Chapter Text

The air over Nevermore Academy tasted of ash and spent magic. The acrid tang of burned timber from the ruined Ophelia Hall mingled with the coppery scent of blood and the ozone crackle of dissipated mystical energy. Silence, thick and heavy as a shroud, had fallen upon the half-destroyed courtyard, a stark contrast to the cacophony of battle that had raged mere minutes before.

Wednesday Addams stood amidst the devastation, her body thrumming with a residual adrenaline that felt like a live wire under her skin. Her black dress was torn, smudged with dirt and a darker, more concerning stain from a gash on her arm she hadn’t noticed receiving. In her hand, she still clutched the ancient, now-dull blade she had plunged into Crackstone’s heart. Her knuckles were white around the hilt, and the left upper side of her face was starting to prickle and sting where Crackstone's staff had left a gash in her forehead.

Her obsidian eyes scanned the scene with cold, analytical detachment, a habit she used to cage the unfamiliar, squirming things in her chest. Eugene was being tended to by paramedics, his bees a quiet hum of concern around him, the boy had all but ran from the hospital just minutes after waking from a coma, a act of extreme bravery and loyalty if not foolishness, Xavier was sitting on the steps, head in his hands, Bianca Barclay was with him, she had a busted lip and a bleeding eyebrow, while others wept or embraced. It was a festival of sentimentality. Wednesday found it disgustingly predictable.

Her gaze, against its will, was pulled across the courtyard. To Enid. Ajax had found her in the woods, weak and hurt after her fight with Tyler.

Enid Sinclair was kneeling, her form shuddering with the aftershocks of her first forced transformation. The magnificent, vibrant pink and blue fur of her wolf form was receding, leaving behind a girl who looked small and terrifyingly fragile in the moonlight. Her clothes were in tatters, and long, angry red gashes crossed her face arms and chest, a courtesy of Tyler, the bastard he was. But she was alive. She was breathing.

Something sharp and hot twisted behind Wednesday’s ribs. It was an emotion she could not, and would not, name.

She watched as Enid’s moved towards her, she was hurting and bleeding but she still moved towards her as if Wednesday was the most important thing in her world, and that brought a new wave of the strange constriction that seemed to have taken control of her ribcage.

Enid’s eyes, wide and shell-shocked, met Wednesday’s across the distance. In them, Wednesday didn’t see victory. She saw pain, confusion, and a deep, aching vulnerability. The hot thing behind Wednesday’s ribs twisted again, more insistently.

Without conscious thought, her feet began to move. She walked past clusters of grieving students, past teachers trying to muster order from the chaos, her path a straight, she moved towards Enid.

Wednesday came to a halt once she met Enid in the halfway mark. She did not look at Ajax. She did not acknowledge the other students around them. Her entire world had narrowed to the girl in front of her.

“Enid,” Wednesday said. Her voice was flat, devoid of its usual sardonic edge. It was simply a statement of fact. An anchor in the storm.

Enid looked at her for a second before lunging at her, her arms wrapping around Wednesday with as much force as she could muster in her weakened state, her eyes swimming with unshed tears. The sight caused a peculiar constriction in Wednesday’s throat.

“You’re bleeding,” Enid whispered once she extricated herself from me, her voice hoarse from snarling and screaming.

“You are observant,” Wednesday replied, the automatic retort feeling hollow. Her attention was on the deep claw marks on Enid’s face. “Your injuries are more severe.”

Ajax tried to get Enid's attention beside her, he wanted to take her to the infirmary, something that Enid vehemently denied without even looking at the young gargoyle, from her advantage point in Enid's arms she could see that Enid was not comfortable, beyond the pain she was feeling, it was embarrassment.

Wednesday distanced herself from the blond so she could face Enid more fully. She did something she had never done before. She extended her hand.

Enid stared at it for a second, then placed her own bloodied, shaking hand in Wednesday’s. The contact sent a jolt through both of them, a spark of something electric, something alive. Wednesday pulled the blond towards her, Enid wobbling slightly, her legs unsteady.

“We’re leaving,” Wednesday stated, her tone brooking no argument. She didn’t wait for a response, simply began to lead Enid away from the gawking eyes of the still shell-shocked student body, towards the relative sanctuary of the mostly-intact North Tower.

They did not speak as they navigated the debris-strewn path. The sounds of the aftermath faded behind them, replaced by the crunch of their feet on gravel and Enid’s shaky breaths. Wednesday’s mind was a whirlwind of conflicting data. The tactical analysis of the battle. The physiological response to near-death. The unsettling, persistent heat where her skin touched Enid’s.

They reached the door to their dorm room. Or what was left of it. The wall was shattered, a gaping hole revealing the carnage within. Enid’s side was a riot of color and destruction, stuffed animals mutilated by falling debris. Wednesday’s side was, predictably, stark and undisturbed.

Enid let out a small, broken sound at the sight of her ruined things. It was the sound of a final thread snapping, Wednesday made a silent vow to replace the wolf's ruined plushies, it was the least she could do to repay Enid for saving her life.

Wednesday led her inside, kicking a decapitated unicorn out of the way. She guided Enid to sit on the edge of her own black, coffin-style bed. The moonlight streamed through the broken wall, painting everything in shades of silver and blue.

“Stay,” Wednesday commanded, and went to retrieve the first aid kit she kept for emergencies far more mundane than this.

When she returned, Enid was crying. Not with loud sobs, but with silent, relentless tears that carved clean paths through the grime and blood on her cheeks. Wednesday stood before her, the kit in her hands, feeling an unfamiliar and profound sense of helplessness. She was adept at causing pain, at analyzing it, even at appreciating its aesthetic. She was not adept at stopping it.

She knelt, a rare act of suppliance. She opened the kit and began to clean the wounds on Enid’s arms with a clinical efficiency, dabbing antiseptic that made Enid hiss in pain.

“I’m sorry,” Enid whispered.

Wednesday paused. “For what conceivable reason?”

“For… for crying. For being weak. For… all of this.” She gestured vaguely at the room, at herself.

Wednesday looked up, her gaze intense. “You are not weak. You are the only reason any of us are not currently dead. You faced a Hyde and prevailed, you saved my life. Your emotional response is a physiological inevitability, not a character flaw. Now, hold still. This will sting.”

She continued her work, her touch surprisingly gentle despite her words. As she tended to the gashes on Enid’s face, her fingers brushing against the warm skin of her cheek, she felt that electric current again. Stronger this time. It was a feeling not unlike touching a live wire, but without the desire to let go.

Enid’s tears had stopped. She was just watching Wednesday, her eyes wide and unblinking. The world had shrunk to this moonlit room, to the space between them, to the feel of Wednesday’s cool fingers on her skin.

“You’re hurt, too,” Enid said softly, her eyes flicking to the gash on Wednesday’s Forehead.

“It is superficial.”

“Let me.”

Before Wednesday could protest, Enid’s hand came up, her fingers gently closing around Wednesday’s wounded forehead. The contact was a bolt of lightning. Wednesday’s breath hitched, a minute, almost imperceptible reaction that felt like a seismic event in the stillness of her own body.

Enid’s touch was warm. So warm. It seeped through the cold numbness that had encased Wednesday since the battle, thawing something deep and frozen within her. She could feel the steady, strong pulse in Enid’s fingertips against her own skin.

Their eyes locked. The air grew thick, charged with something more potent than the lingering magic outside. The analytical part of Wednesday’s brain scrambled for data, for a precedent, for anything to explain the sudden, frantic rhythm of her heart. She found nothing.

Enid leaned forward slowly, giving Wednesday every opportunity to pull away, to retreat behind her walls of ice and sarcasm. Wednesday remained perfectly still, a statue caught in a beam of moonlight.

Enid’s lips were soft. Softer than Wednesday could have ever imagined. They brushed against hers with a tentative, questioning pressure. It was not a kiss of passion, but of something far more terrifying: it was a kiss of gratitude, of relief, of a shared terror survived.

And Wednesday Addams, who had never allowed anyone this close, who had built her identity on isolation and control, did not pull away.

Instead, something in her broke open.

A dam of repressed emotion, held back by the sheer force of her will, gave way. The fear, the adrenaline, the dizzying relief, the blinding, terrifying need, it all came flooding out. Her free hand came up to cup the back of Enid’s neck, her fingers tangling in the blood-matted blonde hair. She kissed her back with a desperate, hungry intensity that shocked them both.

It was not gentle. It was a clash of teeth and shared breath, a battle of a different kind. It was the raw, unfiltered culmination of every charged glance, every barbed compliment, every moment of unspoken understanding that had passed between them since the day they met.

Enid responded in kind, a low growl rumbling in her chest, a vestige of the wolf that had saved them. Her hands came up to grip Wednesday’s shoulders, pulling her closer, until there was no space left between them.

The world outside, the pain, the destruction, the judging eyes, ceased to exist. There was only the moon, the ruins of their room, and the devastating truth of each other.

And that's when she felt it, the bulge pressing against her, with each movement Enid did she felt it press against her, and it somehow only made the infernal fire burning her from the inside out more consuming.

Clothes, already torn and stained, became inconvenient barriers that were pushed aside with frantic, unsteady hands. Wednesday’s cool, pale skin met the feverish warmth of Enid’s. There were no words. Words were useless, human things that could never encapsulate this. This was something older, something primal.

It was a wolf claiming what was his. A reaffirmation of life in the face of death.

For Enid, her Alpha wolf, still so close to the surface, recognized its mate. It wasn’t a thought; it was a bone-deep, genetic knowing. This was the one she had fought for. This was the one she would die for, kill for.

For Wednesday, it was a surrender. A glorious, terrifying capitulation to a force more powerful than any ghost or curse. It was the terrifying thrill of free-fall, of allowing someone to see the chaotic, passionate, frightened thing that lived behind the monochrome façade.

They found their way to Wednesday’s bed, a tangle of limbs and desperate sighs. The black sheets were a stark contrast to Enid’s golden skin. Wednesday, always the orchestrator, the master of every situation, let go. She allowed Enid to take the lead, to map her body with hands and lips, to draw sounds from her throat she didn’t know she could make, to take her, to become one with her.

It was messy, and awkward, and perfect. It was two girls, battered and bruised, using the only language left to them to say the things too big for words: I see you. I’m here. You are not alone.

Later, when the moon had climbed higher in the sky, they lay entwined in the wreckage. Enid’s head was pillowed on Wednesday’s shoulder, her breathing deep and even in sleep. One arm was thrown possessively across Wednesday’s waist.

Wednesday was awake. Her body thrummed with a new, different kind of energy. The gash on her arm and forehead were forgotten. Every nerve ending was alight with the memory of Enid’s touch. She stared up at the cracked ceiling, her mind, for once, perfectly, utterly silent. The squirming things in her chest were quiet, soothed into submission.

She felt… calm. A profound, deep-sea calm that she had never experienced before.

Her gaze drifted to the window, to the silver sliver of the waning moon. A fragment of an old Addams family proverb, one her Grandmama used to whisper, surfaced in her mind: “The most powerful magic is not found in incantations or potions, but in the confluence of a full moon and a willing heart.”

She had always thought it was sentimental nonsense.

Now, with Enid’s warm weight against her, with the scent of blood and sweat and her filling her lungs, Wednesday Addams felt the first, faint stir of a new kind of dread. Not the dread of a threat foretold, but the dread of something precious found, and the terrifying knowledge of how easily it could be lost.

Unconsciously, her hand drifted from the sheets to rest low on her own abdomen, as if to shield a secret that not even she yet knew she was keeping.

The night held its breath. Somewhere, in the deepest, most primal part of her being, a new life, conceived in blood, magic, and a promise made in the silence of a shattered room, had already begun to quicken.

Chapter Text

The following weeks were a study in controlled chaos. Nevermore became a construction site shrouded in a veil of grief. The sounds of hammers and saws replaced the usual chatter of students, a constant, jarring reminder of the battle. Classes were suspended, replaced by mandatory therapy sessions that Wednesday pointedly ignored.

Their room was partially repaired, a new wall erected that was starkly newer than the rest, a permanent scar. Enid had tried to cover it with posters, but the memory of the hole, of that night, lingered like a ghost.

Through it all, Wednesday’s body began to keep a secret.

It started subtly. A fatigue that was deeper than the exhaustion of recovery. It was a weight in her bones, a drain on her psychic reserves that made her visions feel distant and muffled, as if she were trying to hear through water. She attributed it to stress, to the emotional drain of the aftermath.

Then came the nausea. It wasn’t the violent, immediate illness of her first vision. This was a low, rolling tide of disgust that rose at unpredictable moments. The smell of the formaldehyde in botany class, which she usually found comforting, now made her stomach lurch. The scent of the blood bags in the vampiric wing of the cafeteria became utterly repulsive.

She adjusted. She was Wednesday Addams. She mastered her body’s weaknesses through sheer force of will. She learned to breathe through her mouth in certain halls. She skipped meals when the aroma of the dining hall was too much. She told herself it was a temporary dysregulation, a psychic feedback loop from the trauma.

But her mind, the part that valued data above all, began to track the anomalies.

Her cycle, as regimented and predictable as the ticking of a deathwatch beetle, was late. Three days. Then five. Then a week.

A cold knot of suspicion began to form in her stomach, unrelated to the nausea.

Enid noticed the changes, of course. Her wolf was hyper-attuned to Wednesday’s well-being.

“You’re not eating” Enid stated one evening, frowning at Wednesday’s untouched plate of… something beige and unidentifiable. The werewolf’s own plate was piled high with protein.

“The culinary offerings of Nevermore have always been a form of psychological torture. My refusal to participate is a form of protest” Wednesday replied, not looking up from the ancient text on psychic dampening she was trying to read.

“You picked at your black oatmeal this morning too. And you skipped dinner last night.” Enid’s voice was laced with worry. “Is it your arm? Is it infected?”

“My arm is healing at an acceptable rate.”

“Then what is it?” Enid pressed, reaching across the small table they’d managed to salvage to place her hand over Wednesday’s. The contact was still electric, but now it was also a catalyst for the ever-present nausea. Wednesday fought to keep her expression neutral.

“It is nothing you need to concern yourself with” Wednesday said, withdrawing her hand under the pretense of turning a page. “The stress of the semester’s unforeseen events are manifesting physically. It is… inconvenient.”

Enid didn’t look convinced. Her nose twitched. “You smell different” she said, her head tilting. “Not bad! Just… different. Sharper. Like… lightning and wet earth.”

Wednesday’s blood ran cold. That was not the kind of data she could ignore. A werewolf’s sense of smell was irrefutable evidence.

The final piece clicked into place a week and a half after the battle. She was in the Nightshades library, researching the long-term effects of high-density magical exposure, when a wave of dizziness so profound it made the shelves swim sent her stumbling against a bookcase.

She clutched the wooden shelf, breathing deeply, waiting for the world to right itself. And in that moment of vertigo, the vision came.

It was not of a monster. It was fleeting, visceral, and utterly devastating.

The feel of something small and lifeless in her arms. The crushing weight of a silence far deeper than any she had known. A tiny, cold hand. A void where a heartbeat should be.

It lasted only a second, but it was enough to stop her heart. It was the echo of a future loss so profound it felt like a physical blow.

Her visions were always true. It was the one absolute in her life.

The cold knot of suspicion in her stomach solidified into a block of ice. This… this potential life growing inside her… was already marked for death.

She fled the library, her heart hammering against her ribs like a trapped bird. She needed data. Proof. She needed to confirm the hypothesis so she could begin formulating a solution, or, more likely, a strategy for managing the inevitable.

She found Enid in their room, attempting to stitch a decapitated unicorn’s head back onto its body.

“We require a test” Wednesday announced, her voice betraying none of the panic clawing its way up her throat.

Enid looked up, her sunny expression fading at the look on Wednesday’s face. “A test? For what? A curse? Did you find something…”

“A pregnancy test, Enid.”

The words hung in the air between them, stark and unbelievable. For a long moment, Enid just stared, her brain seemingly unable to process the syllables. Then, the meaning hit her. Her face cycled through emotions with dizzying speed: confusion, disbelief, dawning comprehension, guilt and then, a stunned, overwhelming awe.

Her gaze dropped to Wednesday’s stomach, then back to her face. “But… it’s only been a few weeks… the timing… could it?”

“Our oversight in the use of protection, the confluence of the full moon, the massive release of transformative lycanthropic energy during your shift, and the ambient magic of the battle could have acted as a potent catalyst, accelerating biological processes” Wednesday recited, retreating into clinical facts as her only lifeline. “The symptoms align. Your olfactory confirmation is the most compelling data point. We require empirical evidence.”

Enid’s hand, trembling slightly, came to rest over Wednesday’s on her own abdomen. Her touch was impossibly gentle. “A catalyst” she repeated, her voice full of wonder. “You mean… our… pup?”

The word, so primal, so werewolf, made Wednesday flinch. It made it real. It made it… animal. It wasn’t a clinical “fetus” or a biological “offspring.” It was a pup. A creature of two worlds in her all to human body.

“We require confirmation” Wednesday insisted, her tone brittle. “Not conjecture.”

“Okay” Enid said, nodding rapidly, her mind snapping into a new, focused gear. The Alpha was taking charge. “Okay. I’ll… I’ll go. I’ll go to the pharmacy in Jericho. Now. I’ll get… a bunch. Different brands.” She was already moving, pulling on her signature pink jacket.

“You will be discreet” Wednesday commanded, a note of desperation sharpening her words. “No one can know. Not yet.”

Enid paused, looking at her. The wonder in her eyes was now tempered with a fierce, protective intensity. “No one” she vowed. It was a promise. A pact. “I’ll be back before anyone knows I’m gone.”

She crossed the room and, before Wednesday could react, pressed a quick, firm kiss to her forehead. It was so instinctual, so caring, it left Wednesday speechless. “Lock the door behind me. Don’t… don’t open it for anyone.”

And then she was gone.

Wednesday stood alone in the center of the room, the silence pressing in on her. She felt unmoored. Her hand crept back to her stomach.

A pup.

The door to the hallway creaked open, pulling her from the abyss. For a heart-lifting second, she thought Enid had returned impossibly fast. But the scent that wafted in was not cotton candy and wolf. It was expensive perfume and a faint, metallic tang.

Principal Larissa Weems stood in the doorway, she had came back from the hospital a couple of days ago, her shape-shifting abilities the only reason she was still alive after being poisoned by Marilyn Gates, her expression an unreadable mask of professional concern. But her eyes, those sharp, knowing eyes, missed nothing. They took in Wednesday’s posture, the pallor of her skin, the way her hand splayed protectively over her middle.

“Miss Addams” Weems said, her voice carefully neutral. “I was doing my rounds. You seem… distressed.”

Wednesday straightened up, forcing her face into its usual impassive mask. The vision had left her ice-cold. “I am perfectly adequate, Principal Weems.”

She couldn't allow Larissa to know, she would no doubt report back to her mother even if only out of concern, and the last person I wanted knowing about my moment of weakness with Enid was her mother.

Weems’s gaze lingered on Wednesday’s abdomen for a fraction of a second too long. A flicker of something, recognition? Dread? Passed behind her eyes before it was shuttered away.

“I see” Weems said softly. And Wednesday had the terrifying feeling that she did. She saw everything. “The school is still in a fragile state. Your well-being is a priority. If there is anything… anything… you need to report…”

It was a question disguised as a statement.

Wednesday’s voice was low, stripped of all its usual defiance. It was just a statement. A truth. “There is nothing to report. Yet.”

Larissa Weems’s posture stiffened almost imperceptibly. She gave a slow, grim nod, as if Wednesday had just confirmed her deepest fear.

“Then I will leave you to your… studies” she said, her voice barely a whisper. “But remember, Miss Addams, some storms cannot be weathered alone.”

She closed the door behind her, leaving Wednesday alone with the echo of the vision and the terrifying, growing truth inside her. The wait for Enid’s return stretched before her, an eternity of dread and desperate, impossible hope. The battle was over. The war for their future had just begun.

Chapter Text

The silence after Weems left was a different creature. It was no longer just empty space; it was charged, pregnant with the principal’s unspoken knowledge and Wednesday’s own chilling certainty. Every second that ticked by was an agony of suspension. Wednesday remained rooted to the spot, her hand still pressed against her abdomen as if she could physically hold back the truth, or perhaps protect the fragile, doomed secret within.

She could still feel the ghost of the vision, the devastating weight of that small, cold form. It was a premonition that felt less like a possibility and more like a memory of a future that had already been written. Her usual thirst for the macabre was absent, replaced by a cold, clinical dread. How did one prepare for a specific, foretold heartbreak? What did one wear to their child’s funeral?

The creak of the floorboards outside the door shattered her morbid reverie. This time, the scent was unmistakable: synthetic cotton candy shampoo, fresh night air, and the underlying, potent signature of wolf. The lock turned with a soft click, and Enid slipped inside, a plastic bag from the Jericho pharmacy clutched in her hand like a stolen treasure.

Her eyes were wide, her breathing slightly elevated from her quick journey. She locked the door behind her and turned to face Wednesday, holding up the bag. “I got three different kinds. The cashier gave me a really weird look.”

Wednesday said nothing. She just stared at the bag as if it contained a live viper.

