Chapter 112: Eighty-Nine Percent Chance Of Impregnating A Beta....
The morning light spills through the glass wall like something poured from a golden pitcher—warm, unhurried, sacred. It moves across the polished floor in slow, deliberate strokes, climbing the furniture, catching the edges of the room, and finally settling on the bed where we lie tangled together.
I watch him.
Silas’s head rests on my arm, his face turned toward me, his breath soft and even against the quiet of the room. The light finds him the way it finds beautiful things—without effort, without intention, as if it has no choice but to linger. His brown hair catches the glow, each strand alive with a warmth that seems to hum beneath the surface. Messy from sleep, a few strands fall across his temple, soft as silk threads pulled loose from a tapestry.
His eyes are closed. His lashes—long, dark, impossibly delicate—rest against his cheeks like brushstrokes painted by a careful hand. His lips are parted just slightly, his features peaceful in a way they rarely are when he’s awake.
I don’t blink.
I don’t want to miss a single moment of this stillness.
My fingers rise slowly, drifting through the air as if they’re moving through water. I brush the strands from his forehead, revealing the full shape of his face—the soft curve of his brow, the faint flush still clinging to his cheeks, the traces of last night’s tears still lingering at the corners of his eyes.
His lips are parted slightly, a soft, shaky breath escaping, and I feel it like a touch against my skin—warm, intimate, alive.
A smile spreads across my lips, slow and tender, before I can stop it.
Cute.
The word feels too small for what he is. Too simple. Too ordinary. But it’s the only one that comes.
My thumb traces the line of his cheek, feeling the warmth of his skin, the delicate rise of his cheekbone. He’s so soft like this. So unguarded.
When did you become this important to me?
The question drifts through my mind, weightless and unanswerable, like smoke rising from a fire I didn’t know was burning. I don’t remember the exact moment it happened—when his quiet presence became something I searched for, when his silence began to speak louder than any words I’d ever heard.
But somewhere between his stubborn pouts and his silent questions, between the warmth of his hand in mine and the way he looked at me like I was worth understanding, he became my first thought in the morning and my last at night.
My parents were right. There is something special about him. Something I didn’t want to see. Something I fought against until I couldn’t anymore.
My fingers drift lower, tracing the line of his jaw, the curve of his neck, the gentle rise of his Adam’s apple beneath my touch.
His skin is warm. His pulse is steady beneath my fingertips, a small, constant reminder that he’s here beside me.
If he could speak—if words could come from those lips—what would his voice sound like?
Would it be soft?
Quiet?
Would it carry the same warmth as your smile?
Would it hold the same stubbornness as your pout?
How would he say my name?
Silas stirs beneath my touch.
His lashes flutter, and slowly, his eyes open.
For a moment, they’re still hazy with sleep, caught somewhere between dreams and waking.
He finds me looking at him, and a soft smile spreads across his lips—slow, uncertain, like sunrise breaking through clouds after a storm.
My own smile widens in response, unbidden and uncontrollable.
I lean in and press my lips to his—a light, tender kiss, barely more than a brush. The touch is soft, fleeting, but it carries the weight of everything I haven’t said.
"Good morning."
He blinks again, still hazy with sleep, still caught in that fragile space between dreaming and waking. Then he nods—just a small dip of his chin, a gesture so simple and yet so full of meaning.
"Do you want to sleep more?"
He shakes his head lightly. The movement is small, his hair brushing against the pillow like a whisper of silk.
I kiss his temple, letting my lips linger for a moment.
"Then let’s make a good breakfast. For me."
He nods again. Then his gaze drifts downward—and stops.
I follow his eyes to my chest. The top buttons of my shirt are undone, revealing the skin beneath. And there, catching the morning light, is the birthmark.
It’s shaped like a moonflower—delicate, intricate, almost luminous in the golden glow. The petals curve and intertwine, a pattern that seems almost too perfect to be natural. As the light shifts, the mark seems to shimmer faintly beneath my skin, as though it possesses a life of its own.
Silas’s hand rises slowly.
Hesitantly.
His fingers hover for a moment, trembling ever so slightly—whether from nervousness or wonder, I can’t tell. Then they brush against the mark.
The touch is feather-light, barely there—a whisper of skin against skin. Yet it sends a strange ripple through me, warm and unexpected, unfamiliar in the best way.
His fingers trace the edge of the moonflower, following the curve of each petal with a reverence that makes my breath catch. His eyes remain fixed on it, wide with quiet wonder, as though he’s afraid it might disappear if he looks away.
Then his gaze lifts to meet mine. A silent question hangs between us.
Unspoken. Understood.
I take his hand and press it gently against my chest, letting him feel the warmth of my skin and the steady beat of my heart beneath his palm.
"It’s my birthmark," I say softly. "It’s strange. Sometimes it shines in the light. Other times it hides—like it was never there at all."
He blinks. His fingers don’t pull away. They remain pressed against my skin, feeling the quiet rhythm of my heartbeat.
I lean closer, brushing my lips against his cheek.
"My mother said this mark only appears in rare Alphas. SS-Class Alphas."
I kiss his other cheek.
"Do you want to know a special ability of SS-Class Alphas?"
His eyes stay on me. Slowly, he nods.
My hand finds his waist, sliding around it, pulling him closer until there’s no space left between us. I can feel the warmth of his body, the soft rise and fall of his breath.
"The doctors say an SS-Class Alpha has an eighty-nine percent chance of impregnating a Beta."
His eyes widen. Just a little. Just enough for me to catch the flicker of surprise that passes through them.
My voice drops to a teasing whisper, my lips hovering near his.
"I’m an SS-Class Alpha." I pause. "Should we try... and see if it’s true?"
He stares at me, frozen.
His breath catches.
Then—slowly, helplessly—a blush rises across his cheeks. It spreads to his ears, down the curve of his neck, painting him in shades of pink and rose. It’s like watching sunrise creep across the horizon—slow, inevitable, and impossible to look away from.
A laugh threatens to escape me.
I lean closer.
"Let’s try."
He looks away sharply—eyes darting, cheeks burning, overcome with a shyness so pure it makes something ache in my chest.
His body tenses beneath my touch, but he doesn’t pull away. Instead, he tries to hide from me, turning his face aside as if that might conceal the color flooding his cheeks.
The laugh I’ve been holding back finally escapes me—warm, genuine, spilling from my lips like something I couldn’t contain even if I tried.
I pinch his cheek lightly.
"I was kidding. I just wanted to see your cherry tomato face."
I try to catch his gaze, tilting my head to follow his eyes. "Let me see."
He refuses. Stubborn.
Before I can stop him, he pushes at my shoulder just enough to slip free and climbs out of bed. Barefoot, he heads for the door, one hand still covering his face.
I rise and follow, a grin spreading across my lips. "Where are you running?"
He only walks faster.
His steps are light on the stairs, but I catch the soft smile tugging at the corner of his lips—a smile that betrays him despite his best efforts to hide it.
I chase after him, laughter spilling from my lips, brighter than it has been in a long time.
"Let’s see how far you can run, my little cherry tomato."
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