The Lycan King's Outcast Omega (by Cara Anderson) novel Chapter 183

Alaric

Her scream tears through the night, pulling me from light sleep to instant alertness. Beside me, Sage thrashes against invisible restraints, her hands frantically grasping at her now-flat stomach.

"My baby!" Terror fills her voice, eyes open but seeing something from nightmares rather than our darkened bedroom. "He's taken him! Cassius has taken our pup!"

"Sage," I speak firmly but gently, careful not to touch her until recognition returns. We've learned this lesson over the three weeks since our son's birth. She’ll lash out, unseeing, unless I bring her back to me first. "You're home. You're safe. Cassius is dead."

Her wild gaze finds mine, confusion and fear gradually yielding to dawning awareness. The connection between us pulses with her panic, then relief as reality reasserts itself.

"The baby?" Her voice breaks on the question, hands still protectively covering her abdomen.

"Right here." I gesture to the cradle beside our bed where our son sleeps peacefully, somehow undisturbed by his mother's cries. "Safe and sound."

The door opens quietly as Iris slips into the room, her expression showing concern but not surprise. These nightmares have become familiar territory for our household.

"I've got him," she whispers, lifting the sleeping infant with practiced ease. "Take your time."

I nod gratefully as my sister retreats with our son, giving Sage the space she needs to fully return from the terror that still claims her in sleep. Only when the door closes do I reach for my mate, gathering her trembling form against me.

"It felt so real," she whispers against my chest. "I could smell the medical chamber, feel the restraints. His hands..."

"He's gone," I remind her, stroking her hair as her breathing gradually steadies. "He can never touch you or our son again."

The silver mark on her neck - my mark, restored to its rightful place after Cassius's death - pulses with our shared emotions. Her terror recedes slowly, replaced by the familiar mix of relief and lingering anxiety that follows these episodes.

"I should be over this by now," she murmurs, frustration edging into her voice. "It's been three weeks."

"There's no timeline for healing," I remind her, words we've repeated like a ritual since returning home. "What you endured..."

My mind drifts unwillingly to that desperate journey home, to the moment when Sage lost consciousness after her defiant demand.

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