Enid’s bravado faltered at Wednesday’s frozen expression. She crossed the room, dropping the bag on her colorful comforter and taking Wednesday’s cold hands in her warm ones. “Hey. Talk to me. What’s wrong? Did something happen?”

“Weems was here,” Wednesday stated, her voice flat.

Enid’s grip tightened. “What? Why? What did she say?”

“She was doing rounds.” Wednesday’s gaze was distant, focused on some internal horror. “She knows. Or she suspects. Her concern was… palpably grim.”

“Okay,” Enid said, taking a steadying breath. The Alpha was pushing past her own fear. “Okay, so she suspects. We’ll deal with that. But first, we need to know for sure. Right?”

Wednesday gave a single, sharp nod. It was a motion of pure necessity, not agreement.

Enid released her hands and rummaged in the bag, pulling out three small boxes. She lined them up on the edge of Wednesday’s black dresser like a medical tribunal. “So, which one? They all say they’re, like, 99% accurate.”

“The one with the most sterile packaging,” Wednesday replied, her clinical tone returning by force of will. “The presence of cartoonish graphics on a device meant for diagnostic purposes is an affront to scientific rigor.”

Enid picked up the plainest box. “This one it is.” She opened it, reading the instructions quickly. “Okay. You have to… you know. On the stick.”

Wednesday took the plastic-wrapped stick from her as if accepting a dueling pistol. Without a word, she turned and walked into their small en suite bathroom, closing the door behind her.

The bathroom felt like a prison cell. The fluorescent light hummed overhead, bleaching all color from her already pale face. She unwrapped the test with steady fingers, though her insides were a chaotic whirlwind. The process was undignified, a humiliatingly mundane ritual to confirm a reality that felt anything but.

She set the test on the edge of the sink and turned away, unable to watch. The instructions said three minutes. One hundred and eighty seconds upon which her entire future would pivot.

She heard the bathroom door open softly. Enid didn’t enter fully, just leaned against the doorframe, offering her silent presence. Wednesday didn’t turn around. She stared at the black tile wall, counting the seconds in her head.

One-Mississippi. Two-Mississippi.

The vision of the lifeless child flickered behind her eyes. The silence of it. The absolute, utter silence.

Fifty-seven-Mississippi. Fifty-eight…

“Wends?” Enid’s voice was soft, tentative. “Whatever it says… it’s us, okay? You and me. We’ll figure it out.”

Wednesday closed her eyes. Us. The word was terrifying. It implied a shared burden, a shared fate. It meant her catastrophe was no longer hers alone to manage.

One-hundred-twenty-Mississippi.

She could feel Enid’s anxiety like a physical pressure in the room. The wolf’s nervous energy was a stark contrast to Wednesday’s frozen stillness.

One-hundred-seventy-nine. One-hundred-eighty.

The three minutes were up. Wednesday didn’t move. She couldn’t. The terror was a paralytic agent in her veins.

She heard Enid’s sharp intake of breath. Heard her take a step into the room. Wednesday’s heart hammered against her ribs, a frantic, trapped thing.

“Wednesday,” Enid whispered, her voice choked with an emotion too big for the small room. “Look.”

Slowly, mechanically, Wednesday turned around.

The test lay on the sink. In the little result window were two lines.

Dark. Unmistakable. Positive.

The confirmation hit her with the force of a physical blow. All the air left her lungs in a silent rush. The clinical hypothesis was gone. The statistical probability was gone. It was just… fact. She was pregnant. With Enid’s child. A child fated to die.

Her knees buckled. She didn’t collapse, but she swayed, grabbing the edge of the sink to steady herself. The cold porcelain was a shock against her skin.

Enid was there in an instant, her arms wrapping around Wednesday from behind, holding her up. Wednesday could feel the tremors running through Enid’s body. Or maybe they were her own.

“Oh my god,” Enid breathed into her hair, her voice thick with tears and wonder. “Wednesday… it’s real. It’s really real.”

Wednesday couldn’t speak. She could only stare at the two lines, those two damning, life-altering lines. Her vision began to tunnel, the edges going dark. The hum of the fluorescent light faded into a high-pitched ring.

“Wednesday? Wednesday, breathe. You have to breathe.” Enid’s voice sounded far away. She turned Wednesday in her arms, forcing her to look away from the test. Enid’s face was streaked with tears, but she was smiling, a radiant, awe-struck smile that was utterly devastating to behold. “It’s going to be okay. We’re going to be okay.”

Wednesday finally found her voice, but it was a broken, raspy thing. “No.”

Enid’s smile didn’t fade, but it softened into confusion. “What?”

“No” Wednesday repeated, the word scraping out of her throat. “It is not going to be okay.”

“What are you talking about? This is… it’s huge. It’s scary, and it's way too early. But it’s… it’s a good thing. Isn’t it?” The doubt finally crept into Enid’s voice, seeing the true, unvarnished terror on Wednesday’s face.

“I had a vision.” The confession was torn from her. “While I was in the library.”

Enid went very still. “A vision? Of what?”

Wednesday shook her head, unable to say the words. The image was too horrific to give voice to. She looked back at the test, then at Enid, her eyes pleading in a way they never had before. It was the most vulnerable Enid had ever seen her.

Understanding dawned on Enid’s face, followed by a wave of protective fierceness. “No” she said, her voice hardening. “No. Whatever it was, it doesn’t matter. Visions can be changed. You’ve said that yourself. They’re possibilities, not certainties.”

“This one felt certain” Wednesday whispered.

“Well, I certainly won’t allow it,” Enid declared, her tone leaving no room for argument. She cupped Wednesday’s face in her hands, forcing her to hold her gaze. “Listen to me. That is our pup. Ours. And I will tear the world apart with my teeth before I let anything happen to it. Or to you. Do you understand me?”

The raw, primal conviction in Enid’s voice was a lifeline. Wednesday felt herself grasping for it, the icy dread in her chest thawing by a single, precious degree. She gave a small, jerky nod.

Enid leaned forward, resting her forehead against Wednesday’s. Their breath mingled. “We’re in this together” Enid whispered. “You’re not alone. I promise.”

For the first time since seeing the test, Wednesday felt a flicker of something other than terror. It was small, and fragile, and buried under mountains of fear, but it was there. It was the faint, stubborn echo of the feeling she’d had in Enid’s arms the night of the battle. The feeling of us.

She allowed herself to lean into Enid’s strength, just for a moment. To take the support that was being so freely, so fiercely offered.

They stood like that for a long time, in the humming silence of the bathroom, the plastic test on the sink the only witness to their shattered and remade world. The rest of Nevermore, with its judging eyes and ancient prejudices, didn't exist. There was only the two of them, and the tiny, terrifying secret they now shared.

Finally, Enid stirred. “We should… probably get out of the bathroom.”

Wednesday nodded, the motion slow and heavy. Enid carefully disposed of the test, erasing the evidence, while Wednesday splashed cold water on her face, trying to wash away the pallor of shock.

When they emerged, the room felt different. The space between their sides of the room seemed smaller, the new wall less of a barrier. The air was charged with a new, profound intimacy.

Enid led Wednesday to her own bed, the colorful comforter a stark contrast to Wednesday’s monochrome palette. She sat them down and pulled Wednesday into her side, wrapping a strong arm around her shoulders. Wednesday, too exhausted and emotionally ravaged to protest, let her head rest against Enid’s shoulder. The cotton candy scent was a comfort.

“What do we do now?” Enid asked softly, her chin resting on Wednesday’s hair.

Wednesday was silent for a moment, her mind, though weary, beginning to click through the variables. “We proceed with extreme caution. Weems’s visit confirms the danger of discovery. No one can know. Not yet.”

“No one” Enid agreed immediately.

“We must observe my symptoms and adjust accordingly. My… condition… will become more difficult to conceal.”

“I’ll help” Enid vowed. “I’ll get you whatever you need. I’ll run interference.”

Wednesday closed her eyes. The path ahead was shrouded in fog, the endpoint a cliff edge she had already seen. But for this moment, in the circle of Enid’s arms, with the weight of their shared secret between them, the terrifying future felt slightly less alone. The war had not yet begun, but the first, most important alliance had been forged. They were a unit now. A pack of two, guarding the most vulnerable member of all.

Chapter Text

The world outside their dorm room continued its slow, noisy process of healing. The rhythmic pounding of hammers and the whine of saws from the reconstruction of Ophelia Hall became the soundtrack to their new, clandestine reality. For Wednesday and Enid, the aftermath of the battle was no longer about physical wounds or post-traumatic stress; it was a daily, meticulous operation of concealment.

Their first strategy session was held on Enid’s bed, surrounded by pastel-colored stuffed animals that Wednesday eyed with deep suspicion. They were a council of war of two.

“Okay, ground rules” Enid said, her voice low and serious, a notepad open in her lap. She was in full Alpha-Protector mode, her usual bubbly energy channeled into a fierce, focused intensity. “Rule one: you eat what I bring you. No skipping meals.”

Wednesday, sitting stiffly beside her, frowned. “The cafeteria’s olfactory profile is currently a biohazard. The scent of werewolf testosterone alone is enough to trigger a gag reflex.”

“Which is why I’m going to the cafeteria” Enid explained patiently, as if to a particularly stubborn child. “I’ll load up two trays. I’ll get you bland stuff. Oatmeal. Toast. Plain noodles. Stuff that doesn’t have a strong smell. And I’ll eat the stinky stuff so no one gets suspicious. You can’t waste away, Wends. You’re eating for two.” The phrase, so cliché and domestic, sounded foreign and terrifying coming from Enid.

Wednesday gave a curt nod. It was a sound, if irritating, tactical decision.

“Rule two” Enid continued, tapping her pen on the paper. “No more late-night crypt excursions. No more sneaking off to the woods to dig for clues or commune with bats. Your body needs rest. It needs rest.” She couldn’t bring herself to say ‘the baby’ yet. ‘It’ was a safe, clinical placeholder.

“My intellectual pursuits are not negotiable” Wednesday argued, her voice flat. “Boredom is a more imminent threat than fatigue.”

“Tough” Enid said, her tone leaving no room for argument. It was the voice she’d used to face down the Hyde. “You can research from bed. I’ll bring you books. You can… I don’t know, solve cold cases from the internet. But you’re off field duty. Doctor’s orders.”

“You are not a doctor.”

“I’m the closest thing you’ve got right now. Rule three.” Enid’s gaze softened slightly. “You talk to me. If you feel sick, if you’re scared, if you have another… you know. Vision. You tell me. You don’t get to shut down and suffer in silence. That’s not how this works.”

Wednesday looked away, her jaw tight. Vulnerability was a language she refused to learn. “My suffering is my own.”

“Not anymore,” Enid whispered, her hand finding Wednesday’s and lacing their fingers together. The contact was still a shock to Wednesday’s system, but now it was also a steadying current. “Your suffering is mine now, too. And mine is yours. That’s the deal.”

Wednesday didn’t pull away. She simply stared at their joined hands, pale, slender fingers intertwined with Enid’s stronger, warmer ones. It was a pact. A terrifying, binding contract.

The following days were a test of their new rules. Enid became a relentless, pink-haired guardian. She appeared at Wednesday’s side with glasses of water and plain crackers before Wednesday even realized she was thirsty or nauseous. She ran interference with teachers, making excuses for Wednesday’s pallor or her sudden, brisk exits from classes when a wave of dizziness hit.

Wednesday, in turn, was a terrible patient. She chafed under the restrictions, her irritability a sharp, spiky thing that filled their room. She snapped at Enid over trivialities, a too-loud podcast, a misplaced book, her words laced with a venom she didn’t entirely mean. It was a defense mechanism, a way to push against the terrifying intimacy of being so thoroughly cared for.

Enid, to her credit, rarely took the bait. She’d just wait out the storm, her expression a mixture of patience and unwavering resolve. She understood the fear driving Wednesday’s barbs.

The only reprieve came at night. In the dark, the walls Wednesday so carefully maintained would crumble. The fatigue was too profound to fight. She would often fall asleep on her own bed reading, only to wake in the deep hours of the night to find herself on Enid’s side of the room, tucked against the werewolf’s warm, sleeping form. Enid’s arm would be thrown over her, a protective barrier, her face peaceful in sleep. Wednesday would lie there, rigid at first, listening to the steady, strong beat of Enid’s heart. Slowly, inevitably, the rhythm would soothe her own frantic pulse, and she would drift back into a dreamless sleep, surrounded by the scent of cotton candy and safety.

It was during one of these nights that the first true change occurred.

Wednesday was pulled from a deep sleep not by a nightmare, but by a sensation. A faint, fluttering tremor deep within her, like the softest wingbeat of a captive moth. It was there and then gone so quickly she thought she’d imagined it.

She lay perfectly still in the dark, Enid’s breath warm on her neck. She waited, barely breathing.

There. Again. A tiny, insistent quickening. A presence. A hello.

Her breath caught in her throat. Her hand, moving of its own volition, slipped under the covers and pressed against her stomach. The gesture was no longer one of dread or protection. It was one of… recognition.

The child inside her was no longer an abstract concept, a clinical diagnosis, or a portent of doom. It was alive. It had a heartbeat. It was moving.

A feeling so powerful and so foreign it threatened to unmoor her completely washed over her. It wasn’t joy. It wasn’t happiness. It was something more profound, more terrifying. It was a primal, ferocious connection. This was her child. Enid’s child. Theirs.

Tears, hot and completely unbidden, welled in her eyes. She squeezed them shut, horrified. She did not cry. Addamses did not cry. Especially not over something as mundane as a biological process.

But she couldn’t stop them. They tracked silent, hot paths down her temples and into her hairline. She cried not out of fear or sadness, but from the sheer, overwhelming weight of it all. The love, the terror, the responsibility, it was a crushing, beautiful burden.

Enid stirred behind her. “Wends?” she mumbled, her voice thick with sleep. “You okay?”

Wednesday couldn’t speak. She could only press her hand more firmly against her stomach, as if she could communicate through her skin, I feel you. I know you.

Enid, sensing the shift, became fully awake. She propped herself up on an elbow, her face a mask of concern in the sliver of moonlight. “Hey. What’s wrong? Are you sick?” Her hand came up to feel Wednesday’s forehead.

Wednesday shook her head, still unable to form words. She captured Enid’s hand and moved it from her forehead, pressing it firmly against her lower abdomen.

Enid’s eyes widened. She held her breath, waiting. For a long moment, there was nothing. Then, a tiny, unmistakable flutter against her palm.

Enid’s gasp was a soft, wonder-filled thing in the quiet room. “Was that…?”

Wednesday finally found her voice, though it was rough with unshed tears. “It appears the entity has achieved sentient motility.”

Enid didn’t laugh at her clinical phrasing. She just stared at her hand, still pressed against Wednesday’s stomach, her eyes shining with tears of her own. “Hi, little pup,” she whispered, her voice cracking with emotion. “Hi there.”

She leaned down and pressed a soft, lingering kiss to Wednesday’s stomach, right over where the flutter had been. The gesture was so tender, so instinctively loving, that Wednesday’s breath hitched.

Enid looked up at her, her smile radiant even in the dark. “Our pup said hello.”

Something in Wednesday’s chest, something cold and frozen that had been there since the vision, finally, truly, began to thaw. The future was still a terrifying cliff edge. The vision still loomed. But in this moment, feeling their child move under the combined warmth of their hands, hearing the awe in Enid’s voice, Wednesday allowed herself a single, treacherous thought.

Perhaps some fates were worth fighting for. Perhaps some visions were meant to be defied.

She didn’t speak the thought aloud. But she let her head fall back onto the pillow, and for the first time, she didn’t stiffen when Enid curled around her, holding them both—her, and the tiny, fluttering life between them.

Outside, the world was sleeping, unaware of the secret growing behind the repaired wall of Ophelia Hall. But inside, a new hope, fragile and fierce as a heartbeat, had taken root in the dark.

Chapter Text

The fluttering, once felt, became a constant, secret dialogue. A tiny, insistent morse code from a world within a world. Wednesday found herself attuned to it, her consciousness perpetually split between the external and the internal. She would be in the middle of a painfully dull lecture on the migratory patterns of European ghouls, her hand resting absently on her desk, when the sensation would come, a soft roll, a gentle nudge, and her entire focus would snap inward. For a second, the droning professor, the scratching of pens, the dusty sunlight filtering through the leaded windows, all of it would fall away. There was only the signal. I am here.

It was during these moments that the vision felt most distant, a nightmare bleached by the insistent reality of that tiny, living presence.

But the outside world was relentless in its demand for normalcy. Nevermore was determined to stitch itself back together, to prove that the Crackstone incident was a scar, not an amputation. This meant the resumption of classes, clubs, and social events with a forced, almost manic, cheerfulness.

The first official school dance since the attack, a "Midnight Masquerade" intended to "reclaim the night for fun!" was the pinnacle of this effort. The posters were everywhere, featuring a cartoonish vampire and werewolf dancing under a full moon.

Enid, of course, was vibrating with excitement. "It'll be fun!" she pleaded, bouncing on the balls of her feet in front of Wednesday's desk. "We don't even have to dance! We can just lurk in a corner and make snide comments about everyone's costumes! It'll be a field study in pathetic adolescent pageantry!"

Wednesday didn't look up from her dissection of a rare venomous moth. "The very premise is an insult to intelligence. Forcing social interaction under the guise of ‘healing’ is a transparent and pathetic manipulation. I would rather coat myself in honey and lie naked in a fire ant nest.”

“I’ll get you all the non-perfumed, non-alcoholic punch you can drink,” Enid bargained, a master negotiator learning her mate’s currency. “And we can leave the second you want to. The second.”

Wednesday’s scalpel stilled. The idea of being trapped in a hot, crowded, loud room, surrounded by pulsing music and the smell of a hundred different perfumes and colognes, made her already-unsettled stomach clench. But she saw the desperate hope in Enid’s eyes. This was a piece of the normal, sunny, teenage life Enid had always craved, a life that had been utterly derailed by werewolf transformations and secret pregnancies and protecting her morbid girlfriend.

With a long-suffering sigh that was only partly performative, Wednesday placed her scalpel down. “Very well. But I am not wearing a costume. My face is mask enough.”

Enid’s resulting smile was so bright it could have powered all of Jericho. She launched herself at Wednesday, wrapping her in a tight hug that made Wednesday grunt in protest. “You won’t regret it! I promise! It’s gonna be great!”

Wednesday highly doubted that.

The night of the dance, the North Tower room was a study in contrasts. Enid’s side was an explosion of tulle and glitter. She had fashioned a stunning wolf mask adorned with shimmering pink and blue feathers. Wednesday sat on her own black coffin-chest, dressed in her usual funeral attire, sharpening a throwing star with a whetstone.

“You look beautiful,” Enid said, catching Wednesday’s eye in the mirror.

“I look functional,” Wednesday corrected, not looking up.

“I think you look beautiful,” Enid insisted, her voice softening. She finished clasping a necklace and turned around. “Ready to go be miserable together?”

The Great Hall had been transformed. The rubble was gone, replaced by swirling lights and a thumping bass that vibrated in Wednesday’s teeth. The air was thick with the cloying scents of punch, sweat, and cheap perfume. It was, as predicted, a special kind of hell.

True to her word, Enid found them a dark alcove far from the dance floor, procured a glass of clear liquid that smelled suspiciously of lime and seltzer, and stood guard beside Wednesday, her keen eyes scanning the room.

For a while, it was tolerable. Wednesday sipped her drink and offered scathing, whispered critiques of the various costumes, which Enid received with gleeful giggles. They saw Bianca holding court with a group of sirens near the punch bowl, elegant and aloof in a mask of seashells and netting. Yoko was dancing with a serene-looking girl whose mask was made of iridescent, mother-of-pearl scales that seemed to shift color in the light. Davina. Her movements were fluid, hypnotic, and she looked at Yoko with a fond, possessive calm that was uniquely siren.

For a fleeting moment, watching Enid tap her foot to the music, a genuine smile on her face, Wednesday felt a bizarre, alien pang of something almost like… contentment. This was what normal might have felt like.

Then, the music shifted. The beat grew deeper, the bass more invasive. The crowd on the dance floor thickened, a swirling mass of bodies. The scents in the air intensified, mingling into a nauseating cocktail.

A wave of dizziness washed over Wednesday. The lights began to strobe in a way that felt aggressive. The thumping bass was no longer just in her teeth; it was inside her skull, a pounding pressure.

“Wednesday?” Enid’s voice cut through the fog of discomfort. Her hand was on Wednesday’s arm immediately. “You’re white as a sheet. What’s wrong?”

“The acoustics in this room are an affront to basic auditory decency,” Wednesday gritted out, her jaw tight. “And the olfactory assault is triggering a mutiny in my digestive system.”

“Okay, we’re leaving. Now.” Enid didn’t hesitate. She took the glass from Wednesday’s hand, set it aside, and began to steer her through the edge of the crowd, using her own body as a buffer between Wednesday and the revelers.

They were halfway to the door when a group of students spilled across their path, laughing loudly. Among them was Ethan, one of Enid's least favorite cousins and a Alpha werewolf like her, wearing a simple but effective mask of carved wood. His eyes, sharp and assessing, landed on them. Specifically, on Enid’s protective, guiding hand on Wednesday’s back.

“Little cousin” he said, his voice a low rumble that carried over the music. His gaze flicked to Wednesday’s pale, tense face. “Playing nurse to the little witch? Couldn’t handle the party?”

