POV: Alpha Jackson Reynolds
The air in the residential wing of the mountain was cooler than the humid, moss-heavy atmosphere of the forest outside, but it carried a different kind of electricity. It was the scent of ancient stone being awakened by modern intent. I stood by the massive glass wall of the solar, watching the sun begin to dip behind the jagged horizon of the Blackwood Range.
Behind me, the mountain seemed to breathe. Every time the heavy machinery hummed in the Great Hall above, the vibrations traveled through the granite, a constant reminder that we were no longer just occupying a space—we were reclaiming a heartbeat.
I felt Amethyst’s presence before I heard her. Her scent, now a complex tapestry of moonflower, cedar, and that rich, sweet underlying note of the pregnancy,
