From Rejected Mate to Luna Chapter 184

Julia's POV

Rain taps a slow rhythm on the cabin roof when it hits.

At first, it just feels like another cramp. I've been getting those all week—tight band of pressure squeezing my lower belly, then easing. Enough to make me grumble, not enough to send me calling Olivia in the middle of the night.

I shift on my side, tug the blanket up, try to find that one sweet spot where my back doesn't ache. Matthew is a warm, solid weight behind me, one arm thrown over my waist like he thinks he can hold the whole world in place.

Then the pressure tightens again—harder, lower. It makes me suck in a breath.

Kaia lifts her head inside me, ears pricked. Now.

"I'm fine," I whisper to nobody, to her, to the dark. The cabin smells like pine and laundry soap and Matthew's skin. Safe. Normal.

The pressure crests—and something inside me pops.

It's not loud. Just a strange little internal snap and then a rush of warmth between my legs, soaking my underwear, sliding down the inside of my thigh. For a heartbeat I'm frozen.

Oh.

Oh, shit.

"Matthew," I say, my voice higher than usual. I clear my throat. "Matthew."

He doesn't move. Typical. The Alpha who can wake up if a twig cracks on the far edge of his territory is dead to the world when it's just me and the rain and—this.

I put my hand on his chest and shove. "Matthew."

He jolts like I dumped ice water on him. His body comes up off the mattress, eyes flashed bright blue in the dim room, a low growl already rumbling before his brain catches up.

"What's wrong? What is it?" His scent spikes—adrenaline, sharp lemon under his usual pine.

I swallow another little bubble of panic and try to keep my voice steady. "Um. I think… my water just broke."

He stares at me for half a second, like the words are in French and his jet‑lagged brain can't translate. Then everything happens at once.

He tosses the blankets back, swings his legs over the side of the bed, and starts patting the floor like he expects to find his jeans by echolocation.

"Okay. Okay, we—we knew this could happen. It's fine. Bag's by the door. Keys… where the hell are my keys? Phone. I need to call James. Call Olivia. Shoes—shit, where are my shoes?"

He stands up, still half tangled in the sheet, nearly falls, catches himself on the dresser, grabs a T‑shirt from the chair and manages to put it on backwards.

Despite the hot, weird dampness between my legs and the way my belly tightens again, a breathless laugh tries to escape my throat.

"Matthew," I grit out, bracing one hand on my stomach.

He whips around, eyes searching me like I might be bleeding out. "What? Contraction? How bad? We should've timed them. I should've bought a stopwatch or something—"

"Hey." I reach for him with my free hand, fingers catching the hem of his misbuttoned shirt. "You could maybe… help me stand up first, before you save the world?"

He blinks, looks down at my legs, at the wet patch spreading on the sheet, then back at my face. Color rushes into his cheeks.

"Right. Yes. You. First. Always you." He moves in so fast he almost trips again, then slows himself down, big hands suddenly very careful as he slides one under my shoulders, the other under my knees.

"I can still walk," I mutter, but I don't fight him when he helps me swing my legs over the edge of the bed. The floor is cold under my bare feet. Another small gush of fluid makes me wince.

"I got you," he murmurs, his voice dropping into that low Alpha register that always softens the air around us. His scent calms a fraction. "I'm right here, Julia."

I loop an arm around his neck as I stand, the weight of my belly pulling me forward. Everything feels heavier and sharper at once. The cabin lights are still off, but I could draw every knot in the wooden floorboards from memory. The rain outside sounds louder. My own breathing does too.

"You might also want your shoes," I add, trying for dry and landing somewhere between sarcastic and terrified.

He glances down at his bare feet, then back up at me, sheepish. "Yeah. Probably a good idea."

By the time we make it to the front door, he's found his jeans, both shoes, his keys, and his phone. I've managed to change into dry sweats and shove my hair into a messy bun that is at least off my neck. Every few minutes my uterus tightens, a heavy wave of pressure that makes my breath hitch.

"They're not that bad yet," I say as he helps me into the SUV.

Matthew leans in, buckles my seat belt with hands that shake just enough for me to feel it against my skin. His eyes keep flicking to my face, like he's trying to memorize it.

"Call Olivia," I tell him when he slides behind the wheel. "She's on call tonight."

He nods, starts the engine, and at the same time sends a pulse down the matebond, warm and firm. I'm here. We're okay. We can do this.

"Yeah," I whisper, resting my head back against the seat as he pulls out onto the wet road. "We can."

• • •

My vision goes completely blurry.

"That's your baby," Olivia says, and I can hear the smile in her voice even over the cry. "Good lungs."

I crane my neck, desperate, but all I see is the doctor's back and a small, squirming bundle in his hands. He moves quickly, wiping, checking, doing all the things I know need to be done. The crying keeps going, indignant and furious and utterly alive.

Matthew goes utterly still.

I can feel it through the bond—the moment his brain catches up, the way his wolf drops to its knees inside him. His scent changes, all sharp edges melted into something warm and overwhelming. Bread and pine and something new I don't have a name for.

"Is he—" My voice cracks. I don't even know what I'm asking.

"He's perfect," the doctor answers, already wrapping the baby in a warm blanket. "Absolutely perfect."

They place him on my chest.

He's smaller than I imagined and heavier at the same time, a solid, living weight against my ribs. His skin is flushed, his hair a dark, damp fuzz against his skull. He lets out another insulted squawk, then snuffles, turning his head, nose wrinkling as he scents me.

My breath catches. My hands, clumsy and shaking, fly up to cup him, to make sure he doesn't slide off, even though he's tucked firmly against me.

"He's ours?" I whisper, because my brain is useless and my heart is about to burst out of my chest. "He's really… he's ours?"

Matthew sits down carefully on the edge of the bed, like he's afraid the whole thing might disappear if he moves too fast. His hand comes into my line of sight, big fingers trembling as they brush the top of the baby's head, touch the silky dark hair like it's made of spun glass.

"Yeah," he says, voice wrecked and soft and more open than I've ever heard it. "He's ours, baby."

When I look up at him, his eyes are wet. He doesn't look away. He doesn't even try to hide it.

Olivia adjusts the blankets around us, checks a few things, then steps back with a satisfied nod. "I'll give you guys a minute," she says. "Yell if you need me."

The door clicks softly behind her. The monitor beeps slow and steady. Rain still falls outside, but it feels very far away.

Matthew clears his throat. "We, uh… we should probably decide if he's going to have a name before he's eighteen."

I let out a watery laugh. We'd talked about names half‑seriously for months. Made lists. Crossed things out when they started to feel wrong. There was one we always circled back to.

I look down at his scrunched‑up little face. His eyes are still mostly closed, lashes damp, but his brow furrows like he's concentrating very hard on existing. His nose twitches as he breathes in my scent, Matthew's, the clinic's.

He already smells like home.

"Still think it fits?" Matthew asks quietly. There's something like hesitation under the question. Like he's ready to let me change everything if I want.

I trace one fingertip along the curve of our son's tiny ear. "Yeah," I say slowly. The name settles over him in my mind like it was waiting for this moment. "He looks like a Liam."

Matthew leans down until his lips are close to that soft shell of ear, his breath warm on Liam's skin. His hand is still on our son's back, covering half of it like a shield.

"Welcome to the world, Liam," he murmurs, voice so gentle it makes my throat burn. "Welcome to Spring Valley. And welcome to our family."

Something inside my chest finally cracks all the way open. Relief and terror and joy and exhaustion all pour out at once. I laugh, and it comes out half sob.

"Welcome to this slightly insane," I add, my voice hoarse but steady, "but very in‑love family."