Enid’s posture went rigid. A low growl, barely audible, vibrated in her chest. “Move, Ethan.”

“Just making an observation,” he said, a smirk in his voice. “You’ve been attached at her hip since the battle. It’s… curious. For an Alpha of your standing to be so devoted to a… well. A human.”

The insult was clear. The challenge was implicit. The other wolves with him watched, their interest piqued.

Wednesday felt a fresh wave of nausea, this one born of pure rage. She opened her mouth to deliver a retort that would flay the skin from his bones, but Enid spoke first.

Her voice was ice. “My standing is none of your concern. My loyalties are none of your business. Now, you will remove yourself from our path, or I will remove you. And I won’t be gentle.”

The air crackled with tension. Ethan’s smirk faltered under the sheer, uncompromising force of Enid’s Alpha aura. He took an involuntary half-step back. The message was received: this was not a challenge he would win tonight.

Enid didn’t wait for a reply. She pushed past him, her grip on Wednesday firm and unyielding, and marched them both out of the Great Hall and into the cool, blessedly quiet night air.

Wednesday took deep, gulping breaths, the dizziness receding slightly. She expected Enid to be furious, vibrating with post-confrontation adrenaline.

But when she looked at her, Enid’s face was only etched with concern. “Are you okay? Just breathe. In and out. I’ve got you.”

The fight was already forgotten. The only thing that mattered was Wednesday’s well-being.

They walked back to their room in silence. The moment the door closed behind them, the last of Wednesday’s composure broke. She stumbled to the bathroom, barely making it before the lime seltzer and what little else was in her stomach came up.

Enid was there in an instant, holding her hair back, rubbing slow, soothing circles on her back. There were no words of pity, no empty platitudes. Just a steady, grounding presence.

When the sickness passed, Enid helped her to bed, not Wednesday’s, but her own. Or was it their bed now, Wednesday hadn't slept in her own bed ever since they found out about the baby, She fetched a cold cloth for her forehead and a glass of water.

“I’m sorry,” Enid whispered, her voice thick with guilt. “That was a stupid idea. I shouldn’t have made you go.”

Wednesday, exhausted and humiliated by her body’s betrayal, shook her head weakly on the pillow. “You didn’t make me. It was a tactical error in assessment. The variables were… overwhelming.”

Enid smiled faintly at her clinical analysis. She kicked off her shoes and climbed into bed beside Wednesday, pulling the covers over them both. She didn’t try to cuddle her, just lay on her side, facing her, a silent sentinel in the dark.

After a long moment, Wednesday spoke, her voice barely audible. “He was right, though.”

“Who? Ethan? That idiot’s never been right about anything in his life” Enid scoffed.

“You are an Alpha. Your standing inside the pack is… everything to your kind. And you are playing nurse to a human who can’t even attend a school function without disgracing herself.”

Enid was silent for a beat. Then, she shifted closer. “Look at me, Wednesday.”

Reluctantly, Wednesday turned her head on the pillow.

Enid’s eyes were serious in the moonlight. “You are not a human I’m ‘playing nurse’ to. You are my mate. And that” her hand drifted down to rest gently on Wednesday’s stomach, “is my pup. My family. You are my standing. You are the only thing that matters. Everything else is just noise.”

The simple, fierce conviction in her words left no room for argument. It was a truth as solid and unshakable as the earth.

Wednesday let out a slow breath, the last of the tension leaving her body. The ache of trying to be normal faded away, replaced by the profound, terrifying, and utterly real truth of what they were. They weren't normal. They would never be normal. And in that moment, lying in the dark with Enid’s hand on her stomach, Wednesday found she didn't want to be.

The dance had been a disaster. But the aftermath, this quiet solidarity in the ruins of their evening, felt like a different kind of victory. It was a quieter, stronger magic than any masquerade ball could ever conjure.

Chapter Text

The fragile peace of the morning after the dance was short-lived. The forced cheer of the Masquerade had left a residue of tension in the air of Nevermore, a collective hangover of pretended normalcy. For Wednesday and Enid, the pretense was exhausting.

They were in their room, Wednesday attempting to meditate on the concept of controlled decay while Enid tried to stitch a new rainbow axolotl plushie, when Enid’s phone buzzed on the nightstand. It wasn’t a text. It was a full, blaring ringtone, a shrill, demanding sound Enid had assigned to one person.

Enid froze, the needle poised in mid-air. Her eyes, wide with apprehension, met Wednesday’s. The name on the screen confirmed it: MOM.

“Don’t answer it,” Wednesday said flatly, her meditation shattered.

“I have to” Enid whispered, her face paling. “If I don’t, she’ll just keep calling. Or worse, she’ll show up.”

With a trembling hand, Enid picked up the phone. She took a deep, steadying breath, visibly pulling her Alpha persona around her like a shield before swiping to answer. She put it on speaker, a silent plea for Wednesday to be her anchor.

“Hi, Mom” Enid said, her voice carefully neutral.

“Don’t you hi Mom me, Enid Sinclair.” Esther’s voice was like shards of ice crackling down the line, sharp and cold with suppressed fury. “I have just gotten off the phone with your aunt Lydia. Do you want to tell me what happened last night?”

Enid’s jaw tightened. “I’m not sure what my aunt told you, but I’m sure it was dramatized for effect.”

“She told me you publicly threatened her son! That you humiliated him in front of half the school to defend that… that Addams girl.” The venom in Esther’s voice when she said ‘Addams’ was palpable. “Is that true?”

Wednesday’s expression remained impassive, but her hands curled into fists where they rested on her knees. The pup, sensing her tension, gave a restless squirm.

“Ethan was being an asshole” Enid stated, her voice losing its neutral tone and gaining an edge. “He insulted Wednesday. I told him to back off. That’s not a threat, that’s a boundary.”

“A boundary?” Esther’s laugh was a harsh, brittle sound. “Since when do you need ‘boundaries’ with your own kind, Enid? He’s an Alpha and your cousin! His concern is for the pack, for your standing within it! And what are you doing? You’re throwing it all away for a… a passing fancy with a morbid human who will never understand you!”

“She’s not a passing fancy!” Enid’s voice rose, her composure cracking. The wolf was close to the surface. “And she’s not just a human! She’s my…"

“She is your mistake!” Esther shouted, her composure shattering completely. “I can hear it in your voice! You’re in over your head. You’re attached. This is exactly what I was afraid of when I sent you to this wretched school, I knew I should've sent you to a wolf school, but I had to go and listen to your father. Now look at the result, she’s made you weak, Enid. The pack can smell it on you. They’re talking about it. They’re saying you’re linked to the this girl.”

Each word was a precise, well-aimed dagger, honed by a mother’s intimate knowledge of her daughter’s insecurities. Wednesday watched as Enid flinched, the color draining from her face.

“That’s not true” Enid said, but her voice had lost some of its steel.

“Isn’t it?” Esther pressed, a cruel triumph in her tone. “Lydia said you looked… domesticated. Hovering over her, fetching her drinks. An Alpha doesn’t serve, Enid. An Alpha leads. An Alpha provides. What could that pale, fragile thing possibly provide for you? Hmm? What can she give you that a strong wolf from a good bloodline can’t?”

The question hung in the air, loaded and poisonous. Wednesday’s gaze dropped to her own stomach. The secret felt like a live grenade in the room. Everything, she thought with a terrifying, ferocious clarity. She can give me everything.

But Enid couldn’t say that. The truth was a weapon she couldn’t yet wield.

“You don’t know anything about her” Enid said, her voice thick with unshed tears of frustration and hurt. “Or about me.”

“I know that you are throwing away your birthright for a feeling,” Esther spat. “And feelings fade, Enid. Bloodlines are forever. I will not stand by and watch you ruin your life. If you will not see reason, then I will have to make you see it.”

The threat was clear, cold, and final.

There was a long silence on Enid’s end. Wednesday saw the struggle on her face, the dutiful daughter warring with the mated Alpha. The Alpha won.

“Then don’t stand by” Enid said, her voice dropping to a low, resonant register that was pure Alpha. It was a tone Wednesday had never heard her use with her mother before. It was the voice she’d used on Ethan. “But you will not interfere in my life. My choices are mine. My mate is mine. My future is mine. You don’t have to like it. But you will respect it.”

The line was so silent Wednesday thought Esther might have hung up. Then, a soft, chilling sound came through the speaker. It was the sound of Esther Sinclair’s heart breaking, not into sadness, but into something harder and colder.

“You have made your choice, then” Esther said, her voice devoid of all emotion. “Do not come crying to me when that choice leaves you alone and shunned by the very people who were meant to be your family.”

The call ended with a definitive click.

The silence in the room was heavier than before. Enid stood frozen, the phone still clutched in her hand, staring at nothing. A single tear escaped and traced a path down her cheek.

Wednesday rose from her bed. The movement was slow, deliberate. She crossed the space between them and stopped in front of Enid. She didn’t know how to offer comfort. She didn’t know the right words.

So she didn’t use words. She simply reached out and took the phone from Enid’s limp hand, placing it silently on the desk. Then, in an act of courage that rivaled facing down any monster, she stepped forward and wrapped her arms around Enid, pulling her into a stiff, awkward, but utterly sincere embrace.

Enid stiffened for a second in surprise, then melted. She buried her face in Wednesday’s shoulder, her body shaking with silent sobs. Wednesday held her, her chin resting on Enid’s head, staring blankly at the colorful posters on the wall.

She had understood the subtext of Esther’s final words perfectly. It wasn’t just a mother’s disapproval. It was a declaration of war. Esther, would now see Enid as a rogue element. A traitor to be cut out.

And Wednesday, by extension, was the cause. The weakness. The distraction.

The weight of it pressed down on her. The constant nausea, the crushing fatigue, the ever-present fear of the vision, it was all a luxury she could no longer afford. Her vulnerabilities were no longer just her own; they were weapons that could be used against Enid.

Enid’s tears slowed. She took a shaky breath and pulled back slightly, wiping her eyes with the heels of her hands. “I’m sorry” she mumbled. “I didn’t mean to lose it.”

“There is nothing to apologize for,” Wednesday said, her voice quiet but firm. “You were… magnificent.”

A weak, watery smile touched Enid’s lips, her hand reaching for Wednesday's still mostly flat stomach. “Yeah?”

“Yes.” Wednesday’s hands were still on Enid’s arms running calming circles. “Your mother is a strategic threat. We must adjust our defenses accordingly.”

Enid’s smile grew a fraction, appreciating the Wednesday-ness of the statement. “Okay. How?”

Wednesday’s mind was already clicking into a new, colder gear. The emotional storm hadn't passed, she was still plagued by the fear of losing the life growing inside of her, but Enid need her now, she needed Wednesday to be strong for them. And she would not fail.

“The element of surprise is lost. We must assume that our association is public knowledge at this point, at least among the wolves. Therefore, we must act accordingly, we must project an image of unassailable strength. Any perceived weakness will be exploited.”

She looked down at her own body, at the subtle, still-concealed curve of her abdomen. The greatest secret. The ultimate vulnerability.

“The timeline of this… condition… must remain our most closely guarded asset,” she stated, her eyes meeting Enid’s with deadly seriousness. “No one can know how far along we are. It is a tactical disadvantage we cannot afford to reveal.”

The unraveling had begun with a phone call. But in its wake, something new was being forged between them, not just love, but a pact. A battle strategy for a war they never asked for, fought for a future that was already marked for death. And Wednesday Addams would be its most ruthless general.

Chapter Text

The declaration of war, delivered via a crackling phone line, changed everything. The air at Nevermore, once merely tense, now felt charged with a silent, predatory attention. Eyes followed them in the hallways, not just curious or judgmental, but calculating. Enid’s defiance of her mother and pack had redrawn the social map of the school, and everyone was trying to figure out where the new fault lines lay.

Wednesday’s strategy of projecting strength was put to the test immediately. She could no longer afford the luxury of succumbing to her nausea in public or showing a moment of fatigue. Every step, every glance, every word was now a performance. She walked the halls with her spine straighter than ever, her expression a carven mask of icy contempt for anyone who dared look at them for too long. She was a Addams. She was made of stone and shadow. She would not break, even if her body screamed at her with every step.

Enid matched her step for step. Her usual sunny demeanor was replaced by a calm, watchful intensity. She was no longer just Enid Sinclair, the girl who wanted to be loved. She was Enid Sinclair, Alpha, protector of her mate. Her gaze, when it swept over the other students, particularly the clumps of whispering wolves, was not friendly. It was an assessment. A challenge. Look all you want, it said. But make a move. I dare you.

They became a fortress of two. They ate at a small table in the corner of the cafeteria, their backs to the wall, a silent agreement passing between them not to show any discomfort at the smells. Wednesday would force down plain bread and steamed vegetables under Enid’s watchful eye, while Enid would eat with a deliberate, unrushed pace, projecting an aura of unshakeable normalcy.

Their room was their only true sanctuary. Behind the closed door, the performances could drop. Wednesday would often immediately retreat to the bathroom, the food she’d forced down making a violent reappearance. Enid was always there, a steady presence, holding her hair back, whispering soothing nonsense.

It was after one such episode, a particularly brutal bout of sickness that left Wednesday trembling and hollowed out, that Enid helped her to bed, her own bed, now their unofficial nest. Wednesday lay back against the pillows, spent, her skin clammy. Enid perched on the edge, gently wiping her forehead with a damp cloth.

“This is unsustainable” Wednesday whispered, her voice raw. The words were a white flag, a moment of terrifying honesty in their private war.

Enid’s hand stilled. She looked down at Wednesday, her eyes soft with a pain that wasn’t her own. “I know” she admitted quietly. “But we just have to make it a little longer. Once… once it starts to show more… we’ll figure something out. We’ll tell Weems. Something.”

The ‘something’ was nebulous, a hope with no shape. The fear of the vision was a ghost in the room, never mentioned but always present.

Wednesday’s hand found its way to her stomach. The pup, unsettled by her sickness, was moving in frantic, fluttering patterns. “It’s restless” she murmured.

A slow, wondrous smile spread across Enid’s face, eclipsing the worry. “Can I?” she asked, her voice full of awe.

Wednesday gave a small, hesitant nod.

Enid’s hand replaced Wednesday’s, her touch infinitely gentle. She waited, her expression one of rapt concentration. When the next movement came, a distinct roll against her palm, her breath hitched. A tear escaped and traced a path through the freckles on her cheek.

“Hey, little fighter,” she whispered, her voice thick with emotion. She leaned down until her lips were close to Wednesday’s stomach. “It’s okay. Mama’s here. We’re both here. We’ve got you.”

The phrase ‘Mama’ hung in the air between them, so intimate and profound it stole the breath from Wednesday’s lungs. She watched Enid, this vibrant, powerful girl, speaking with such tender reverence to the life growing inside her. The love in the room was a physical thing, warm and solid, momentarily pushing back the dread.

Enid looked up, her eyes shining. “We’re going to be okay, Wends. All three of us.”

Wednesday didn’t have the words to reply. Instead, she did the only thing that felt right. She reached up, her fingers gently tracing the line of Enid’s jaw, wiping away the tear track with her thumb. It was a gesture of such uncharacteristic softness that Enid’s eyes widened.

The moment was broken by a soft, almost timid knock on their door.

Both of them froze. It wasn’t the aggressive pound of authority or the confident rap of a friend. It was… hesitant.

Enid’s protective expression snapped back into place. She stood up, her body tense. “Who is it?”

“It’s, uh… it’s me. Ajax.”

Enid and Wednesday exchanged a look of mutual surprise. Ajax Petropolus, the well-meaning but perpetually confused gorgon, had been giving them a wide berth since the battle, unsure of where he fit in the new, complicated social order, he knew that whatever budding relationship he might've being developing with Enid ended the night she shifted, but he didn't seem bitter about it, nor did he seemed to see Wednesday with any sort of contempt for 'taking' his girlfriend.

Enid went to the door and opened it a crack. Ajax stood there, shifting from foot to foot, his beanie pulled low over his curls.

“Hey, man” Enid said, her voice guarded but not unfriendly.

“Hey, Enid. Wednesday” Ajax nodded awkwardly towards the room. “I, uh… I heard some stuff. About the wolves and you two. That sucks.”

“Yeah” Enid said, noncommittally. “It does.”

“Right.” Ajax shuffled his feet again. “Well, I just wanted to say… I don’t get all the werewolf politics stuff. It seems messy. But you guys are my friends. Or, you know, you were. Before I got stoned. Literally.” He attempted a weak smile. “Anyway. If any of those jerks give you a hard time… just let me know. I may not be a wolf, but I can give a mean stink-eye. Literally.”

It was such a purely Ajax offer of support, clumsy, literal, and so utterly sincere that some of the tension drained from Enid’s shoulders. She gave him a genuine, if small, smile. “Thanks, Ajax. That… actually means a lot.”

“Cool. Okay.” He seemed relieved to have delivered his message. “Well. See you guys around.” He gave a little wave and shuffled off down the hall.

Enid closed the door and turned back to Wednesday, a bemused expression on her face. “Well. We have a gorgon in our corner.”

“An unpredictable and potentially petrifying asset,” Wednesday noted, though there was no malice in her tone. “But an asset nonetheless.”

It was a small crack in the wall of hostility surrounding them. A tiny, unexpected offer of an alliance. It didn’t solve their problems. The nausea would return. The fatigue was a constant weight. The threat from the pack was still very real.

But as Wednesday lay in bed, Enid’s hand once again resting protectively on her stomach, she felt the pup’s movements settle into a calm, rhythmic pattern. A tiny, internal peace treaty.

The fortress of two had received its first, clumsy ambassador. It wasn’t much. But in the long, silent siege they were facing, it was a sign that they weren’t as completely alone as they had thought. The love that bound them together inside their walls was starting to whisper, ever so softly, to the world outside.

Chapter Text

The offer of support from Ajax, however clumsy, was like a single star appearing in a pitch-black sky. It didn't illuminate the entire landscape of their problems, but it proved the darkness wasn't absolute. For Enid, it was a balm, a reminder that not everyone at Nevermore saw her as a traitor. For Wednesday, it was a data point. A variable in the complex equation of their survival.

But one ally did not make an army. The majority of the werewolf clique, emboldened by the rumors Ethan had started to spread, continued their campaign of low-grade hostility. It was never anything overt, nothing Enid could directly challenge, or serious enough to force the school's administration to intervene, just a constant, grating pressure. Turned backs in the hallway. Muttered comments that disappeared when teachers were near. A coldness that seemed to drop the temperature whenever they passed.

Wednesday’s performance of stoic strength was becoming harder to maintain. The pregnancy was entering a new phase, one characterized not by acute nausea but by a deep, bone-wearying fatigue that no amount of willpower could fully mask. Her Pallidness was more pronounced, the shadows under her eyes darker. She moved with a new, deliberate slowness, as if conserving energy for the most essential tasks. The pup, growing, was a drain on her resources she could no longer hide.

It was after a particularly draining fencing class, the professor was preparing them for the fencing competition with Jericho High (a event the school was bizarrely determined to hold despite the recent near-destruction, and the currently strained relationship between Jericho residents and the school) that Wednesday found herself leaning heavily against a locker, waiting for a wave of dizziness to pass. Enid was a few feet away, chatting with a friendly wolf, one of the few who hadn't shunned her, but her attention was laser-focused on Wednesday, a constant, worried hum in her posture.

Wednesday closed her eyes, just for a second. The world swam.

"Addams."

The voice was cool, melodic, and directly in front of her. Wednesday’s eyes snapped open.

Bianca Barclay stood there, arms crossed, her head tilted. She wasn't smiling. Her gaze was analytical, sweeping over Wednesday with an intensity that felt surgical. It was the same way Wednesday herself might examine a curious insect specimen.

"Barclay" Wednesday acknowledged, her voice flat. She straightened up, ignoring the protesting ache in her back.

"You look like death warmed over" Bianca stated, her tone devoid of malice, merely fact. "And not the fun, Addams-family-approved kind of death. The kind that suggests organ failure."

"My aesthetic choices are none of your concern" Wednesday deflected, though the observation hit too close to the mark.

"Mm." Bianca’s eyes flicked over Wednesday’s shoulder to where Enid was now watching them, her conversation forgotten, her body tense and ready to intervene. Bianca’s gaze returned to Wednesday, and a faint, knowing smirk touched her lips. "Your guard dog is watching. She's always watching you lately. Like you're made of glass."

Wednesday said nothing. She held Bianca’s gaze, a silent battle of wills.

Bianca leaned in slightly, her voice dropping so only Wednesday could hear. "The rumors are getting louder, you know. The wolves are saying Sinclair's a traitor. That she's soft. That you're making her soft." She paused, letting the words hang. "But that's not it, is it?"

Wednesday’s heart was a cold, hard stone in her chest. She kept her expression utterly blank.

Bianca’s eyes narrowed, sharp and perceptive. She wasn't using her siren powers; this was something else. A deep, intuitive understanding of people, honed by a life of reading rooms and manipulating emotions. Her eyes dropped, just for a fraction of a second, to Wednesday’s midsection, then snapped back to her face.

"The sickness. The fatigue. Sinclair's hyper-protectiveness..." Bianca mused, almost to herself. "It's not a weakness. It's a symptom."

