Mated to Her Alpha Instructor Chapter 39

Eileen

When we arrived, Regis stepped down first and offered his hand. His grip was firm but careful, guiding me from the carriage. His palm lingered at my waist for a heartbeat longer than necessary, as if making sure I was steady before letting go.

The ride had lulled me into a quiet haze. Lately, I’d been tiring more easily—sometimes even feeling a faint dizziness that came without warning.

The warmth of the house wrapped around us as we stepped inside, chasing away the chill from outside. I felt much better and wanted to say something to prove I wasn’t just someone to be looked after.

“I can help with dinner,” I said quietly, but with intent. I’d been thinking about it since our last meal; I couldn’t keep letting him do everything on his own.

Regis shook his head with a gentle smile, hanging up his coat. "You’ve been in classes all day. That’s exhausting enough." He took my bag from my shoulder without asking, setting it neatly on the side table. "Rest for now. If you enjoy cooking, there’ll be plenty of chances later."

For a moment, I hesitated. I’d wanted to prove I could contribute, to show I wasn’t just taking up space here. But the way he spoke—quiet, certain, as if my well-being mattered more than the work—made the protest die on my lips.

The care in his voice wrapped around me like a blanket, unfamiliar yet comforting.

"Alright," I agreed softly, turning toward the stairs.

But I'd barely made it halfway up the stairs when the world tilted sickeningly. My vision darkened at the edges, the wooden banister suddenly the only solid thing in a spinning universe. My breath came short and sharp, my heart hammering against my ribs as if trying to escape. I grabbed the railing with both hands, my knuckles white, my legs trembling as they struggled to support my weight.

"Eileen?" Regis's voice came from behind, sharp with concern. "What's wrong?"

I opened my mouth to answer, to say I was fine, but the words wouldn't come. The stairs beneath my feet felt less stable than water, and I could feel myself swaying despite my death grip on the banister.

Then he was there, taking the stairs two at a time. "Easy," he said, his voice dropping to that low, soothing tone that always seemed to cut through my panic. "I've got you. Can you tell me what you're feeling?"

"Dizzy," I managed, my voice barely above a whisper. "Everything's... spinning."

His hand came to rest on my back, warm and steady through the fabric of my dress. "Alright. I'm going to pick you up now, is that okay?"

I nodded, not trusting my voice, and then his arms were around me—one supporting my back, the other sliding beneath my knees. He lifted me as easily as if I weighed nothing, cradling me against his chest, and the world steadied slightly at his touch. The bond hummed with his sudden spike of alarm and fierce protectiveness.

"Just breathe," he murmured, already moving up the stairs with that careful urgency that made me feel both protected and fragile. "Slow, deep breaths. Focus on my voice."

His chest was solid and warm beneath my cheek, and I could feel his heart beating fast—faster than usual, driven by worry. The scent of him surrounded me, that mix of cedar and mint that my body recognized as *safe*, as *home*, as *mate*. Some instinct I didn't quite understand made me want to burrow closer, to press my face against his throat and just... breathe him in.

I felt his body go rigid for just a heartbeat, a tension that sang through the bond, before he forced himself to focus on getting me to the bedroom. He shouldered open my door and laid me gently on the bed.

He knelt beside the bed, one knee on the floor, and pressed his hand to my forehead. His palm was warm, slightly calloused from years of combat training, and the touch sent a shiver through me.

"Your forehead's not warm," he said, his voice still tight with that controlled worry. "Is it just dizziness? Any pain? Nausea?"

I tried to sit up, embarrassment flooding through me. This was exactly the kind of weakness I'd been trying to hide, the vulnerability I didn't want him to see. "I'm fine, really. I just—I think I walked too much today. I'm a bit tired. If I sleep for a while, I'll be—"

"Eileen." His hand moved to my shoulder, gentle but firm, keeping me from rising. "How often does this happen? And don't say 'sometimes' or 'occasionally.' I need the truth."

I couldn't meet his gaze. Through the bond, I felt his growing suspicion, the pieces clicking together in his mind—my exhaustion, the way I'd been pale lately, how I always seemed to be pushing myself just a little too hard.

"Maybe... a few times this week," I admitted quietly. "But it's probably just normal pregnancy symptoms. The healers said fatigue was common, and—"

"A few times this week." His voice was carefully even, but I could hear the edge beneath it. "And you didn't think to mention it?"

"I didn't want to worry you," I whispered, feeling tears prick at my eyes. "It's not that bad, really. I just need to rest more, and—"

"Look at me."

The quiet command in his voice made me raise my eyes to his. What I saw there wasn't anger, but something that looked almost like fear, quickly masked by determination.

"Your health—and our child's health—is not something you hide from me to avoid 'worrying' me." His thumb traced a gentle arc across my temple, the gesture at odds with the intensity of his words. "If something is wrong, if you're in pain, if you're struggling, I *need* to know. That's not negotiable."

I nodded mutely. Through the bond, I felt his immediate softening, the way my distress affected him physically.

"I'm sorry," he said more gently, using his free hand to wipe the tears from my cheeks. "I'm not angry with you. I'm worried. There's a difference." He took a deep breath, and when he spoke again, his voice was calmer. "You're going to rest here for now. And I want you to tell me what sounds good to eat."

The question caught me off guard. In my family, meals had always been about what was cheapest, what was easiest, what my mother felt like making. The idea that someone would actually ask what *I* wanted, would be willing to adjust their plans to accommodate my preferences...

I bit my lip, thinking. The truth was, for the past few days I'd been having strange cravings—intense, specific desires for foods I'd never particularly cared about before. And right now, what my body seemed to be screaming for was...

"Honey-glazed roast with root vegetables," I whispered, then immediately felt my face heat with embarrassment. It was a complex dish, requiring hours of preparation—the meat had to be marinated and slow-roasted to achieve the right tenderness, the honey glaze applied at precise intervals, the root vegetables seasoned and timed perfectly. At the Wylde household, any time I'd asked for something even remotely complicated, my mother would snap about how demanding I was. "But really, it doesn't have to be that. Anything else is perfectly fine. I know it's complicated and takes a long time, so maybe just some bread and—"