Her revengeful Bastard

Blackstone city, 31 years ago:  He is scared. More scared than he has ever been in all of his twenty four years of living.  It has been sixteen hours now, of him drowning himself in more scotch than is wise, while he has prayed to the Goddess for the torment to end while his love screams.   How odd it is, then, that when the silence finally arrives, it fills him with such immense terror. His gaze never leaves the door that opens into her bedchamber, he just sits as still as death in the straight backed chair in the dimly lit hallway. Unable to make his limbs move, he merely waits, barely breathing, listening intently, praying now that he will hear no cries, that the baby has been stillborn.  But the cries of outrage from being forced into a cruel world not accepting of babies born by non-mated couples eventually come, strong and robust, and the Young Alpha curses heaven and hell for the unfairness of it.  The old heavy oak door opens. A young servant girl … damn, what was her name ? He can’t remember; he actually doesn’t really care … gives him a quick curtsy. “It’s a boy, my Alpha”.  Swearing harshly, he squeezes his eyes shut. The gender shouldn’t have mattered, and yet the word boy hits him like a solid blow to the chest.  After setting aside his glass, he slowly, like moving through jello, shoves himself to his feet and, on legs that do not seem to belong to him, staggers into the room that smelled of sweat, blood and fear.   The child has ceased its screaming and wrapped in a blue blanket embroidered with the packs name and sigil, it is now cradled in the arms of another servant.  She smiles hopefully at him. “He’s a fine one, my Alpha, healthy and strong looking”.  He takes no pride or comfort in her words. Cautiously he approaches. He sees the thatch of thick dark curls, the same shade as his own, the pinched face. It is dificult to believe something so tiny can be the cause of so much pain, grief and despair.  “Would you care to hold him, sir ?” She asks nervously.  Knowing he would be lost if he agrees, he shakes his head. “Leave us now. All of you. Get out”.  She places the bundle into the bassinet before scurrying after the midwife and other servant girl, closing the door in their wake, leaving him to face what must be done in this room that still seems to echo with his love’s agony.  Quietly, hesitantly, he makes his way over to the four poster bed where she is resting , her face averted, her gaze on the windows and the inky midnight blackness beyond them. It seems appropriate for the child to arrive in the dead of night, in this residence where his own father had kept his mistress. They are both long gone, but the dwelling still has its uses, assured no memories of this night would haunt his beloved pack house or city residence.  The woman on the bed is another matter entirely. Having endured what she has, how can she not be haunted ? He had never known her to be so pale, so lifeless, all joy and dreams sucked from her. Taking her hand, he isn’t surprised to find it as cold as ice. “Have you seen him ?”  Her head barely moves as she shakes it. “He’s a bastard. You know what you must do”. She rasps, then she turns her imploring, tear filled eyes towards him. “For me. We have to get rid of him. You know we have no choice”.   She releases a sob, then bites down on her knuckles and begins to cry in earnest.  Sitting on the edge of the mattress, he pulls her into his arms and rocks her gently. This child should have never come into existence. He knows its presence will plague her unmercifully. “Shh, my love, don’t fret. I shall see to it”.  “I’m sorry, I’m so incredibly sorry”. Her words are more sobs than anything else.  “You are not to blame. If I’d taken greater care . . .”. His voice trails off, the emotions blocking up his throat. He hadn’t taken the precautions necessary to protect her. Now he will do everything necessary to save her from a scandal.  He holds her until she goes quiet, until she falls into a fitful sleep. Then he takes the baby from the bassinet in which it had been placed. It. It. He will not think of it as a child, but as a creature. It looks up at him with huge dark eyes. Carrying his burden, he strides from the room without looking back.  The journey in his car is the longest of his life. It seems wrong to set the child down, so he holds it, all the while sensing its gaze upon him, knowing he will feel that unblinking stare until the day he dies.  At last the car comes to a stop outside a worn down Cottage on the outskirts of the city. The thickening fog swirling silently over the stoop makes it seem all the more ominous. Hesitating, he shakes his head. Now is not the time to turn cowardly. With the baby clasped against his chest, he gets out of the car and makes his mind go blank so he can’t consider the of what he was doing.  He knocks briskly on the door. The youth of the woman who opens it shocks him. She is not at all what he had expected, but then he could very well have the wrong house. “I’m in search of the Tempest widow”.  “You have found her”. Her dark eyes dips to the burden he carries, her face impassive as though she, too, can not acknowledge what is about to transpire. “Will you be paying by the month, or am I to take in your bastard completely ?”  Her voice holds no accusation, no condemnation. He can almost imagine he heard a bit of sympathy, of kindness, in it.  “Completely”. He says the word slowly.  She nods. “Fifteen thousand”.  He knows the price. He had read her advert carefully a hundred times during the passing months while he awaited the arrival. Widows taking in children born from couples not mated is a common enough practice. One of his friends farms out all his illegitimate whelps. With a single payment one never had to think of them again. Or at least that is the theory. He doubts he will ever forget this one.  Mrs. Tempest takes the child and cradles it in her arms as though it is something precious. Meeting his gaze, she holds out her hand. He drops the heavy pouch into her waiting palm, his stomach queasy as she closes her fingers around the blood money.  “I’m paying you ten times what you ask. I don’t want it to suffer”.  “Don’t you fret. I’ll take proper care of your bastard”. Turning, she walks inside and closes the door quietly behind her.  Spinning on his heel, he hurries back to the car, all but leaps inside and asks the driver to go. As they take off at high speed, he lets the tears fall and acknowledges himself for the monster he is.  He can only hope his actions tonight will help to restore his love’s sanity, that it will return her to him as she had once been.  Although he doubts that he, himself, will ever again be able to look at his reflection in a mirror.