Wednesday’s blood ran cold. She had been so focused on the werewolves, on the obvious threat, she hadn't considered the danger from a different angle. Bianca Barclay, who valued choice and saw the world in terms of valuable alliances and strategic worth, was putting the pieces together.

Bianca’s smirk widened, but it wasn't cruel. It was intrigued. "Well, well. The great Wednesday Addams, brought low by biology. How... ironically mundane."

Before Wednesday could form a cutting retort, Enid was there, inserting herself smoothly between them. Her smile was bright and sharp, a weapon in itself. "Bianca! Hey! What's up? Planning your Fencing strategy already?"

Bianca’s eyes lingered on Wednesday for a beat longer, a silent message passing between them: I know. Then she shifted her focus to Enid, her expression becoming one of casual amusement.

"Just making conversation, Sinclair. Checking in on the competition. You two are looking... cozy." Her tone was light, teasing, but her eyes were still calculating.

"We're managing" Enid said, her voice cheerful but with an undercurrent of steel.

"I'm sure you are" Bianca said. Her gaze swept over both of them again, and she gave a slow, deliberate nod. "Well. Don't work too hard. You look like you could use the rest, Addams."

With that, she turned and walked away, her hips swaying slightly, leaving a cloud of unspoken knowledge and unsettling speculation in her wake.

Enid’s false cheer vanished the second Bianca was out of earshot. She turned to Wednesday, her eyes wide with alarm. "What did she say? What did she want?"

Wednesday watched Bianca’s retreating back. "She was conducting reconnaissance."

"On what? On us?"

"On me" Wednesday corrected, her mind racing. "She has formulated a hypothesis."

Enid’s face paled. "About the...?"

"Yes."

"Oh, god." Enid ran a hand through her hair. "Do you think she'll tell anyone?"

Wednesday considered it. Bianca wasn't a gossip. Information was a currency she spent carefully. "No. Not yet. She gains nothing from revealing it prematurely. Right now, it's merely a piece of interesting data. A potential advantage to be leveraged later."

"That's not comforting, Wends!"

"It is a more favorable outcome than her announcing it to the entire cafeteria" Wednesday pointed out logically. "It gives us time."

"Time for what?" Enid asked, her voice laced with desperation.

Wednesday didn't have an answer. Time was the one thing that felt like it was working against them. Every day that passed brought them closer to the moment their secret would be impossible to hide, and closer to the fate Wednesday had seen in her vision.

That night, the fear was a live wire in their room. The encounter with Bianca had made the walls feel paper-thin. Every creak of the floorboards in the hall felt like a threat.

Wednesday was sitting at her desk, trying to focus on translating a passage of particularly venomous Dark Ages poetry, but the words blurred on the page. Her body was a lead weight. The pup was quiet, a heavy, resting presence.

She felt Enid’s hands on her shoulders before she heard her. Warm, strong fingers began to knead the tight knots of tension there. Wednesday stiffened for a second, the instinct to pull away still strong.

"Just relax," Enid murmured, her voice soft. "You're all tied up in knots."

Wednesday let out a slow breath, allowing her head to drop forward. Enid’s hands were magic, working through the rigidity in her neck and shoulders with a practiced ease that spoke of hidden strength.

"This is my fault," Enid whispered, her thumbs pressing into a particularly stubborn knot. "If I hadn't stood up to my mom... if I'd just kept my head down..."

"Then you wouldn't be you," Wednesday said, the words muffled by her posture. "And I would not want a mate who kept her head down."

Enid’s hands stilled. The word ‘mate’, used so deliberately by Wednesday, hung in the air between them.

After a moment, Enid’s hands resumed their work, gentler now. "I'm scared, Wednesday."

"I know." It was the simplest, truest thing she could say.

"What are we going to do?"

Wednesday straightened up, turning in her chair to face Enid. The fear was there, in Enid’s beautiful, worried face, but so was the strength. The unwavering loyalty.

"We are going to do what Addamses do best," Wednesday said, reaching up to take one of Enid’s hands. She laced their fingers together, a gesture that was becoming more natural, more necessary. "We are going to endure. We are going to be formidable. And we are going to protect what is ours."

She brought their joined hands down to rest on her stomach. The pup, as if in response, gave a firm, unmistakable kick.

Enid’s breath hitched. A smile, fragile but real, broke through her fear. "They agree."

"For now," Wednesday said, a ghost of her usual dryness returning. "They are notoriously fickle."

Enid laughed, a soft, watery sound. She leaned down and kissed Wednesday, a slow, lingering kiss that tasted of fear and hope and an unbreakable promise.

The fortress of two had been scouted. Their defenses were known to a clever and unpredictable enemy. But as they stood together in their room, hands joined over the life they were protecting, the walls felt strong again. They were built not of stone and mortar, but of something far more resilient. They were built of choice. And of a love that was learning to be a weapon.

Chapter Text

The fortress, for all its strength, could not keep out the internal siege. Wednesday’s body had become a battlefield, and the war was escalating. The fatigue was a constant, heavy cloak she could not remove. The carefully curated, bland diet Enid provided was becoming harder to keep down. Mornings were the worst, not that the rest of the day were much better.

It began before dawn. A deep, roiling nausea that had her lurching from the tangle of Enid’s comforter and stumbling to the bathroom. This time, it was more violent than before. She barely made it to the toilet before her body convulsed, heaving up nothing but bile and acid, her stomach long since emptied.

She was trembling, clammy and weak, slumped against the cool porcelain when Enid appeared in the doorway. Her hair was sleep-mussed, her face soft with concern, but her movements were swift and sure.

“Okay, deep breaths” Enid murmured, her voice a low, steady anchor in the storm of Wednesday’s discomfort. She didn’t flinch at the unpleasantness. She simply knelt, gathering Wednesday’s dark hair back from her face and holding it with a gentle firmness.

When the spasms finally subsided, leaving Wednesday shaking and hollow, Enid was ready with a damp cloth, wiping her face with a tenderness that made Wednesday’s throat tight with an emotion she couldn’t name.

“I’ve got you” Enid whispered, helping her to sit back against the bathtub. “Just sit for a minute.”

Wednesday closed her eyes, the world tilting precariously. She felt Enid move away, heard the sound of the sink running. A moment later, a glass of water was pressed into her hand.

“Small sips” Enid instructed, her tone leaving no room for argument.

Wednesday obeyed, the cool water a blessing on her raw throat. She opened her eyes to find Enid watching her, not with pity, but with a fierce, focused determination. In the pale pre-dawn light filtering through the small window, she looked less like a teenager and more like a warrior tending her wounded comrade.

“This isn’t working” Enid stated softly. “You can’t keep going like this. You’re fading away.”

“I am… managing,” Wednesday insisted, though the words lacked conviction.

“You’re not” Enid said, her voice gentle but unwavering. She reached out, her fingers brushing a stray strand of hair from Wednesday’s damp forehead. The touch was electric in its simplicity. “Let me help. Please. Let me take care of you.”

The vulnerability in the request disarmed Wednesday completely. This wasn’t Enid demanding or cajoling. It was an offering. A plea.

Slowly, Wednesday gave a single, exhausted nod.

Enid’s face lit with a soft relief. “Okay. Okay, good.” She stood and held out her hands. “Can you stand?”

With Enid’s help, Wednesday got to her feet. Her legs felt like water. Instead of leading her back to bed, Enid guided her to sit on the closed lid of the toilet. “Wait here.”

She disappeared into their room and returned a moment later with Wednesday’s black silk bathrobe. “Arms up,” she said, her tone brooking no argument.

Too weary to resist, Wednesday allowed Enid to undress her. It was a profoundly intimate act, stripped of any eroticism and filled instead with a raw, practical care. Enid’s hands were efficient but gentle as she helped Wednesday out of her sweat-dampened nightclothes and into the cool, smooth silk of the robe. She tied the sash with a careful knot, her fingers brushing against Wednesday’s waist.

“Now” Enid said, her voice still that soft, commanding whisper. “Back to bed.”

She helped Wednesday the few steps to her own colorful bed, piled high with plush toys, and tucked her in amidst the rainbows and unicorns. The contrast between Wednesday’s stark pallor and the vibrant, cheerful bedding was almost comical.

“I’ll be right back” Enid promised, and slipped out of the room.

Wednesday lay in the unfamiliar softness, surrounded by the scent of Enid, cotton candy, sunshine, and wolf. She could hear Enid moving in their small kitchenette, the sound of a kettle being filled, the quiet opening and closing of cabinets.

When Enid returned, she was carrying a tray. On it was a cup of steaming peppermint tea (“Grandmamma says it’s good for the stomach,” she explained), a few plain crackers on a black plate, and a small, familiar vial of murky liquid from one of Morticia’s care packages.

“You need to get something in you” Enid said, setting the tray on the nightstand. She sat on the edge of the bed, her weight causing the mattress to dip slightly towards her. She picked up the vial. “This first. Then try the tea. Then a cracker. One thing at a time.”

Wednesday took the vial, her fingers brushing against Enid’s. She drank the potion without complaint, its bitter, earthy taste a familiar comfort. Enid took the empty vial and immediately pressed the warm mug of tea into her hands.

“Sip,” she instructed.

Wednesday obeyed. The peppermint was soothing, calming the residual queasiness. She watched Enid over the rim of the mug. Enid was watching her with an expression of such intense, unwavering focus it was almost unnerving. It was the same way she might watch a complex lock she was trying to pick.

“Why are you doing this?” Wednesday asked, the question leaving her lips before she could stop it.

Enid looked surprised. “Because you’re my mate and you're sick.”

“I am incapacitated. A liability. Your mother was correct.”

A flash of anger crossed Enid’s face, but it was quickly banked. “Don’t you ever say that. You are not a liability. You’re…” She struggled for the words, her hand gesturing vaguely at Wednesday. “You’re growing a whole other person. A werewolf pup. Of course it’s taking everything you have.”

Her words settled over Wednesday, quieting the anxious, calculating part of her brain. The part that saw everything in terms of strategic advantages and weaknesses.

Enid took the now-empty mug and replaced it with a single cracker. “Now, this. Slowly.”

Wednesday took a small bite. The cracker was dry and bland, a manageable texture. They sat in silence for a few minutes as she ate it, piece by piece.

When the cracker was gone, Enid took the plate. “Good. Now, lie down. Rest.”

“I should…” Wednesday began, already thinking of the day’s missed classes, the research she needed to do.

“The world can wait” Enid said, her voice firm. She gently pushed on Wednesday’s shoulder until she lay back against the pillows. Then, to Wednesday’s astonishment, Enid shifted on the bed, stretching out beside her on top of the covers. She turned on her side, facing Wednesday, and propped her head up on her hand.

“What are you doing?” Wednesday asked, her body tense.

“Keeping watch,” Enid said simply. Her free hand came to rest on Wednesday’s stomach, over the silk of the robe. “Go to sleep.”

“I am not tired” Wednesday lied, even as her eyelids felt like lead weights.

Enid just smiled, a small, knowing thing. Her thumb began to move, tracing slow, soothing circles on Wednesday’s abdomen. The rhythm was hypnotic. The warmth of her hand seeped through the silk, a comforting, grounding weight.

Wednesday wanted to protest. To retreat to her own bed, to her own familiar isolation. But the bed was soft. Enid’s scent was everywhere. The gentle, circular motion on her stomach was lulling the pup, and her, into a state of deep calm.

She felt the last of her resistance melt away. Her eyes drifted closed. The fears, of Bianca, of the pack, of the future receded, muted by the simple, profound reality of Enid’s care.

As she hovered on the edge of sleep, she felt Enid lean closer. Soft lips pressed against her forehead in a kiss so gentle it was almost a breath.

“I’ve got you” Enid whispered again, her voice the last thing Wednesday heard before sleep finally claimed her. “Both of you.”

And for the first time since the vision, wrapped in the warmth and strength of her mate’s protection, Wednesday believed it.

The world returned in soft increments. The scent of cotton candy and clean linen. The weight of a warm hand resting on her stomach. The slow, steady rhythm of another person’s breathing, syncing with her own.

Wednesday opened her eyes. She was still in Enid’s bed, nestled amongst the pastel plushies. Pale afternoon light streamed through the window. She had slept for hours, a deep, dreamless sleep she hadn’t experienced since before the pregnancy. The crushing fatigue had receded to a manageable hum.

Enid was asleep beside her, still on top of the covers, curled on her side facing Wednesday. One arm was thrown possessively across Wednesday’s waist, her hand splayed over her abdomen even in sleep. Her face was relaxed, peaceful, the worry lines of the past weeks smoothed away.

Wednesday did not move. She studied the sleeping face of her mate, the word felt less foreign each time she used it. The faint dusting of freckles across the bridge of her nose. The soft part of her lips. The way her blonde eyelashes fanned against her cheeks. A strange, tight sensation bloomed in Wednesday’s chest, not unlike the feeling of a rib cracking, but somehow not painful. It was… expansive.

The pup stirred, a lazy, contented roll, as if responding to the steady pressure of Enid’s hand. Wednesday’s own hand came up to cover Enid’s, lacing their fingers together against the silk of her robe. The connection was a circuit, a silent conversation flowing between the three of them. We are here. We are safe.

Enid’s eyes fluttered open. For a moment, they were soft and unfocused. Then awareness returned, and with it, concern. “Hey” she whispered, her voice husky with sleep. “How are you feeling?”

“Adequate” Wednesday replied. It was the highest praise she could offer.

A brilliant smile broke across Enid’s face. “Good.” She squeezed Wednesday’s hand. “You slept. Really slept.”

“Your… methods were effective” Wednesday conceded, her gaze dropping to their joined hands.

Enid’s smile softened. She didn’t push for more. She simply shifted closer, until her forehead was resting against Wednesday’s shoulder. They lay like that for a long time, in a silence that was neither heavy nor empty, but full of a quiet, shared understanding.

The peace was shattered by the distant, unmistakable sound of the Poe Cup cannon signaling the end of the day’s preliminary trials (another ill conceived idea to promote the healing of the school spirit, in reality the Board of was desperate trying to make students and parents forget the undead pilgrim who almost killed them all). The real world, with its pressures and politics, was insistently knocking.

Enid sighed, the sound full of regret. “We should probably see if we’re still in the running.”

“Doubtful” Wednesday said, sitting up. “Our team’s strategy relied on my knowledge of the current patterns in the quicksand bogs. My absence would have been a significant disadvantage.”

Enid grinned, sitting up as well. “Yeah, but I bet Yoko and Davina pulled something awesome out of their hats. And Ajax probably just accidentally turned the other team’s boat to stone. Again.”

The casual mention of their… allies… hung in the air. The moment of perfect, private peace was over, but something of its warmth remained, a shield against the coming cold.

As if summoned by the thought, a light, almost musical knock sounded on their door. It was entirely different from Yoko's pounding or Ajax’s awkward rap.

Enid and Wednesday exchanged a look. Bianca.

Enid got up, smoothing down her sleep-rumpled clothes, and opened the door.

Bianca stood there, looking immaculate as always. She held a small, elegant paper bag. Her eyes swept past Enid, taking in the scene: Wednesday in her silk robe, sitting in the midst of Enid’s riotously colorful bed, the tray of tea and crackers on the nightstand. Her sharp gaze missed nothing.

“Recuperating, I see” Bianca said, her tone neutral.

“Something like that” Enid said, her body subtly blocking the doorway.

Bianca’s lips quirked in a faint, knowing smile. She held out the paper bag. “From my personal stash. Ginger chews. They’re… effective. For certain types of nausea. The kind that doesn’t come from eating the cafeteria’s mystery meat.”

Enid took the bag slowly, her eyes wide with surprise. “Oh. Uh. Thanks, Bianca.”

“Don’t mention it” Bianca said, her meaning clear: Literally, do not mention it to anyone. Her eyes flicked to Wednesday. “We won the trials, by the way. Ophelia Hall is also in the final round. Despite your absence.” There was no accusation in her tone, merely a statement of fact.

“A predictable outcome” Wednesday replied from the bed, her voice regaining its usual flat composure. “The other teams lack strategic creativity.”

“Mm.” Bianca’s smirk returned. “Well. Get your creativity, and your strength back, Addams. The final race is in three days. You will need every advantage you can get.” Her gaze held Wednesday’s for a beat longer than necessary. The message was clear: Your secret is safe with me, for now. But you owe me.

With a final, graceful nod, she turned and left.

Enid closed the door, leaning against it, the bag of ginger chews clutched in her hand. She looked at Wednesday, her expression a mixture of awe and trepidation. “She knows. She definitely knows. And she brought you… candy?”

“A strategic investment” Wednesday corrected, though the gesture had unsettled her too. Bianca wasn’t offering friendship; she was cementing an alliance. She had identified a weakness and was providing a tool to mitigate it, thereby strengthening her own team. It was brilliantly cold. Wednesday could almost respect it.

Enid brought the bag over, opening it. The scent of sharp, spicy ginger filled the air. Wednesday’s stomach, usually rebellious, gave a pleasant, interested rumble.

“Want to try one?” Enid asked, holding out a pale, sugar-dusted candy.

Wednesday took it. The flavor was intense, clearing her sinuses and settling her stomach almost instantly. “Adequate” she pronounced again.

Enid’s laughter was a bright, relieved sound. “High praise.” She popped a ginger chew into her own mouth. “So. An alliance with Bianca Barclay. Our lives are officially weird.”

“Our lives were already statistically anomalous” Wednesday pointed out. “This is merely a new variable.”

But it was a significant one. Bianca’s tacit understanding changed the board. She was a powerful, influential player, and her silence, for now, was a weapon in their arsenal.

That evening, they ventured out for dinner. The walk to the cafeteria was a gauntlet, but it felt different. Wednesday’s nap and the ginger chew had fortified her. She walked with her head high, her arm linked with Enid’s. The whispers and cold stares from the wolves were still there, but they seemed… smaller. Less significant.

As they passed the table where Bianca held court with the other sirens and Yoko, Bianca didn’t look at them. But Yoko did. She caught Enid’s eye and gave a small, almost imperceptible thumbs-up from under the table. Davina, seated beside her, offered a serene, knowing smile.

The message was received. We see you. We’re here.

They got their food, steamed vegetables and plain chicken for Wednesday, a mountain of protein for Enid and took their usual isolated table. But for the first time, the isolation didn’t feel like banishment. It felt like a choice.

Halfway through the meal, a group of younger students a gorgon, a vampire, and a timid-looking banshee walked past their table. They didn’t whisper or sneer. The gorgon, emboldened perhaps by Ajax’s example, met Enid’s eyes and gave a respectful little nod before hurrying away.

Enid stared after them, a piece of chicken halfway to her mouth. “Did that just happen?”

“It would appear so” Wednesday said, spearing a green bean with precise intent.

A slow, real smile spread across Enid’s face. It wasn’t the bright, performative smile she used for her mother or the world. It was smaller, softer, and filled with a dawning wonder. “They’re not all against us.”

“The data suggests a developing schism within the student body” Wednesday observed. “Fueled, no doubt, by Bianca’s influence and a general disdain for pack politics.”

“I’ll take it” Enid said, her smile widening. She reached across the table, her hand covering Wednesday’s.

Wednesday looked down at their joined hands, then at the dining hall around them. At the table of loyalists who hated them, and the scattered, silent allies who did not. At the immense, terrifying secret growing within her, and the fierce, loving girl who guarded it with her life.

Wednesday agreed mutely. She turned her hand over to lace her fingers with Enid’s.

Chapter Text

The world had narrowed to the circle of lamplight over Yoko’s cluttered desk. Wednesday was asleep in their room and Enid sat on the edge of Yoko’s coffin-shaped bed, methodically shredding a stress ball she’d stolen from Principal Weems’s office. The foam innards littered the floor like pink snow.

“She’s down to one piece of toast a day” Enid whispered, the words raw. “And she has to eat it in microscopic bites over an hour. It’s like watching a ghost try to fuel a furnace.”

Yoko swiveled in her chair, pushing her history textbook aside. Her sunglasses were perched on her head, red eyes on display now that they were away from the sun, and the other students “Maybe she’s going for that ethereal, consumptive Victorian poet aesthetic. It’s very on-brand.”

Enid didn’t smile. “Her hands shake sometimes when she thinks I’m not looking. And the fatigue… Yoko, it’s not normal tired. It’s like something is draining her life force. Which, I guess, it is.” Her voice hitched, they needed a doctor, a real one, but Wednesday has so far refused to ask her mom's help, or director Weems for that matter, Jericho doesn't have an OB-GYN specialized in outcasts and I certainly couldn't call my parents for help, in other words we don't have a doctor and my girlfriend is wasting away carrying my child “What if it’s too much? What if her body can’t… what if I’m asking too much of her just by… being?”

The fear was a live wire in her chest, buzzing constantly under the surface of every reassuring smile, every confident order to ‘eat this,’ ‘drink that,’ ‘rest now.’ Her wolf whined inside her, a constant, anxious sound only she could hear. It screamed at her to fix it, to protect, to provide. But how did you fight an enemy that was inside your mate? How did you protect someone from their own biology?

Yoko’s flippant demeanor softened a fraction. She kicked her feet up on the desk. “You’re not ‘asking’ anything, dude. She’s in it. You’re both in it. It’s a shitty, terrifying canoe and you’re both paddling like hell.”

