Luna To Alpha Ace

Lily

Whack!!!

The sting came before the sound—a sharp, burning sensation across my cheek that made my ears ring. In that fragmented second, I couldn't process what had happened. My body knew before my mind did, and I stumbled backward until my spine hit the wall of our immaculate kitchen.

James stood before me, his hand still suspended in the air. His eyes, those hazel eyes I'd fallen in love with, widened in horror at what he'd just done. We both froze in the awful silence that followed.

"Lily..." My name came out of his mouth like a plea.

My hand found my cheek, fingers trembling against the heated skin. Two months pregnant. After four years of trying. After twenty failed IVF treatments. After countless nights, I cried myself to sleep. After depression so deep I'd nearly drowned in it.

And he had just hit me.

"I didn't mean…" James stepped toward me, his voice breaking. "Baby, I'm so sorry. I don't know what came over me."

I couldn't speak. My throat felt swollen shut. All I could do was press myself harder against the wall, as if I could somehow pass through it and escape this moment.

"Please say something," he begged, tears welling in his eyes. "It was the stress—the fight about the nursery colors. I haven't been sleeping. I would never hurt you intentionally, Lily. You know that."

Did I know that? The James I married four years ago would never have raised a hand to me. But the James standing before me now, with panic flooding his face, I didn't recognize him.

"I need a minute," I finally whispered, sliding along the wall toward the hallway.

"Don't leave," he said, not moving, but his eyes following me. "Please. We need to talk about this."

I hesitated, my hand protectively moving to my still-flat stomach. Our miracle. The baby we'd cried, prayed, and emptied our bank accounts for.

"I just hit my pregnant wife," James said, his voice hollow with disbelief. He sank to his knees on our polished hardwood floor, burying his face in his hands. "What kind of monster am I becoming?"

Something inside me softened at the sight of him breaking down. This was the man who had held me through every negative pregnancy test. Who had wiped away my tears after each failed implantation. Who had researched alternative treatments late into the night while I slept.

I moved toward him slowly, like approaching a wounded animal.

"It will never happen again," he promised, looking up at me with red-rimmed eyes. "I swear on my life, Lily."

I believed him. I had to. Because the alternative that the father of my unborn child, the love of my life, could be someone capable of hurting me was unthinkable.

"We're both exhausted," I said quietly, tentatively placing my hand on his shoulder. "It's been a long journey."

He captured my hand and pressed his lips to it. "I'll make it up to you. We'll get through this. I'll be better."

Later that night, lying beside him in our king-sized bed, I stared at the ceiling. James had fallen asleep quickly after his emotional breakdown, but sleep eluded me. My hand drifted again to my stomach, to the tiny life growing inside me.

"I'll protect you," I whispered into the darkness. "No matter what."

The next morning, I awoke to the smell of pancakes and the sound of James humming in the kitchen. When I walked in, he turned to me with a smile that didn't quite reach his eyes.

"Good morning, beautiful," he said, sliding a plate of blueberry pancakes, my favorite, across the marble countertop. "How are my two favorite people feeling today?"

I forced a smile, accepting the peace offering. "Hungry."

As I ate, James talked about plans for the day. A meeting with an interior designer for the nursery. A stop at the bookstore for parenting books. Lunch at the new bistro downtown.

"And I made an appointment with Dr. Harrison," he said casually, refilling my orange juice.

I paused mid-bite. "The therapist?"

James nodded. "For me. I think... I think I need to talk to someone about my stress management. About what happened yesterday."

Relief washed over me. This was the James I knew, responsible, caring, willing to work on himself.

"That's a good idea," I said, reaching across the table to squeeze his hand.

He squeezed back. "I love you more than life itself, Lily. You and our baby are everything to me."

For a moment, I allowed myself to believe that yesterday had been exactly what he claimed, a terrible mistake, never to be repeated.

But as I showered and dressed for the day, I caught sight of my reflection. A faint bruise was forming on my cheekbone, and with it came a whisper of doubt that I couldn't quite silence.

Lily

Three weeks passed in a blur of prenatal vitamins, doctor appointments, and James's relentless attention. He brought me flowers every day: peonies on Monday, tulips on Tuesday, and roses on Wednesday. A routine of apology that neither of us acknowledged out loud.

Dr. Harrison's therapy seemed to be helping. James came home from each session quieter than usual but determined to talk about what he'd learned.

"It's about recognizing the triggers," he explained one evening as we lay in bed, his hand making gentle circles on my stomach. "The moment before the anger becomes uncontrollable."

I nodded, focusing on the feeling of his touch rather than the memory of that hand striking me.

"How was your lunch with Zoe?" he asked, changing the subject.

"Good," I said, grateful for the shift. "She's excited to be an aunt."

"Did you tell her about the baby?"

I hesitated. "Yes."

"Did you tell her about the other thing?" His voice dropped l