scent of blood filled the air.
She screamed, trying to move closer, but before she could, another of the family — a cousin, smaller but fast — lunged toward her.
She barely saw the blur of fur before a heavy blow knocked her off balance. She fell, her body twisting painfully as she hit the floor.
"Diana!"
The panther turned instantly, his roar shaking the walls. He threw his father back with a brutal swipe, shifted half-way into his human form mid-movement, and ran to her side.
Her face was pale, her hand pressed tightly to her belly.
"My… stomach hurts…" she whispered, breath trembling.
His blood went cold.
"No… no, no, stay still," he said, voice breaking for the first time.
He turned, fury burning through his body, and shouted at his father:
"You wanted me to lose my child!? Is that what you wanted!?"
The tiger froze mid-motion, his fur bristling — then slowly, he shifted back, shock spreading across his scarred face.
"A… child?" the older man said hoarsely.
But the younger man wasn't listening anymore. He scooped Diana into his arms, his hands shaking, and grabbed his phone.
"Get the car. Now!" he barked to his driver.
They were gone within moments, tires screeching as the black car sped through the night. He held her the whole way, whispering quiet reassurances, though his heart raced with dread.
"Stay with me… just breathe. You're strong, you hear me?"
At the hospital, the doctors rushed her in, and he waited outside, every sound from the room behind the door twisting his insides tighter.
Minutes stretched into hours — until finally, the doctor emerged.
"She's fine," the man said gently. "The child is fine. But she must not go through anything like this again."
Relief nearly dropped him to his knees. He went in quietly, kneeling by her bedside as she lay pale but awake.
"You scared me," he whispered.
Her eyes softened. "I'm okay… I think the baby is too."
He took her hand, something breaking open inside him.
"No one will ever touch you again," he said, voice trembling with conviction.
The door creaked open then — his father stood there, guilt and pride warring in his eyes.
"You must come back," he said. "We can prepare for the child… teach it what it means to be of our kind."
He rose slowly, his shadow falling across the bed.
"No," he said, his voice low and final. "You almost destroyed what matters most to me. We're done living by your rules."
The old man's eyes narrowed. "You'll regret this."
"Maybe," he said, his hand tightening around Diana's. "But at least I'll live by my own choice."
And for the first time in his life — he truly meant it.