“But I’m the Alpha” Enid said, the title feeling like a lead weight. “It’s my job to steer. To know the way. And I’m paddling blind.” She finally looked up, her eyes swimming with tears she refused to shed in front of Wednesday. “What if I’m steering us right over a waterfall?”

It had started the night after the battle. She’d shown up at Yoko’s door, half-dressed, her entire body vibrating in a mix of dread, anxiety, and adrenaline, she had just committed the best and most terrifying mistake of her life, Wednesday was for sure going to kill her in the morning.
“I did something bad…incredible, but so bad. Willa is going to kill me in the morning Yoko, she is so going to kill me” Enid had squealed, pacing the small room while Yoko calmly offered her some water.
“Breathe furball, and start from the beggining” Yoko had said.

"I did the thing with Wednesday…we did the thing" I said not really looking at Yoko, she raised an eyebrow.

"The thing…you know that coming from you two this could literally mean anything right?" said the Vampire confused, I huffed as I went back to pacing.

"Sex, okay, we had sex in whatever is left of our room, and it was amazing, the most incredible thing I ever did in my life especially because Wednesday is going to kill me in the morning when she is less concussed and able to process the fact that we had sex" I said panicking, I care for Wednesday so much, and she was finally opening up to me, and now it was over. She'll never trust me again after this.

"Okay…that I didn't expect…I mean, I did. But I thought you would at least take her on a date first, but them again almost getting killed and transforming into a werewolf for the first time just to save her it's a pretty good move too" Said the vampire, I turned to face her with wide eyes.

"WHAT???" I practically screamed.

"I mean…c'mon you two were already on that path" Said the vampire with a smirk, I was still in too in shook to say anything.

"I supposed your right, she was always especial to me, but you know Wednesday feels different, she prefers to have a wall between herself and the world and I'm afraid I just fucked that when she was finally letting me see the other side" I said tiredly as I fell down on her bed.

“Quite literally actually, but what you do is, you go back in there and be the wall between her and the world. It’s literally what you’re built for.”

But being the wall was exhausting. Every snide look from Ethan in the hallway wasn’t just an insult; it was a challenge her wolf itched to answer, a threat to the den she was trying to build. She had to consciously unclench her jaw a dozen times a day. She found herself memorizing exits, assessing threats, her senses on a perpetual high alert that left her feeling frayed.

She’d come to Yoko again after the test, her hands still smelling of antiseptic from where she’d cleaned up the bathroom.
“She saw it die, Yoko” she’d choked out, collapsing onto the bed. “She saw it. How am I supposed to be happy about something she’s already mourning?”
Yoko had been quiet for a long moment. “You be happy for her. You hope for her. You carry that part until she’s strong enough to carry it herself. That’s the job.”

So she did. She poured every ounce of her sunshine into their dark room, trying to keep the shadows at bay. She learned to watch Wednesday without seeming to, tracking the subtle tells: the way she’d press her lips together to stop herself from groaning when she stood up, the way her eyes would lose focus for a second in class, the slight tremor in her hand when she reached for her water glass. Each one was a tiny dagger of fear in Enid’s heart. Is this normal? Is it getting worse? Why isn’t she getting better?

The phone call with her mother had been the worst. The word “shunned” had echoed in the silent room long after she’d hung up. She’d fled to Yoko, not crying, but shaking with a cold, sterile fury.
“She chose them over me. the stupid pack. Over me. Her daughter.”
“No” Yoko had corrected, her voice unusually sharp. “You chose your future over your past. Big difference. Now stop feeling sorry for yourself and go be the future your macabre little witch girlfriend obviously believes in.”

Now, weeks later, the fears were more specific, more terrifying. The baby was moving more, a active, living thing and it brought a sense of joy to her that she never felt before, their baby was growing, moving, fighting, but it also amplified Enid’s terror. More movement meant it was bigger. Bigger meant it needed more. And Wednesday was giving everything. She was fading before Enid’s eyes, and there wasn’t a single enemy she could fight to stop it.

“What if it keeps getting worse?” The question slipped out, the one she’d been too afraid to give voice to. “The sickness, the fatigue… what if it doesn’t get better? What if her body just… rejects it?” The thought was a black hole, sucking all the air from the room.

Yoko was silent for a beat, then she shrugged, a studied nonchalance that Enid knew was a cover. “Then you deal with it. You hold her hand. You let her scream. You become the immovable object for her unstoppable force of grief. Not exactly a fun prom night, but it’s the one you signed up for.”

It was harsh. It was real. It was exactly what Enid needed to hear.

“You’re a terrible motivational speaker” Enid mumbled, wiping her eyes with the back of her hand.

“I’m a vampire, not a life coach. My expertise is in brooding and looking cool in capes.” Yoko stood up and stretched. “Look, you’re scared. Good. You should be. This is scary. But you’re not useless. You’re her… what’s the word? Her… external organ. You’re the part of her that eats and fights and deals with idiots so she can focus all her energy on the whole ‘building a person’ thing. It’s a pretty important job. Now, are we done with the feelings jam? I have a date with a pint of O-negative and a documentary about ancient burial rites.”

Enid managed a weak laugh. “Yeah. Yeah, we’re done.” She stood up, the shredded stress ball finally discarded. “Thanks, Yoks.”

“Anytime. Now go cheat your ass off tomorrow. I’ve got fifty bucks riding on you guys.”

Walking back to her room, Enid’s thoughts were still a turbulent whirl, but the panic had receded, banked by Yoko’s brutal brand of honesty. She was scared. So what? Wednesday was scared. They could be scared together. Her job wasn’t to have all the answers. Her job was to be the wall. The anchor.

She opened the door to their room. Wednesday was asleep in her bed, a dark slash against the colorful pillows. The book had slipped from her fingers. In the soft light, she looked so pale, so fragile. The fear surged back, a cold wave.

But this time, Enid didn’t let it paralyze her. She crossed the room and knelt by the bed. Gently, so gently, she pressed her ear to Wednesday’s stomach, just below her rib cage. She held her breath.

Thump-thump. Thump-thump.

A strong, steady heartbeat, amplified by her wolf’s hearing. It was there. It was fighting. They were fighting.

A single tear escaped and soaked into the black silk of Wednesday’s robe. This was her pack. Her tiny, improbable, fighting-for-its-life pack.

She changed and slid into bed, careful not to wake Wednesday. As if drawn by a magnet, Wednesday shifted in her sleep, turning into Enid, her head finding its home on her shoulder, her cold nose pressing against Enid’s neck.

Enid wrapped her arms around her, holding her as close as she dared. She felt the pup give a determined kick, a little rebel against the darkness.

“I know,” Enid whispered into the quiet dark, her voice steady now, a vow. “I’m scared too. But I’ve got you. However I can. For as long as I can.”

Chapter Text

The world returned not as a sudden shock, but as a slow accretion of sensory data. The first was scent: cotton candy shampoo and the underlying, grounding musk of wolf. The second was sound: a steady, strong heartbeat under her ear, a rhythm that had become more familiar to her than her own. The third was touch: the warm, solid weight of an arm draped over her waist, a hand splayed possessively against the silk covering her stomach.

Wednesday did not open her eyes. She remained perfectly still, cataloging the data. She was in Enid’s bed. Again. She really ought to have Thing order them a bigger bed, since it was clear that they would no longer sleep apart. The previous night’s nausea and subsequent… care… were a blur of unpleasant sensation punctuated by moments of startling tenderness. The memory of Enid’s hands, so sure and gentle, of her voice, a steady anchor in the storm of her own physical betrayal, was more unsettling than the sickness itself.

She was adrift in a sea of her own weakness, and Enid Sinclair had become both her lifeline and the proof of her drowning.

Carefully, she shifted her head. Pale morning light filtered through the window, illuminating Enid’s sleeping face. In repose, the constant, watchful tension she now carried was gone. She looked young. Peaceful. A lock of blonde hair had fallen across her forehead. Wednesday experienced a bizarre, nearly overwhelming impulse to brush it away. She quashed it immediately.

Her analytical mind, finally clear of the fog of fatigue and illness, began its cold, clinical assessment.

Fact: Her body was failing in its primary function of self-containment and efficiency.
Fact: This failure was directly linked to the parasitic, her thought stuttered, corrected itself, the pup developing within her.
Fact: The organism’s health was inextricably tied to her own, a symbiotic relationship she had not agreed to.
Fact: Enid’s well-being was now a variable directly dependent on both of the above.

It was an unacceptable cascade of vulnerabilities. Her own, she could perhaps endure. But Enid’s… Enid’s was a catastrophic system failure in the making. She saw the shadows under Enid’s eyes that mirrored her own, the way her smiles sometimes didn’t reach her eyes, the hyper-vigilant way she scanned every room they entered. Her mate was suffering. For her.

The vision of the small, cold form flickered behind her eyes, a persistent ghost. Was this the beginning of that end? Was her body simply an inadequate host, destined to fail its occupant?

A particularly sharp kick from within, a jab to what felt like her liver, made her gasp softly.

Enid stirred immediately. Her eyes flew open, not with sleepiness, but with instant, focused alertness. The peace on her face vanished, replaced by concern. “Wends? You okay? Is it…?”

“I am functional” Wednesday interrupted, her voice rough with sleep. The lie was automatic, a defense mechanism.

Enid’s gaze searched her face, seeing through the lie with an infuriating, innate accuracy. Her hand, still on Wednesday’s stomach, began to move in those slow, soothing circles that were somehow both a comfort and an irritant. “Liar” she whispered, but there was no accusation in it. Only a deep, weary affection.

The pup, responding to the familiar touch, settled. The traitor.

“The Poe Cup is today” Wednesday stated, changing the subject to more solid ground. “Our absence during the trials has likely put Ophelia Hall at a statistical disadvantage.”

Enid’s face lit up with a determined fire. “Are you kidding? They crushed it. Bianca may be maniac on the water. But we weren't far behind with your… uh… strategic reassessment of the final obstacle, we’ve got it in the bag, also Yoko and Agnes really helped out by covering for us” She leaned down, her voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper. “Did you really figure out how to break Weems’s sonic lock?”

“It was elementary” Wednesday said, a flicker of pride cutting through her malaise. “The frequency was based on a Gregorian chant commonly used in exorcisms. Deeply unoriginal.”

Enid grinned, that brilliant, sun-breaking-through-clouds grin that still, against all logic and reason, caused a peculiar sensation in Wednesday’s chest. “You’re amazing.”

The praise was illogical. She had simply applied basic knowledge. Yet, she found herself storing the memory of Enid’s grin alongside other critical data points: enemy movements, poison recipes, the best time of year to harvest deadly nightshade.

The process of getting ready for the day was a silent ballet of care and acquiescence. Enid brought her toast and ginger tea without being asked. Wednesday ate it, one deliberate, microscopic bite at a time, under Enid’s watchful eye. She allowed Enid to help her dress, her fingers deftly buttoning the back of Wednesday’s dress when a wave of dizziness made her own hands unsteady. The intimacy was staggering. Humbling.

They emerged from Ophelia Hall into the bright, chaotic energy of the Poe Cup finals. The quad was a riot of color and noise. Wednesday immediately felt the familiar prickle of hostile attention from the cluster wolves near the shore, Ethan at the center. But she also felt other eyes on her. Yoko, from where she was staying with some Vampires, gave a subtle nod. She had taken our place during the trails when Enid and I couldn't attend due to my nausea, but now that we were able to compete she had withdrawn, apparently Yoko had no wish to be in the middle of her siren mate and best friend competitive side. Bianca, already standing by her team's boat, shot her a look that was all sharp, calculating approval.

In that moment, she was not just Wednesday Addams, the pregnant girl with a death sentence hanging over her head. She was Wednesday Addams, strategic asset to Ophelia Hall. The shift was minuscule, but significant.

The race was a blur of shouting, splashing water, and Bianca’s ruthless commands to her team. Wednesday’s role was minimal; Enid was their captain, and her job had been done the night before. She sat in the stern, a silent, pale figure, conserving her energy, her hand resting over her stomach as the boat jolted over the waves. Each impact sent a jolt through her, a reminder of her fragility, but thankfully this year it seemed that no siren was going to try and turn their canoe, Bianca's order I had no doubt.

They approached the final obstacle: a dark cave mouth at the base of the cliffs. A complex lock mechanism was visible within, a series of tuning forks waiting for the correct sonic sequence.

“Now, Addams!” Bianca shouted over the wind and water, as much as we were rivals in this competition, a deal is a deal.

Wednesday didn’t need the instruction. She had already withdrawn the small, custom-built frequency emitter from her pocket, a device she had soldered together in the dead of night. She aimed it at the mechanism and pressed the button.

A discordant, ugly shriek echoed from the cave, a sound that set everyone’s teeth on edge. The locking mechanism shuddered and, with a satisfying clunk, disengaged. The gate to the cave swung open.

From their it was a pure challenge of who was the fittest with Enid and Bianca running to see who would reach the prize first, and unsurprisingly to her Enid was the better terrestrial predator, reaching for the flag just a couple seconds before Bianca.

A triumphant roar went up from their boat. Bianca shot her a look of pure, predatory glee before taking control of her boat, the run was now for who would cross the lake faster.

They had won. The cheers of their housemates were deafening. Enid was beaming, hugging a protesting Yoko, her joy a tangible force, Bianca wasn't happy about losing, but she wasn't bitter about it also, which surprised Wednesday.

But Wednesday felt distant from it all. The effort of the race, the tension, had cost her. The world began to tilt at the edges, the cheers morphing into a dull roar in her ears. She reached out a hand, bracing herself against the side of the boat, her breath catching.

Enid’s celebration died instantly. She was at Wednesday’s side in a heartbeat, her arm slipping around her waist, taking her weight. “Hey, hey. I’ve got you. Look at me. Breathe.”

The concern on her face was a mirror of the fear Wednesday felt curdling in her own gut. This was not strength. This was not formidable. This was a fundamental brokenness.

“I need to get back to the room” Wednesday managed to grit out, humiliation burning like acid in her throat.

“Okay” Enid said, her voice firm, leaving no room for argument. She didn’t look back at the celebrating team, at their victory. Her entire world had narrowed to the pale, trembling girl in her arms. “Let’s go.”

As Enid helped her from the boat, Wednesday caught a glimpse of Ethan watching them, a nasty, knowing smirk on his face. He saw it. He saw her weakness.

The walk back to Ophelia Hall was a silent, shame-filled journey. The victory felt hollow, ashes in her mouth. She had provided the key to winning, but her body had failed at the moment of triumph. She was a liability.

Once inside their room, the door closed against the world, the last of her strength gave out. She didn’t make it to the bed. She slid down the wall onto the floor, pulling her knees to her chest, a defensive posture she hadn’t assumed since she was a child.

Enid knelt in front of her, her face etched with worry. “Wednesday, talk to me. Please.”

The words came out, stripped bare of all pretense, all Addamsian stoicism. “I am a compromised asset” she whispered, staring at a point on the floor. “I am a weakness you cannot afford. He saw. They all saw.”

Understanding dawned on Enid’s face, followed by a ferocity that was breathtaking. She cupped Wednesday’s face in her hands, forcing her to look up.

“Listen to me” Enid said, her voice low and intense, her Alpha aura filling the small space. “You are not an ‘asset.’ You are my mate. You are carrying our child. You just won the Poe Cup for our house from a boat while growing a whole other person. You are the strongest person I have ever met.”

Her thumbs stroked Wednesday’s cheeks. “So what if they saw? Let them see. Let them see that you’re fighting the hardest battle of any of them. And let them see that you’re not fighting it alone.”

The fervent, unwavering belief in Enid’s eyes was a lifeline thrown into the abyss of her despair. Wednesday felt the icy knot of shame in her chest begin to loosen, just a fraction.

Enid leaned forward, resting her forehead against Wednesday’s. “You’re not a liability” she whispered, her breath warm against Wednesday’s lips. “You’re my heart. And I protect what’s mine.”

In the quiet aftermath of the victory, on the floor of their room, Wednesday Addams felt the terrifying, beautiful calculus of her life reconfigure. The variables were no longer just strength and weakness, victory and defeat. They were Enid’s hands on her face. They were the stubborn kick of their pup. They were a choice, not to be strong, but to be protected. To be loved.

It was the most illogical, strategically unsound decision she had ever made. And she embraced it completely.

Chapter Text

The victory of the Poe Cup was a distant, muffled memory, a burst of noise that had given way to a deeper, more profound silence. In the days that followed, Wednesday’s condition became the central, unspoken fact of their existence. The carefully constructed facade of normalcy had crumbled entirely. She was a ghost in the halls of Nevermore, her pallor pronounced, the hollows under her eyes like smudges of charcoal. The bland human food, the toast, the crackers, the steamed vegetables was a battle she was losing. She could keep less and less of it down, and the energy required to even attempt it was energy she no longer had.

Enid watched the decline with a quiet, mounting desperation that was a physical pain in her chest. Her wolf paced inside her, a caged, frantic thing. It understood need on a primal level: hunger, protection, provision. And it understood that its mate was starving. The instinct to provide, to hunt and bring back sustenance, was a scream in her blood she didn’t know how to answer.

She’d tried everything. She’d smuggled in every bland human remedy she could find. She’d even, in a moment of sheer desperation, called Morticia Addams, who had FedExed a case of dubious-looking herbal tonics that smelled of grave dirt and regret. Nothing worked.

It was Yoko, of course, who cut through the noise.

She and Davina let themselves into the room without knocking, a habit Wednesday found intolerable but no longer had the energy to combat. Yoko took one look at Wednesday, who was listlessly attempting to read in bed, and let out a low whistle.

“Whoa, Addams. You’re looking a little… see-through. The consumptive poet vibe is one thing, but this is pushing it.”

Wednesday didn’t look up. “Your powers of observation remain as startling as ever, Tanaka.”

Davina, serene as always, glided further into the room. Her perceptive siren’s eyes swept over the untouched tray of dry toast and herbal tea on the nightstand, then to Enid’s distraught face.

“She can’t keep anything down” Enid whispered, her voice cracking. “Nothing. I don’t know what to do.”

Yoko’s flippant demeanor vanished. She exchanged a look with Davina, a silent conversation passing between them in the way of long-term mates.

“Okay” Yoko said, clapping her hands together. “New plan. We’re done playing human.” She fixed her gaze on Wednesday. “I talked to my mom, since you clear wont talk to yours…for some reason, and she told us that in cases like yours the baby needs some nutrients that you wouldn't generally ingest. In other words Addams. You’re not just baking a little goth baby in there. You’re baking a werewolf pup. A predator. It doesn’t want oatmeal. It wants… fuel.”

Wednesday finally lifted her gaze, her eyes dark with exhaustion and suspicion. “What are you suggesting?”

“I’m suggesting you listen to your body. To what the little one is telling” Yoko said, pointing at Wednesday’s stomach. “What is it want?”

Wednesday was silent. The truth was, she’d been ignoring the specific, dark little urges that had been whispering at the edge of her consciousness for weeks. The sudden, intense desire for the coppery smell of blood when she passed the vampiric wing. The way her mouth had watered, to her utter horror, when Enid had cut herself whittling a new stake. She had attributed it to the general madness of her condition and stress, she had never really cared about meat before.

Davina spoke, her voice a calm, melodic counterpoint to Yoko’s intensity. “The pup is drawing what it needs from you, Wednesday. their needs are… specific, it's not just you who's hungry, the baby is too and If you do not meet their needs externally, they will consume you internally. You must feed the wolf to save the raven.”

Enid stared at them, a dawning, horrifying understanding on her face. “You mean… meat?”

“I mean meat” Yoko confirmed, her eyes gleaming. “The bloodier, the better. Rare. Basically still mooing.”

A wave of revulsion so strong it nearly made her gag swept through Wednesday. “Absolutely not.”

“It’s biology, Wednesday” Davina corrected gently. “Your child is, by its very nature, a carnivore. You are its sole source of nourishment. You must become what it needs.”

“I will not” Wednesday stated, her voice thin but firm. The idea of consuming near raw flesh was anathema to everything she was. She appreciated death, not… consumption in its most primal form.

“Wednesday, please” Enid pleaded, coming to kneel by the bed. She took Wednesday’s cold hands in her warm ones. “Just… just think about it. What does… what does it want? Not what you want. What does the pup want?”

As if on cue, a sharp, twisting cramp seized Wednesday’s abdomen, a painful, empty ache that was different from the nausea. It was a demand. At the same time, the image of a rare steak, seared on the outside, ruby red and glistening on the inside, flashed behind her eyes with a clarity that was terrifying.

She squeezed her eyes shut. “This is monstrous.”

“It’s survival” Yoko said flatly. “Look, I’ll make you a deal. We’ll get you the good stuff. Not from the cafeteria. From a specialty butcher in Jericho. The kind the werewolf families use. It’s safe. Clean. Just… pure, bloody protein.”

“I will not…” Wednesday began, but another cramp, sharper this time, cut her off. She gasped, doubling over slightly.

That was all it took for Enid. The sight of Wednesday in fresh pain overrode everything. Her decision was made.

“Get it,” she said to Yoko, her voice leaving no room for argument. It was the Alpha voice. “Now.”

