37. Freya

Three months have passed and I am not a single step closer to Phillipe.

Not one iota. Three months!

If the barn in Wodness Brook had been rustic, I'd swap in a heartbeat now. Home is an old servants room. It has a bathroom at least. I made sure to complain loudly about the room when guards were near, just so they thought I was still a selfish wretch. That stopped once morning sickness rendered me capable of nothing more than dry heaving.

It was largely just retching but this morning there was no disguising I had been unwell.

The bushy eyebrowed doctor is my only visitor. Never on his own. Always flanked by at least two guards. They either carry silver-tipped machetes or crossbows. Angry, glaring men. The scariest part is their irises flickering between multiple colours. Hybrids are unstable. They can flip and kill because the human vessel is not strong enough to handle a stronger wolf than the Goddess planned for them.

Not that I trust him, but the Doctor still appears to be m