Yoko nodded, a flicker of respect in her eyes, and pulled out her phone. Davina simply moved to the window, looking out as if giving them privacy for the descent into this new, primal reality.

The next hour was a tense, silent wait. Wednesday had retreated into herself, furious and humiliated by the betrayal of her own body. Enid sat beside her, holding her hand, a solid, steady presence despite the storm of worry inside her.

When Yoko returned, she carried a small, discreet cooler. She opened it on Wednesday’s desk. Inside, were two thick cuts of steak, fresh, almost raw, marbled with white fat. The smell that wafted out was metallic, rich, and utterly primal.

Enid’s wolf stirred, a interested, hungry rumble. She swallowed hard, focusing on Wednesday.

Wednesday stared at the meat as if it were a venomous snake. Every civilized instinct she possessed rebelled against it.

“Just try a little piece” Enid urged softly. “If it makes you sick, we never speak of it again. I promise.”

Hating herself, hating the entire situation, Wednesday gave a tiny, jerky nod.

Enid took a knife from the cooler, provided by the thoughtful butcher, and sliced off a small, crimson cube. Her hand trembled slightly as she held it out to Wednesday.

Wednesday looked at the near raw meat, then at Enid’s hopeful, terrified face. She thought of the vision. She thought of the tiny, cold hands. She thought of Enid’s heart breaking.

Steeling herself, she took the piece of meat from Enid’s fingers.

She expected revulsion. She expected to gag.

What she did not expect was the flood of intense, overwhelming craving that washed through her. Her mouth watered. Her stomach, so long a source of rebellion, gave a loud, eager rumble.

Closing her eyes, she put the piece of meat in her mouth.

The texture was foreign, slick and dense. But the taste… the taste was like nothing she had ever experienced. It was life. It was iron and strength and potency. It was exactly what the screaming, empty void inside her had been demanding.

She swallowed. And waited for the sickness to come.

It didn’t.

Instead, a warmth spread through her chilled body. The gnawing, painful cramp in her abdomen eased, replaced by a deep, satisfying sense of… rightness. The pup, as if sensing the influx of proper fuel, gave a vigorous, happy kick.

She opened her eyes. Enid, Yoko, and even Davina were watching her, holding their breath.

Wednesday’s gaze fell to the steak again. Without a word, she took the knife from Enid and sawed off another, larger piece. She ate it with a focused, deliberate intensity that was far more terrifying than any disgusted reaction could have been.

When she was done, she looked at Enid, her expression one of stunned, horrified revelation.

“Well?” Yoko asked, a slow grin spreading across her face. “Do we have a conversion?”

Wednesday ignored her. Her eyes were locked with Enid’s.

“It appears” Wednesday said, her voice a mixture of awe and utter defeat “that our child is a carnivore.”

A sob of relief escaped Enid. She threw her arms around Wednesday, laughing and crying at the same time. “It’s okay. It’s okay. It’s just biology.”

Over Enid’s shoulder, Wednesday watched as Yoko gave her a triumphant thumbs-up. She had lost a fundamental battle with herself. She had crossed a line into something dark and primal and necessary.

And as the first real, un-protested nourishment in weeks settled in her stomach, fortifying her, quieting the constant drain, she knew, with a terrifying certainty, that it was only the beginning.

Chapter Text

The call from Enid Sinclair had been a splash of ice water to the face, but of a peculiarly Addams variety bracing, intriguing, and portentous. Morticia had been in her greenhouse, delicately encouraging a night-blooming corpse flower to reveal its secrets, when the phone vibrated with a frantic, tear-filled plea.

The girl’s words had been a jumble, rushed and laced with a panic that felt entirely too raw for a simple stomach ailment. “She’s so pale, and she can’t keep anything down, not even water, and she’s so weak, and I think it’s a really bad infection, and the school nurse just said to rest, but it’s not working…”

Morticia had remained a calm, soothing presence, her voice a low murmur that seemed to settle the young werewolf’s breathing, if not her terror. She had promised a tonic, something from her private stores to settle the stomach and fortify the spirit. She had acted, dispatching a crate of potent, murky elixirs via raven within the hour.

But a mother’s intuition, especially a mother like Morticia Addams, was a sharper instrument than any scalpel. The story was a fragile vase, and Enid’s desperation had placed hairline fractures all over it. A ‘stomach infection’? Wednesday had built up a tolerance to every known poison and pathogen by the age of twelve. A common illness reducing her to a pallid, bedridden invalid? Preposterous.

There was a deeper malaise at work. A more fascinating, and therefore more terrifying, mystery.

There was only one person who held the key. One person standing watch over her daughter in that den of teenage angst and latent monstrosity.

She waited until the moon was a sharp sliver in the sky, a perfect scalpel of light. Retiring to her study, a room that smelled of ancient leather, yew wood, and the faint, sweet scent of decay, she picked up the heavy, black-lacquered telephone and dialed a number etched into her memory by time, love, and regret.

In her opulent office at Nevermore, Larissa Weems’s private line rang. She picked it up on the second ring, her voice the epitome of collected authority. “Weems.”

“Larissa” Morticia’s voice was a cascade of midnight velvet, smooth and unnerving. “I do hope I’m not interrupting a thrilling evening of budget reports.”

A beat of silence. Larissa’s spine straightened almost imperceptibly. “Morticia. This is… unexpected.”

“I had the most peculiar call from young Miss Sinclair today” Morticia began, her tone light, almost amused. “She was in quite a state. It seems my Wednesday has been struck down by a… ‘stomach infection.’ A rather vigorous one, to hear Enid tell it.”

Larissa’s grip on the receiver tightened. She chose her words with the care of a bomb disposal expert. “Miss Addams has been… under the weather. The school medic has been attending to her. These things can be quite draining.”

“Oh, I’m sure” Morticia agreed, and Larissa could practically hear the dark, knowing smile in her voice. “But a stomach infection? For a girl who once ate a full bowl of death cap mushrooms to prove a point and only complained about the lack of seasoning? It strikes me as… incongruous.”

Larissa closed her eyes. She was traversing a minefield in stiletto heels. “The body reacts in mysterious ways to stress, Morticia. The events of the semester have taken a toll on all our students.”

“Of course” Morticia purred. “And I’m certain the… particular stress of her newfound attachment to Miss Sinclair is just another factor. They have become so close, haven’t they? Inseparable. It’s rather beautiful to see Wednesday finally allowing someone past her formidable defenses.”

The subtext was a shiv, expertly aimed. I know there’s more to this friendship.

“Their bond is… notable” Larissa conceded, her voice tight.

“Enid sounded less like a concerned friend and more like a… well, like a mate whose world is ending,” Morticia pressed, her voice losing its playful edge and gaining a razor’s sharpness. “Her terror was… specific. Primal. It didn’t sound like the fear of a sick roommate. It sounded like the fear of someone watching their heart stop beating.”

The line was so silent Larissa wondered if the call had dropped. Morticia had seen right through the flimsy excuse, past the illness, and straight to the core of the truth: the bond was everything. The illness was just a symptom.

“Morticia, I am not at liberty to discuss the specific medical details of a student’s condition” Larissa said, retreating into the cold comfort of policy. It was a flimsy shield, but the only one she had.

But the truth, the reason she clutched that shield so desperately, was a tangled knot of duty, fear, and a history that still ached like an old wound.

To tell Morticia the truth would be to unleash a hurricane upon Nevermore. Gomez would arrive within the hour, likely with a hearse and a collection of antique weaponry, ready to lay siege to anyone who had caused his little storm cloud a moment of distress. Morticia herself, for all her ethereal grace, was a force of nature when her family was threatened. Their methods would be… extreme. They would burn the world down to protect Wednesday, and Larissa’s carefully reconstructed school would be part of the kindling.

Furthermore, Wednesday would never forgive her. The fragile trust they had built, the unspoken understanding that had passed between them since Weems had deduced her condition, would be shattered. Wednesday valued her autonomy above all else. To have her private struggle, her terrifying vulnerability, revealed to her parents without her consent would be the ultimate betrayal. It would send her retreating behind her walls forever, and it would sever the tentative bond she was forming with Enid, who was, against all odds, keeping her alive.

And beneath it all, buried deep, was a more personal, more pathetic reason. To admit the truth to Morticia was to confess her own failure. She had failed to protect Morticia’s daughter, a daughter who might, in some unacknowledged corner of her heart, have been hers too, from this consuming, life-threatening situation. It was to admit that she, Larissa Weems, who had dedicated her life to this school, had let it become a place where such a thing could happen in secret, under her very nose. The shame of that was a poison she preferred to keep to herself.

"She is my daughter Larissa, you can't keep her information from me" Said Morticia, a coldness to her voice.

“I can only reiterate that the school is providing all necessary care” Larissa continued, her voice a practiced, neutral calm. “And I am monitoring the… social dynamics… that are contributing to the stress of the situation. The Sinclair girl is under immense pressure from her own community. That pressure, undoubtedly, is transferred to Wednesday.”

It was the truth, just not the whole truth. She was handing Morticia a piece of the puzzle, the piece that was safe to hold. A warning, without the devastating revelation.

Morticia was silent for a long moment, processing. “Her own community turns on her for her affections?” The displeasure in her voice was a cold thing. “How… small-minded of them.”

“It is a complicated cultural matter” Weems deflected, her knuckles white on the receiver.

“It is a matter of the heart” Morticia corrected, her voice final. “And those are the only matters that truly signify. Thank you, Larissa. You have been… illuminating.”

Illuminating enough to know something was terribly wrong. Illuminating enough to know Larissa was hiding something. But not illuminating enough to see the full, terrible picture. For now, that would have to be enough.

“My door is always open to concerned parents” Weems said, the lie tasting like ash.

“Of course. Goodnight, Principal Weems.”

The line went dead.

Larissa Weems sat in the dim light of her office, the receiver a cold weight in her hand. Morticia knew nothing concrete, but she knew enough. She knew the bond was profound. She knew her daughter was suffering. And she knew the wolves were circling.

She had given nothing away, and yet she felt exposed. Morticia’s intuition was a searchlight, and it was sweeping ever closer to the truth Larissa was bound to protect. The game had become infinitely more complex. She was no longer just guarding a secret; she was hiding it from a master player, all while trying to maintain control of a school that felt poised on the edge of a knife. The weight of it was a constant, crushing pressure. She had made her choice. Now she had to live with it, and ensure that her silence did not become Wednesday’s tomb.

Chapter Text

The change in Wednesday was not dramatic, but to a observer as sharp as Bianca Barclay, it was as obvious as a splash of blood on snow. It had been ten days since the Poe Cup, ten days since the clandestine delivery from the butcher in Jericho.

Bianca watched from her usual table in the corner of the library, a textbook on advanced mesmerism open but unread before her. Wednesday Addams sat across the room, shrouded in her customary gloom, but there was a new… solidity to her. The terrifying translucence was gone from her skin, replaced by a more familiar, paler-but-present pallor. The slight, constant tremor in her hands as she turned the pages of a heavy, leather-bound tome had stilled. Most telling of all, a small, discreet thermos sat beside her, from which she would occasionally take a sip without a hint of nausea.

A slow, satisfied smirk touched Bianca’s lips. So. The wolf-chow diet was working. Good.

She hadn’t intervened out of the goodness of her heart. Bianca Barclay didn’t believe in goodness; she believed in value. And a debilitated, starving Wednesday Addams was of no value to anyone, least of all to Bianca’s plans for maintaining dominance. A healthy, sharp, and strategically brilliant Wednesday was an asset. And assets needed to be maintained.

But it was more than that, and it irritated her to admit it, even to herself. There was a certain… aesthetic rightness to the pair. The unyielding darkness of the Addams girl and the fierce, vibrant light of the Sinclair wolf. Their bond was a fascinating anomaly, a violation of every social rule Nevermore held dear, and Bianca had always had a taste for the anomalous. Destroying something so unique over something as mundane as bigotry seemed like a tragic waste of potential.

Her moment to act came later that afternoon. She found Wednesday alone in the conservatory, ostensibly studying a particularly venomous orchid, but Bianca saw the way her hand rested on her abdomen, a now-habitual gesture of connection and assessment.

“The flora agrees with you more than the cafeteria cuisine, I see” Bianca said, announcing her presence.

Wednesday didn’t jump. She rarely did. She simply turned her head, her dark eyes unreadable. “The flora is less likely to be contaminated with sentimentality or poor hygiene, Barclay.”

“And more likely to kill you where you stand” Bianca countered, coming to stand beside her. She let the silence hang for a moment, her gaze fixed on the orchid. “You look better. Less like a strong breeze would turn you to dust.”

“Your concern is as touching as it is unnecessary” Wednesday replied, her tone dry.

“It’s not concern. It’s a status report” Bianca corrected. She finally turned to look at Wednesday directly. “The new diet is working, then.”

Wednesday’s expression tightened almost imperceptibly. The subject was clearly a point of humiliation. “It is… adequate to the task.”

“Good.” Bianca leaned against the glass pane, the sunlight making the scales on her seashell necklace gleam. “Because the task is about to get harder. Ethan and his lapdogs are getting restless. They don’t like losing the Poe Cup. They really don’t like that Sinclair stood up to them. And they can’t figure out why you’re not crumbling under the pressure. It’s making them stupid. And stupid people are unpredictable.”

Wednesday’s gaze sharpened. “You have intelligence.”

“I have eyes and ears” Bianca said with a shrug. “They’re planning something. Something to put Sinclair in her place. To remind her and everyone watching what happens to wolves who forget they’re part of a pack.”

A cold stillness settled over Wednesday. Bianca could see the calculations whirring behind her eyes, the strategic mind assessing threats and variables. “What is their objective?”

“Public humiliation. Probably a formal challenge. Not to physical combat Ethan may be an idiot, but he’s not stupid enough to think that Weems would look the other way if a full on fight broke out in the quad.” Bianca’s lips curled. “No. They’ll go for a ritual challenge. Something social. Something that uses pack law to force her to submit or be officially ostracized. They want to make an example of her.”

Wednesday’s hand curled into a fist at her side. “When?”

“Soon. Before the semester ends and everyone scatters.” Bianca pushed off from the glass. “This is the part where you ask me why I’m telling you this.”

“You require something in return” Wednesday stated. It wasn’t a question.

“I require you to remain functional” Bianca said. “A public takedown of Enid Sinclair destabilizes everything. It makes me look weak for backing you. So consider this a… proactive investment in my own interests.”

Wednesday studied her for a long moment. “And what is your proposed course of action? I assume you have one.”

“I do.” Bianca’s smile was all sharp edges. “You need to get ahead of it. You can’t stop them from issuing a challenge, but you can control the narrative. You can choose the battlefield.”

“How?”

“By forcing their hand. By making a move so audacious, so public, that they have to respond on your terms, not theirs.” Bianca’s eyes gleamed with the thrill of the scheme. “You and Sinclair… you’ve been hiding. Skulking in corners, trying to be invisible. It’s not working. It makes you look weak, and it makes her look like she’s ashamed of you.”

Wednesday flinched, a minute twitch that Bianca doubted anyone else would have noticed.

“So stop hiding,” Bianca continued, her voice dropping, becoming conspiratorial. “Be seen. Together. Not as a secret. Not as a scandal. But as a fact. A formidable, unassailable fact. Tomorrow. At lunch. In the quad. You don’t take your usual isolated table. You walk right into the center of it. You sit at a main table. And you stay.”

Wednesday looked horrified. “The quad. At noon. Your solution is… voluntary exposure to the sun and the unwashed masses.”

“My solution is a statement,” Bianca corrected. “It’s a show of force. It says, ‘We are here. We are not afraid of you. And we have powerful friends.’” She gestured between herself and the vague direction of the school. “Me. Yoko. Divina. We’ll be there. Your presence, unchallenged, with us, changes the story. It makes you a bloc. A faction. It makes challenging Sinclair not an attack on a lone wolf, but an attack on all of us. The calculus changes.”

Wednesday was silent, processing the sheer, horrifying audacity of the plan. A public meal. In broad daylight. Voluntary social interaction on the most trafficked stage the school had to offer. It was a meticulous catalog of her worst discomforts.

“They will still challenge her,” Wednesday said quietly.

“Probably,” Bianca agreed. “But they’ll do it on the back foot. They’ll be off-balance. And that’s when they make mistakes.” She paused, letting the strategy sink in. “It’s a risk. But the alternative is waiting for them to choose the time and the place where they are strongest. So. What’s it going to be, Addams? Are you going to keep letting the wolves set the traps? Or are you going to start hunting?”

The challenge hung in the humid air of the conservatory. Bianca saw the conflict on Wednesday’s face, the deep, abiding hatred for everything the plan represented warring with the fierce, protective drive to shield Enid.

Finally, Wednesday’s jaw tightened. She gave a single, sharp nod. “We will be there.”

Bianca’s smirk returned, wider this time. “Good. Bring your appetite. And your resting death glare.” She turned to leave, then paused. “Oh, and Addams? The thermos? A little obvious. Switch to a black one. And for god’s sake, wipe the rim. You’re leaving a residue.”

She left Wednesday standing among the poisonous flowers, already planning her assault on the most terrifying battlefield she could imagine: the crowded, sunny quad at high noon. Bianca Barclay had just handed her a weapon. Now she had to see if the Addams girl had the stomach to use it.

Chapter Text

The following day, the sky over Nevermore was a mocking, brilliant blue. Sunlight streamed into the quad, illuminating every blade of grass, every stone, and every single student milling about during the lunch period. To Wednesday Addams, it felt like being under a magnifying glass held by a cruel, omnipotent child.

She stood with Enid just outside the arched entrance to the quad, the cacophony of hundreds of students eating and talking washing over them like a physical force. The usual isolated table in the far corner, their sanctuary, seemed a continent away.

Enid’s hand was a vise around Wednesday’s, her palm slightly damp. “We don’t have to do this,” she whispered, her voice tight. “We can just… go to the library. Bianca doesn’t control us.”

Wednesday didn’t look at her. Her eyes were fixed on the center of the quad, on a large, circular stone table that was, for the moment, empty. “Barclay’s control is irrelevant. Her strategy is sound. Hiding has only made us a more tantalizing target. A predator does not fear the open field; it fears the hunter who does not fear the open field.”

“I’m not a predator right now, Wends” Enid breathed. “I feel like a scared rabbit.”

“Then pretend” Wednesday said, her voice low and iron-steady. “Your performance does not have to be perfect. It merely has to be more convincing than his.” She gave Enid’s hand a final, brief squeeze, a shocking gesture of encouragement, and then stepped forward, pulling Enid into the light.

The walk across the quad was the longest of Wednesday’s life. The noise didn’t dim; it changed. Laughter cut off. Conversations faltered into whispers. Spoons clattered against bowls as heads turned. She felt the weight of every stare, a hundred tiny pinpricks against her skin. She kept her gaze fixed straight ahead, her face a mask of impassive contempt, but inside, every instinct screamed to retreat, to find shadows and silence.

She saw Ethan. He was at his usual table with his pack, a half-eaten sandwich forgotten in his hand. His expression cycled from confusion to disbelief to a slow-burning, incredulous rage. They weren’t supposed to be here. They were supposed to be cowering.

Wednesday led Enid directly to the central table and sat, her movements stiff but deliberate. Enid sank into the chair beside her, her shoulders hunched, looking like she wanted to vanish into the stone.

The silence around them was profound, a bubble of shock in the midst of the resumed chatter.

Then, movement.

From the periphery, Bianca Barclay emerged, not with haste, but with an unhurried grace that commanded attention. She walked directly to their table and took a seat opposite Wednesday, placing her tray down with a definitive click. She didn’t look at the gawking students; she looked at Wednesday, a single, sharp eyebrow raised as if to say, ‘See? Now we begin.’

A moment later, Yoko and Divina appeared. Yoko slung an arm around a stunned Enid’s shoulders, plopping down beside her. “Saved us seats? You shouldn’t have” she said, her voice dripping with sarcastic cheer. Divina sat next to Bianca, her calm, sea-deep gaze sweeping over the quad, a silent sentinel.

Then came Eugene, clutching his bee journal to his chest like a shield, his face pale but determined. He gave Wednesday a wobbly smile and sat at the far end of the table.

And finally, Ajax, who seemed to have been pushed forward by the momentum of the others. He tripped over a flagstone slightly, righted himself, and slid into the last seat, offering Enid a awkward but genuine thumbs-up.

In less than a minute, the once-isolated table was full. It was no longer Wednesday and Enid alone against the world. It was a faction. A statement.

The buzz in the quad changed tone. The shock morphed into intense, buzzing speculation. This was no longer just a bizarre couple making a stand; it was a political shift.

It was a tenuous peace, held together by Bianca’s sheer force of will. It lasted for exactly seven minutes.

Ethan could not let it stand. His authority, his entire worldview, was being challenged in the most public way possible. He pushed back from his table, his chair scraping loudly against the stone pavement. His betas followed suit, trailing behind him like a dark cloud.

He stopped a few feet from their table, his arms crossed over his chest. The quad fell silent again. This was what everyone had been waiting for.

“Sinclair,” he said, his voice a low growl meant to carry. “This is a new look for you. Sitting with the… strays.” His eyes flicked over their assembled group with undisguised disgust.

Before Enid could even flinch, Bianca answered. Her voice was cool, carrying effortlessly. “Is there a problem, Ethan? We’re trying to have lunch. Some of us have better things to do than police seating arrangements.” She took a deliberate sip of her drink, her eyes never leaving his.

“This isn’t about seating arrangements, Barclay” Ethan snapped, his focus returning to Enid, trying to ignore the wall of opposition that had materialized around her. “This is about respect. Pack law. You don’t get to turn your back on your own kind and then parade your… your choice in front of everyone like it’s something to be proud of.”

Wednesday slowly placed her black thermos down. She turned her head, her movement slow and deliberate, like a viper coiling. She fixed her flat, black eyes on Ethan. “She is not parading. She is eating. You are the one creating a spectacle.” Her voice was calm, devoid of emotion, and it cut through the tension like a knife. “Your continued interruptions suggest an obsessive interest in her personal life. It is… unseemly.”

A few scattered snickers came from other tables. Ethan’s face flushed dark red.

“This doesn’t concern you, Addams” he spat, trying to regain control.

“You are addressing my mate” Wednesday said, the word dropping into the silence like a stone. “Therefore, you are addressing me. Your concern, or lack thereof, is irrelevant.”

The air left the quad. Mate. She had said it. Publicly. Finally.

Ethan looked like he’d been slapped. He recovered quickly, his anger sharpening into a cruel smile. “Is that what you call it? Fine. Then I’ll address you both.” He took a step closer, looming over their table. “Enid Sinclair. You have forsaken your duty to your pack, to your bloodline. You have chosen an outsider over your own kind. By the old laws, you are given a chance to renounce this… mistake… and return to the fold. Renounce it. Now.”

It was the formal challenge. A ritualist ultimatum. Public, humiliating, and designed to break her.

All eyes were on Enid. Her hands were shaking in her lap. But this time, she wasn’t looking at them. She was looking at the people around her. At Yoko’s steadying presence, at Bianca’s cool confidence, at Eugene’s nervous but unwavering loyalty, at Ajax’s clumsy support, at Divina’s serene strength. And at Wednesday, whose icy defiance was a fortress in itself.

She took a shaky breath. Then another. Slowly, she raised her head. Her eyes were not downcast. They were blazing with a furious, wounded light. The Alpha, cornered and supported, was fighting back.

“The only mistake I made” Enid said, her voice trembling but clear, “was ever caring what you, or any of you, thought.” She stood up, facing Ethan, her hands clenched at her sides. “You talk about pack. About family. But family doesn’t make you choose. Family doesn’t shun you for who you love. My pack is right here.” She gestured to the entire table. “They are my choice. And I don’t renounce them. I choose them. Every time.”

The silence was absolute. Ethan was stunned into silence. He had expected tears, submission, or rage. He had not expected this defiant, heartfelt declaration backed by a united front.

It was Yoko who broke the tension with a loud, dramatic crunch as she bit into an apple. “You heard her, man. She’s busy. We’re all busy. Scram.”

The dismissal, so casual and final, was the ultimate insult. Ethan stood there, utterly humiliated. His grand challenge had been met, not with a fight, but with a united front and a dismissal from a vampire with a snack. He had no play left. With a final, inarticulate sound of rage, he turned on his heel and stormed away, his pack scrambling after him.

The quad erupted into a buzz of conversation. The show was over.

Enid sank back into her chair, her entire body trembling. Wednesday wordlessly pushed the black thermos toward her. Enid took it with a grateful, shaky hand and drank.

Bianca leaned over. “Well” she said, a genuine smile playing on her lips. “That went better than expected.”

Eugene let out a breath he seemed to have been holding for five minutes. Ajax grinned. “That was so cool” he whispered.

Wednesday looked around the table, at the unlikely assembly of allies who had chosen to sit in the eye of the storm with them. The gesture, for all its strategic benefit, sent a foreign feeling through her, something that wasn’t purely tactical appreciation.

Enid looked at Wednesday, her eyes wide with adrenaline and relief and something else, overwhelming gratitude. “I can’t believe we just did that.”

Wednesday looked out at the quad, at the students who were now pointedly not looking at them. The dynamic had shifted. They were no longer prey to be hunted. They were a faction. A pack.

“Believe it” Wednesday said, her voice quiet but firm. She glanced at Bianca, then at the others, offering a single, slight nod of acknowledgment. It was the closest she would ever come to a thank you. “This is only the beginning.”

But for the first time, the thought of what was to come didn’t fill her with dread. It filled her with a cold, sharp anticipation. The board was set. And she was no longer holding just her own pieces.

The silence that settled over their table after Ethan's retreat was heavier than the previous noise. It was a silence of shared shock, of adrenaline slowly receding, of a new, unspoken understanding settling between them. They had crossed a line together, and there was no going back.

Eugene was the first to break it, his voice a hushed, awed whisper. "That was... statistically incredible. The probability of a unified front from such a diverse group effectively neutralizing a dominant social predator... it's unprecedented!"

Ajax nodded, a grin spreading across his face. "Dude, you told him. You were all, 'my pack is here,' and he was all..." He made a sputtering, choked sound that was surprisingly accurate.

Yoko patted Enid firmly on the back, making her wince. "See? Nothing to it. Just a little public confrontation and potential social annihilation before dessert."

Enid didn't respond. She was still trembling, her knuckles white where she gripped the edge of the table. The Alpha bravado she'd mustered was gone, leaving behind the shell-shocked girl who had just defied her entire world. Her eyes were wide, fixed on nothing.

Wednesday observed the minute tremors running through Enid's frame. The performance was over. The cost was now being tallied. Without a word, she reached out and placed her hand over Enid's, where it lay clenched on the table. Her touch was cool and steady, an anchor in the turbulent aftermath.

Enid flinched at the contact, then her gaze snapped to Wednesday's. The fear in her eyes was raw, but it was met with Wednesday's unwavering, stoic calm. Slowly, deliberately, Wednesday turned Enid's hand over and laced their fingers together, a silent, public declaration that was even more potent than her use of the word "mate."

The gesture did not go unnoticed. A fresh wave of whispers rippled through the quad. But this time, they lacked the sharp edge of malice. They were whispers of astonishment, of curiosity.

Bianca watched the exchange, her expression unreadable. She gave a slight, approving nod, then stood, gathering her tray. "Well, this has been a delightful diversion, but we have a swimming class to attend." She said as she got up, Divina following her.

"Aren't you a siren? Why would you need swimming lessons" asked Ajax confused.

"We start to dry up if we stay too long away from the water Ajax, we need at least 3 hours in the pool every two days, otherwise we start to burn and dry up which is not pretty and very painful" Said Divina with a pained expression, and she was right to have it, Sirens for all their beauty and power had one very exploitable weakness, water. Sirens were mostly aquatic beings and they had a limited time that their sensitive skin could handle the harshness of being landside, one of the reasons as to why Sirens always lived close to big bodies of water.

Bianca's gaze lingered on Wednesday. "Be careful, the wolf may be dangerous but it's the man you should really be afraid of"

With that, she left, Divina following in her serene wake.

Yoko and Ajax also took the cue, Yoko took this moment to go to the vampire eating area, Vampires had a separated eating area than the rest of the students of Nevermore. The measure was implemented after a vampire went on a feeding spree and almost killed two students some 20 years ago.

And Ajax went to get stoned with some of his gorgon friends, which was no surprise also, as he spend most of his time in that state.

Leaving Eugene who, after a moment of awkwardly looking between Wednesday and Enid, mumbled something about checking on his bees and scurried off.

They were alone again at the large table, but the space around them no longer felt exposed and hostile. It felt... claimed.

"Can we please go now?" Enid whispered, her voice thin and strained. "I think I'm going to be sick."

Wednesday stood, pulling Enid up with her. "The objective has been achieved. A tactical withdrawal is now logical."

She didn't let go of Enid's hand as they walked back across the quad. The stares were still there, but they felt different. Less like targeting and more like... observation. Assessment. They were no longer a secret to be uncovered; they were a fact to be understood.

The moment their dorm room door closed behind them, the last of Enid's composure shattered. A sob escaped her, harsh and ragged, and she slid down the door to the floor, burying her face in her hands. The adrenaline crash was violent and complete.

Wednesday stood over her, feeling a familiar, frustrating sense of helplessness. She was adept at causing breakdowns, not repairing them. Her instinct was to analyze the chemical processes of the crash, to deconstruct the emotional response into its component parts. But that felt... insufficient.

Kneeling, she placed a hand on Enid's heaving shoulder. "You were... adequate" she said, the words stiff and awkward. It was the highest praise she could manage.

Enid looked up, her face streaked with tears. "Adequate? Wednesday, I challenged my entire pack! My family! I called you my mate in front of everyone!" The words came out in a panicked rush. "What did I just do?"

"You asserted dominance in your territory" Wednesday stated, as if it were the most obvious thing in the world. "You defined your pack on your terms. It was a necessary and strategically sound maneuver."

"But it's not a maneuver!" Enid cried, swiping at her tears. "It's my life! They're…were my family! And now... now they're never going to speak to me again. My mom is never going to speak to me again. I'm alone."

"You are not alone." The rebuttal was swift and absolute. Wednesday's fingers tightened on Enid's shoulder. "You have a formidable alliance with Barclay, however temporary. You have the loyalty of Tanaka and the gorgon. You have Eugene's unwavering, if statistically verbose, support." She paused, her dark eyes holding Enid's. "You have me."

The simple declaration hung in the air. It wasn't flowery. It wasn't romantic. It was a statement of fact, solid and unshakeable as granite.

Enid stared at her, the panic in her eyes slowly receding, replaced by a dawning, weary wonder. "I have you" she repeated, as if testing the sound of it.

"And the pup" Wednesday added, her hand drifting unconsciously to her stomach, she was going to have to procure looser clothes she noticed, their pup was growing quite fast now that she was eating regularly.

A fresh tear escaped, but this one was different. It was a tear of relief. Of exhaustion. Of acceptance. Enid leaned forward, resting her forehead against Wednesday's knees. "I'm so tired, Wends."

"I know." Wednesday's hand moved from Enid's shoulder to her hair, her fingers carding through the blonde strands with a gentleness that was becoming, against all odds, natural. "The emotional expenditure was significant. Rest is required."

She helped Enid to her feet and guided her to the bed. Enid collapsed onto the colorful comforter, her energy utterly spent. Wednesday lay down beside her, on her side, facing her. They didn't speak. The only sound was Enid's shaky breaths slowly evening out.

Enid's hand found its way under Wednesday's shirt, coming to rest on the gentle swell of her abdomen. The pup, perhaps soothed by the retreat from the stressful environment, was quiet.

"I meant it, you know," Enid whispered into the quiet space between them. "What I said. I choose you. Every time."

Wednesday looked at her, at the tear tracks on her cheeks, the determined set of her jaw even in exhaustion. She saw not a weak girl having a breakdown, but a warrior after a hard-won battle. The strange, expansive feeling in her chest returned, the one that felt like a rib cracking open to make room for something new.

"I know" Wednesday said again. But this time, the words meant something else. They meant, I believe you. I trust you.

Outside, the sun began to set, casting long shadows across their room. The center of the storm had passed, for now. They had faced the open field and had not been devoured. They had, instead, drawn a line in the grass and dared anyone to cross it.

As Enid's breathing deepened into sleep, Wednesday remained awake, watching over her. The dread was still there, the vision a cold knot in her soul. But it was now joined by something else, something fierce and protective and terrifyingly warm.

The game had indeed changed. They were no longer just playing defense. They had taken the first, audacious step onto the offensive. And Wednesday Addams, for the first time, felt not just the weight of the fight, but the ferocious need to win it.

Chapter Text

The victory in the quad didn't end the war; it just made the enemy smarter and crueler. Ethan’s pride had been severely wounded by Enid's choice of defiance instead of submission, which resulted in the pack changing their manner of approach in the following days after the confrontation.

They were after all teenage werewolves with a grudge born from their archaic societal laws, armed with supernatural strength and the impulsive cruelty of adolescent males who believed themselves untouchable. This resulted in their abandonment of their clumsy attempts at social pressure, instead they employed their new strategy, vicious, and laser-focused: break Enid Sinclair by attacking the one thing she cared about.

Their provocations became a deliberate campaign of psychological torture, designed to drive Enid over the edge. To them, Wednesday wasn't a person; she was a symbol. A human. A pet. Proof of Enid’s betrayal, and the perfect lever to use against her.

It began with a new, insidious form of territorialism. They didn’t just mark Wednesday’s spaces; they tried to lay claim to her. Leo one of the wolves in Ethan's pack “accidentally” backed into her in the hallway, his body pressing against hers for a moment too long, a smirk on his face as he made eye contact with Enid. Another beta, a girl named Mara, reached out and tucked a stray strand of hair behind Wednesday’s ear as she passed, her touch invasive and patronizing, it disgusted Wednesday “Just fixing it for you” she’d purred, her gaze locked on Enid’s horrified face.

The message was clear: We can touch what’s yours. We can take her from you.

Ethan himself mastered the art of the demeaning compliment. “You’ve trained her well, Sinclair” he’d call out, watching Wednesday sit silently with a book. “She’s so quiet. Almost housebroken.” He’d snap his fingers near Wednesday, not to get her attention, but to mock the very idea of commanding her. “Does she do tricks, too? Roll over? Play dead?”

Every action was a calculated turn of the screw, designed to erode Enid’s control. They weren't trying to physically harm Wednesday, that would be too obvious and would garner sympathy and attention that they didn't want. They wanted to make Enid snap, to prove that her connection to a human had made her a feral, unstable liability.

Wednesday had wanted to rip them to shreds every time they had approached her, but she had so far refrained from doing so, not out of fear or sympathy for the imbeciles, but as a way to protect Enid from snapping. Wednesday knew that any reaction from her would be cause for escalation from the wolves, and Enid's control was already stretched thin.

Enid, for her part, was a vision of ferocious, loving protection. Her care for Wednesday became all-consuming, a direct counter to the ugliness they faced. She was constantly at her side, her touch always gentle, her voice a soft, steady murmur meant only for her mate’s ears. She learned to pre-cut Wednesday’s meat into tiny, manageable pieces, her own food forgotten as she watched for any sign of discomfort. She would spend hours rubbing the aching small of Wednesday’s back, her strong fingers working out knots of tension born from carrying an impossible burden.

But this love was a fortress under siege. The moment a wolf entered her periphery, the gentle caretaker vanished, replaced by a bristling, snarling sentinel. Her eyes, once full of light, were now constantly scanning, her body a permanent shield between Wednesday and the world. The whiplash between tender devotion and raw, protective fury was exhausting her.

Wednesday was also crumbling under a different, more visceral assault. Werewolf gestation was a brutal, six-month sprint, a process a lycanthrope body was built to endure. Her human frame was not. The baby’s accelerated development, now properly fueled, was pushing her biology past its limits.

Her slight body strained under the rapid, pronounced swell of her abdomen. Sharp, shooting pains radiated through her hips and lower back, ligaments and bones screaming under a timeline they were never meant to keep. She was constantly short of breath, her human heart and lungs struggling to supply the immense metabolic demand of growing a supernatural baby of the fur variety. The fatigue was a deep, cellular exhaustion, a feeling that her very life force was being consumed.

She moved with a new, careful slowness, a stark contrast to her usual precise gait. The upcoming full moon filled her with a profound, physiological dread. It wasn't just the social pressure; it was the terrifying certainty that the lunar surge might be the final push that her overburdened body could not survive.

The climax came in the conservatory. Wednesday had sought a moment of solitude among the poisonous plants, a rare instance without Enid, who had gone to fetch a specific, nausea-easing tea.

Ethan and two of his betas found her. They surrounded her, not with overt threats, but with a casual, possessive arrogance that was far worse.

“Look at her” Ethan said, not to Wednesday, but to his friends, as if she were a painting. “Pretty little thing. I get it now. It’s like having a exotic bird. Nice to look at. Makes you feel special for owning it.”

Wednesday stood perfectly still, her face a mask of icy contempt, but her heart hammered against her ribs. She could feel the pup kicking frantically, agitated by her spike of fear and the dominant, aggressive pheromones the boys were radiating.

“Maybe we should take a turn watching her” Leo said, taking a step closer. “Since Sinclair seems so overwhelmed. We could keep…her safe.” The had her boxed in between them.

It was the patronizing tone, the implication that she was a burden to be managed, that made Wednesday’s hand shoot out to grip a nearby table, her knuckles white.

That’s when Enid arrived.

She didn’t run. She simply appeared in the doorway, and the air in the room grew thick and heavy. The gentle, caring girl was utterly gone. In her place stood the Alpha who had faced down a Hyde. Her eyes were pure, molten gold. A low, continuous growl seemed to vibrate from the very walls.

“Get away from her” Enid said, her voice a low, deadly whisper that carried the force of a hurricane.

Ethan, stupid and emboldened, smirked. He made the fatal error of touching her face. “Or what, Sinclair? You’ll do what?”

Enid moved.

It was a blur of motion. She crossed the space between them and slammed Ethan into a table of delicate glass terrariums. The explosion of soil, glass, and exotic plants was deafening. She didn’t punch him; she pinned him, her forearm against his throat, her face inches from his, her growl a promise of absolute violence.

“She” Enid snarled, her voice guttural and laced with a power that shook the room, “is. MINE. You look at her. You talk about her. You even think about her again, and I will tear you apart. Do you understand me?”

The other two betas were frozen, paralyzed by the raw, unrestrained Alpha power rolling off Enid.

Ethan, choking, his eyes wide with genuine, primal fear, managed a strangled gasp.

Enid leaned closer, her voice dropping to a terrifying whisper. “Nod.”

He nodded frantically.

She released him, and he crumpled to the floor amidst the wreckage, clutching his throat.

Enid didn’t even look at him. Her gaze immediately found Wednesday, scanning her for any sign of harm. The fury vanished from her eyes, replaced by frantic, desperate concern. In an instant, she was at Wednesday’s side, her hands gently framing her face, her thumbs stroking her cheeks.

“Are you okay? Look at me. Are you hurt? Did they touch you?” The words tumbled out, laced with a fear far greater than any she’d shown in the fight.

Wednesday, shaken but outwardly composed, shook her head minutely. “I am… intact.”

Enid let out a shuddering breath and pulled Wednesday into a fierce, trembling embrace, ignoring the stunned wolves scrambling away. She had finally, completely, snapped. The line was crossed. The full moon was tomorrow, and Enid Sinclair had just declared war on her former pack.

Chapter Text

The silence in the conservatory was heavier than the shattered glass on the floor. Enid’s breath came in ragged pants, the gold not yet faded from her eyes. She kept her body positioned between Wednesday and the ruined table where Ethan was still coughing, one arm held out protectively.

It was Ethan who broke the stalemate. He shoved himself up from the wreckage, his face a mask of fury and humiliation. A trickle of blood seeped from a cut on his temple. He didn’t look at Enid. His glare was solely for Wednesday, pure, undiluted hatred.

“This is your fault” he spat, his voice hoarse. “You did this to her. You made her this… this rabid thing.” He took a step back, pulling his betas with him. “The pack will know about this. You will get what you deserve cousin” He let the threat hang in the air, a promise of vengeance, before turning and stalking away.

The moment they were gone, the fierce tension in Enid’s posture shattered. She turned to Wednesday, her hands fluttering anxiously. “Oh god, Wends, I’m so sorry. I lost it. Are you sure you’re okay?”

Wednesday, though her own heart was still pounding, reached out and captured one of Enid’s fluttering hands. She pressed it firmly against her stomach. “Your intervention was… timely. And effective.”

Their moment was shattered by the swift, sharp click of heels on the conservatory tile. Principal Weems stood in the doorway, her expression a carefully neutral mask that did nothing to hide the storm in her eyes.

“Miss Sinclair. Miss Addams” she said, her voice dangerously calm. “My office. Now.”

The walk to Weems’s office was a silent, grim procession. Enid was vibrating with residual adrenaline and guilt. Wednesday moved with careful precision, one hand pressed to her side against a fresh, aching stitch.

Weems did not sit behind her desk. She stood before them, her arms crossed. “Start from the beginning.”

Enid launched into a rushed, emotional explanation. Wednesday remained silent, allowing Enid to speak, then added, “Their strategy was designed to elicit this exact response.”

Weems pinched the bridge of her nose. “And they succeeded spectacularly. I can discipline Ethan. But it will not matter. It will only galvanize his supporters.” She looked at Enid, and for a fleeting moment, something like sympathy crossed her features. “You played directly into his hands, child.”

“What was I supposed to do? Let them keep harassing her” Enid cried, her voice breaking.

“No” Weems said, her voice softening a fraction. “But you were supposed to be smarter.” Her gaze then fell on Wednesday, taking in her pallor and the undeniable evidence of her advanced condition. “The full moon is tomorrow night.”

It wasn’t a question.

“Yes” Wednesday answered.

“The Lupine Cages are out of the question for you Miss Sinclair, after yours and Mister Oaks 'disagreement' it wouldn't be safe to put you in the same confined space with him.” Weems stated. “professor Rotwood's old cottage in on the northern edge of the property. It is isolated, well capt and warded. You will sequester yourselves there for the duration of the full moon. Miss Tanaka and her… companion… have petitioned to act as your sentinels.”

Enid’s eyes widened. “You’re… helping us?”

“I am preventing a disaster on school grounds” Weems corrected sharply. She paused, her eyes locking onto Wednesday. “Which begs a question I have been too… tactful… to ask until now. Miss Addams. Your mother. Does she know?”

The air in the room grew colder. Enid looked at Wednesday, her anxiety escalating, she has being trying to convince Wednesday to come clean with her mom for months, because A) they were willfully unprepared to raise a child as it was and B) they were half way thru her pregnancy and they still hadn't resolved the doctor issue and this was one of Enid's greatest anxieties about the whole thing, they had no way of knowing if the baby was okay other than when he moved around. But so far Wednesday had shut her down every time she brought the subject up, and she wasn't about to call Morticia Addams without her mate's concent, she would prefer to be alive to see her child.

Wednesday’s posture, already rigid, became absolutely motionless. “No.”

“Why?” Weems’s voice was not unkind, but it was relentless. “You are in over your head. Your body is struggling with a pregnancy it was not designed for. You are facing down a pack of hostile werewolves. Your mother, for all her… eccentricities… is a formidable ally. She would move heaven and earth for you. So why keep her in the dark? Is your pride worth your child's life?”

Wednesday’s jaw tightened. “It is not pride.” Her voice was like chips of ice. “Informing my mother would mean that she would insist I leave Nevermore for my own protection, even if I refused she would find a way to make me leave, and I wont. Enid is here, she is the other parent of this child, and her own Mother would not allow her to leave Nevermore with me. I would be forced apart from Enid, and I refuse to allow this to happen”

Weems stared at her, a complex mix of frustration and dawning understanding and pride on her face. She knew the truth of it. Morticia and Gomez Addams’s brand of familial devotion was terrifying in its totality, they would do anything to protect their children. “So you will bear this alone? Just to avoid being separated from Miss Sinclair”

“I am not alone” Wednesday said, her gaze flicking to Enid for the briefest second, who looked back at her with unshed tears in her eyes, for the first time Enid understood that it wasn't stubbornness that capt Wednesday from contacting her family, it was fear of being taken away.

Weems sighed, conceding the point. “Very well. I will leave it to your discretion for now. But understand this: my ability to intervene is limited. I cannot show overt favoritism. The school board…”

“I know, The board answers to the trust that owns the deed to this land and every stone of this academy” Wednesday interrupted, her voice flat. “A trust controlled by my family.”

The silence that followed was absolute, it wasn't a secret, it never was. The Addams family was one of the oldest and richest outcast families, with their family history dating back to long before the first colony ever settled in the America's and it was also no secret that they had a vast and long investment portfolio and businesses they outright owned. Nevermore Academy was one of them.

Enid’s mouth fell open. She looked from Wednesday’s impassive face to Weems’s tight, resigned one. “Wait… What?”

Weems was the one who answered, her voice dry. “Nathaniel Faulkner may have funded this school but he did so in the Addams family land and with their financial backing. Nevermore Academy is, and has always been, Addams family property. Your tuition, Miss Sinclair, and that of every student here, is ultimately paid to them.”

Wednesday gave a slight, almost imperceptible shrug. “Expulsion was never a viable threat. However, my family’s ownership is a historical formality, not a carte blanche for special treatment. As Principal Weems has noted, overt protection would be seen as precisely that. It would undermine her authority and validate every accusation of favoritism Ethan could make. It would make the situation worse.”

Enid stared, her mind reeling. The pieces clicked into place, Wednesday’s utter lack of concern over disciplinary threats, her casual authority, Weems’s particular brand of frustrated deference. Wednesday hadn’t just been a student facing down a pack; she had been, in a very real sense, royalty slumming it with the peasants. And she’d never said a word.

“You… you own the school?” Enid whispered, the concept too vast to comprehend.

“It’s a dormant asset” Wednesday said, as if discussing a seldom-used vacation home. “Its purpose is to remain operational, not to serve our whims. Our protection must be discreet because the appearance of impartiality is the only currency that has value here.”

Weems gave a single, grim nod. “Precisely. So you see the tightrope I walk. The cottage, the sentinels, the concessions I already make on a daily basis, that is the absolute limit of the ‘discretion’ I can offer. The rest is up to you.” Her gaze encompassed them both. “The moon will pass, but this conflict will not. You must be prepared for what comes after.”

The dismissal was clear. They were to be hidden away, their problem quarantined under the thin guise of administrative discretion.

"And Miss Addams, I took the liberty of contacting a doctor for you, she is an old friend and has experience with werewolf hybrid children, she is discreet and completely outside of pack politics" said Weems as she sat at her desk, Enid was never felt so revealed in her life as she felt in that moment.

As they left the office, the weight of the revelations settled over them. Enid was silent, processing the monumental secret. Wednesday owned the school. They couldn’t be expelled. The knowledge should have been a relief, but instead, it felt like a heavier burden. Their safety wasn’t guaranteed by rules; it was balanced on a knife’s edge of perception and ancient family legacy.

Back in their room, Enid’s frantic energy turned to a deep, shuddering anxiety. “A cellar? Wends, you can’t be in a cold, damp cellar. What if something happens to you? What if the baby… what if my wolf…” She couldn’t finish the thought.

Wednesday, however, was already dissecting the plan. “The isolation is a tactical advantage. The wards are a necessity. Barclay and the siren’s presence is… unexpectedly logical.”

“Incapacitated” Enid repeated, the word tasting like ash. She knelt before where Wednesday sat on the bed. “I’m so scared” she whispered. “I’m scared of what I might do. I’m scared of what might happen to you. To our pup.”

Wednesday placed her hands over Enid’s. The baby chose that moment to move, a strong, rolling shift that they both felt.

“The baby remains formidably active” Wednesday observed, her tone dry. “It appears to have inherited your resistance to subtlety.”

A watery laugh escaped Enid. She leaned forward, wrapping her arms carefully around Wednesday’s waist, pressing her ear to the swell of her stomach. “You hear that, little fighter? Mama’s here. Both your mamas are here. And we’re not going to let anything happen to you.”

They stayed like that for a long time, drawing a fragile comfort from each other. The world outside was preparing for a howling, primal night. But inside their room, there was only a quiet, desperate love, the terrifying wait for the storm to break, and the new, dizzying knowledge that they were standing on land that belonged to the Addams family. The eye of the hurricane was upon them, and its peace was the most frightening thing of all.

Chapter Text

The knowledge that Wednesday was, effectively, their landlord, was both a blessing and a curse, they didn't have to worry about being expelled from school, but the same rules that protected them also couldn't help them unless Ethan escalated things again. Their safety wasn't guaranteed by a deed; it was balanced on a knife's edge.

The day of the full moon dawned with a tense, expectant quiet. Classes were suspended for the werewolves for the full moon, no one wants a bunch of restless and violence prone wolfs locked up in classrooms. The air itself grew thick, charged with a restless energy that set everyone's nerves on edge. For the werewolves, it was a buzzing under the skin, a pull in the blood. For Wednesday, it was a suffocating pressure, a feeling of being slowly crushed in a vice.

The baby was a live wire inside her, its movements no longer kicks but frantic, full-body spasms. It was as if it were trying to claw its way out. Wednesday’s psychic powers, the mental walls she’d spent a lifetime building, were crumbling under the weight of a restless child. Visions flickered at the edge of her sight, flashes of snarling muzzles, cold stone, and Enid’s eyes, wild and gold with pain. Her control was slipping, and the terror of that was a cold sweat on her skin.

Enid was a mirror of the internal chaos. She paced their room, a caged animal, her senses dialed to a painful intensity. She could smell the fear on Wednesday, the potent, rising magic of the pup, the aggressive musk of the other wolves preparing for their transformation. Every sound was a thunderclap. Every flicker of shadow was a threat.

“We should go” Enid said, her voice strained. “Now. Before it gets dark. Before… before I start to change.”

Packing was a surreal pantomime of normalcy. Enid threw changes of clothes for both of them into a bag, along with blankets and pillows. Wednesday, moving with deliberate slowness, packed a separate, smaller case: vials of her mother’s tonics, a few essential texts on supernatural obstetrics and lycanthropic biology, and a sharp, wickedly pointed silver letter opener she claimed was for “opening correspondence.”

Their journey across the grounds was a silent, nerve-wracking trek. They kept to the shadows of the forest edge, avoiding the main paths. Every rustle of leaves made Enid jump, her head snapping around, a low growl building in her chest. Wednesday walked beside her, one hand on her stomach, the other clenched at her side, her face a pale mask of concentration as she fought to keep her psychic shields from shattering completely.

Rotwood cottage was exactly as Weems had described: small, isolated, and shrouded from the prying eyes of students and professors. As they approached, Wednesday felt the faint tingle of the protective wards pass over her skin. Weems had been true to her word.

The door was unlocked. Inside, it clean but bare of more than the basics. A single main room held a small table, two chairs, and a threadbare sofa. A narrow staircase led up to a sleeping loft, and a heavy, reinforced door in the floor presumably led to the cellar.

Before they could even set their bags down, there was a soft knock. Bianca stood there, a large woven bag slung over her shoulder. Davina was beside her, holding a covered basket.

“Delivery” Bianca said, her tone breezy, but her eyes were sharp, taking in Wednesday’s pallor and Enid’s jittery state. She dropped her bag on the table with a thud. Inside were bottles of water, non-perishable food, a first-aid kit, and a few powerful-looking emergency flares. “In case you need to signal. For anything.”

Davina placed the basket on the table and lifted the cloth. Inside were intricately woven charms of seashell and driftwood, and several vials of what looked like seawater. “The charms are for calm” she said, her voice a soothing balm in the tense room. “The water is from a deep, quiet trench. It holds a profound silence. It may help… dampen the noise.” Her eyes met Wednesday’s, a clear understanding passing between them. She knew about the psychic surges.

Enid looked at the offerings, her throat tight with an emotion she couldn't name. “You didn’t have to do this.”

Bianca shrugged, a studied nonchalance that didn’t reach her eyes. “Don’t mention it. Really, ever. I have a reputation to maintain.” Her gaze swept the cottage. “The wards are strong. Nothing’s getting in that doesn’t have an invitation. The hard part…” She looked pointedly at Enid, then at the cellar door. “…will be keeping whatever’s already in here, in.”

The unspoken words hung in the air. The hard part will be you.

“We’ll be outside” Davina said, gently taking Bianca’s arm. “We will ensure your peace.” With a final, serene nod, she led Bianca out, closing the door behind them.

The silence they left behind was immense.

Enid’s composure broke. A full-body shudder wracked her frame. “I can feel it, Wends” she whispered, her voice thick with dread. “The pull. It’s like… like my bones are trying to rearrange themselves. I’m so scared. What if I can’t control it? What if I hurt you?”

Wednesday crossed the room, her movements stiff with effort. She didn’t offer empty platitudes. Instead, she took Enid’s face in her hands, forcing her to meet her gaze. Her touch was cool, a anchor point in the feverish heat of Enid’s skin.

“Listen to me” Wednesday said, her voice low and intense, every word a deliberate strike against the rising panic. “You are Enid Sinclair. You are an Alpha. You faced a Hyde to protect me. You defied your entire pack for me. This…” she gestured vaguely at the moonrise they couldn’t yet see, “…this is biology. It is powerful. But it is not stronger than you. Your will is stronger.”

Tears streamed down Enid’s face. “But what if it’s not?”

“Then I will be here” Wednesday stated, as if it were the simplest, most obvious truth in the world. “And I will remind you.”

It was the promise, more than the words, that steadied Enid. The absolute, unshakable certainty in Wednesday’s dark eyes. She wasn’t asking Enid to do this alone. She was simply stating that she would be there, no matter what form ‘there’ took.

A powerful, painful cramp seized Wednesday’s abdomen, and she gasped, doubling over. Enid was there in an instant, holding her up, guiding her to the sofa.

“The baby” Wednesday gritted out, her breath hitching. “The moon… it’s too much.”

Enid’s fear for herself was instantly eclipsed by her fear for them. She helped Wednesday lie down, arranging pillows under her head and back. She fetched water and one of Morticia’s tonics, her hands steady now, her focus narrowed to a single point: care.

As the afternoon faded into evening, the room inside the cottage became a world unto itself. The tension was still there, a live wire in the air, but it was now layered with a profound, aching tenderness. Enid tended to Wednesday, who in turn used every ounce of her fraying control to project a calm she didn't feel.

Outside, the sky began to bleed into deep violets and oranges. The pull of the moon grew stronger, an invisible tide turning. Enid’s hands began to shake again. The time was coming.

“The cellar” Wednesday said softly from the sofa. “It is time.”

Enid looked at the heavy door in the floor, then back at Wednesday, a world of anguish in her eyes. The thought of being locked away, of not being able to see her, to know she was safe…

“I will be right here” Wednesday promised, her voice barely a whisper. “I will be waiting for you.”

With a heart that felt like it was being torn in two, Enid walked to the cellar door. She pulled it open, revealing a dark, steep staircase. She took one last, long look at Wednesday, memorizing her face in the fading light.

Then, with a sob she couldn’t suppress, she descended into the dark and pulled the heavy door shut behind her. The sound of the bolt sliding home echoed in the silent cottage like a tomb sealing.

Wednesday was alone. The only light came from the dying embers of the sunset through the dusty window. She placed a hand on her stomach, feeling the frantic, desperate movements within.

“It is just us now” she whispered into the growing darkness. Outside, the first sliver of the full moon began to crest the horizon. The calm was over. The storm was beginning.

Chapter Text

The moment the cellar door slammed shut, a different kind of silence descended, thick, heavy, and pregnant with dread. Wednesday lay on the sofa, every muscle taut, listening. The only sounds were the frantic, ragged rhythm of her own breath and the violent, thrashing movements of the child within her.

It started as a deep, twisting cramp that didn't ebb. It intensified, coiling around her spine and squeezing until stars burst behind her eyelids. A strangled gasp escaped her lips. This was no simple contraction.

The baby was trying to change.

A searing, white-hot pain lanced through her, so acute and shocking it ripped a scream from her throat, a raw, animalistic sound of pure, unadulterated agony that shattered the quiet night.

Outside, the reaction was instantaneous.

"Wednesday?" came the frantic question, Bianca and Davina banged at the door, the screams kept going, the door was looked from the inside.

Yoko didn't strain at the door. She became a blur of motion. With a vampire's full, terrifying strength, she kicked the reinforced wooden door. It splintered around the lock and flew open with a sound like a gunshot.

Bianca was a half-step behind her, but her focus wasn't on the door. It was on the sound. That sound. She burst into the cottage and her breath caught in her throat. Wednesday was curled on the sofa, her body bowed in pain, her face ashen and slick with sweat.

"Addams!" Bianca rushed to her side, dropping to her knees. Instinct, sharp and undeniable, overrode a lifetime of calculated distance. She didn't think. She reached for her, gathering Wednesday's trembling form into her arms, holding her as she convulsed with another wave of pain. "I've got you. Breathe. Just breathe." The commands were shaky, laced with a panic Bianca Barclay never allowed herself to feel.

Davina was at their side a moment later, her eyes wide but her hands steady. She pulled back the blanket and her serene composure finally cracked. "Bianca" she said, her voice low and urgent. "She's bleeding."

A cold dread washed over Bianca. She looked down and saw the dark, terrifying stain spreading on the sofa beneath Wednesday. The vision of failure, of a tragedy unfolding right in her arms, was paralyzing.

From below, a new sound erupted: the splintering crack of wood and the shriek of tearing metal. Enid's wolf had heard the scream, smelled the blood, and the reinforced cellar door was no match for a panicked Alpha. A roar of feral rage and terror shook the cottage foundations.

A golden blur shot up from the cellar opening. Enid’s wolf was massive, her fur standing on end, her eyes wild with a mindless, protective fury. The human was gone, consumed by an instinct that saw only a threat to its mate. Her gaze, clouded with lunar madness and fear, locked onto the three figures huddled around Wednesday. Friend, foe, the distinction was erased. There was only a circle around her hurting mate.

With a snarl that promised evisceration, the wolf launched itself across the room. Yoko moved.
"Get them out of here!" she yelled at Bianca, and met the charge head-on.

It wasn't a fight she could win by force; a werewolf of Enid's size and power was a physical match for a vampire. But Yoko wasn't trying to win. She was trying to divert. She caught the wolf's massive head in her hands, using the creature's own momentum to spin and redirect it, grunting with the effort. Claws ripped through her jacket, and she hissed in pain, but her grip held.

"Hey, furball! Look at me!" Yoko shouted, shoving the wolf back a step. "Remember me? Your best friend who hates cardio? Come and get me!"

She turned and fled out the shattered cottage door, a streak of vampiric speed. The wolf, its rage successfully redirected, gave chase with a ground-shaking roar, vanishing into the dark trees after her.

The cottage was suddenly, terribly quiet again, save for Wednesday's pained whimpers.

Bianca looked from the wrecked door to the blood, to Wednesday's deathly pale face. Panic clawed at her throat. Healing spells, potions, pressure—it was all useless against this. The baby was tearing itself apart, and it was taking Wednesday with it.

There was only one thing left. The one tool she had that could reach a place medicine couldn't.

"Hold on, Addams" she whispered, her voice thick. "Just hold on."

She closed her eyes, pushing everything aside, her fear, her pride, her hatred of this vulnerability. She reached for the very core of her power, not to command or manipulate, but to soothe. She began to sing.

It was a melody without words, woven from moonlight and the deep, quiet peace of the ocean abyss. A siren’s lullaby. She poured every ounce of her will, her desperation, her fierce, unwilling care into the song, aiming it not at Wednesday's mind, but through her, at the frantic, panicking life that was destroying her from within.

Davina, understanding immediately, placed her hands on Bianca's shoulders, adding her own harmonic thread to the song, weaving a net of tranquility around Bianca's powerful lead.

The effect was not instantaneous. Wednesday stiffened in Bianca's arms, a faint sound of protest in her throat at the invasive magic. But then, the searing, grinding pain in her womb… lessened. It didn't vanish, but it was… held. The baby’s frantic struggle slowed, the feeling of imminent tearing and breaking receding from a scream to a manageable ache. The tiny, panicked heartbeat against her own began to steady.

Wednesday’s own breath hitched, then evened out. The world swam back into focus. She was still in pain, still bleeding, still terrified, but the immediate, catastrophic edge had been blunted. The crisis was paused.

In the forest, the sounds of the chase and the fight continued, snarls, the crash of undergrowth, Yoko's shouted taunts, a terrifying reminder that the night was far from over.

Bianca sang until her voice grew hoarse, until the only sound in the cottage was Wednesday's ragged but steady breathing. Finally, she slumped forward, exhausted, her forehead resting against Wednesday's shoulder.

Wednesday lay still in her arms, one hand pressed against her stomach, feeling the now-gentle, exhausted movements of her child. The threat was not over. The pain and the bleeding were a terrifying reality. But the transformation had been stopped.

She turned her head slightly. Bianca's face was pale, streaked with tears she would never admit to. It had been a violation, an unforgivable trespass of her autonomy.

But it had also been a rescue.

"Barclay" Wednesday whispered, the name a complex mix of gratitude, accusation, and newfound, terrifying respect.

Outside, the moon began its slow descent. The storm was not over, but they had survived the eye of the hurricane. The fate of the morning now rested on Yoko's speed, the coming dawn, and the fragile thread of a siren's song that had held death at bay.

The fragile peace inside the cottage was a lie, and they all knew it. Wednesday was still bleeding. The song had stilled the catastrophic shift, but it had not healed the damage. The pain was a low, ominous throbbing, a constant reminder that the thread holding them together was terrifyingly thin.

Davina was the first to move, her siren’s calm a stark contrast to the aftermath of terror. She found clean cloths and water, her movements efficient and sure as she tended to Wednesday, applying pressure with a gentle firmness that spoke of an ancient understanding of crisis.

Bianca could only watch, her arms feeling empty and cold without the weight of Wednesday’s trembling body. The echo of her own song lingered in her ears, a haunting reminder of the vulnerability she had just exposed. She had poured a part of her very essence into that lullaby, and she felt scraped raw.

From the forest, the sounds of the struggle continued. A snarl was cut off by a pained yelp from Yoko. A tree cracked. It was a violent, brutal symphony that made Wednesday flinch with every crash, her eyes wide with fear not for herself, but for Enid, for Yoko.

“She’ll kill her” Wednesday whispered, her voice hoarse. “Enid doesn’t know… she’s lost…”

“Yoko is faster” Davina said, the words sounding hollow even to her. “She just has to outlast her. Until the moon sets.”

It was a thin hope. An Alpha’s rage, fueled by the pain of her mate, was a nearly unstoppable force.

Out in the woods, Yoko was putting that theory to the test. She was a blur of motion, ducking under swiping claws, leaping over lunges, using trees as shields. She wasn't fighting back; she was evading. A werewolf’s strength was immense, but a vampire’s endurance was legendary.

“Come on, Enid!” she yelled, skidding behind a thick oak as claws tore chunks of bark where her head had been. “Is that all you’ve got? I’ve seen kittens with more fight!”

The taunts were a calculated risk. They kept the wolf’s fury focused solely on her, away from the cottage. But they also enraged it further. A particularly swift lunge caught Yoko’s leg, and she cried out as razor-sharp claws ripped through her jeans and into her flesh. The scent of vampire blood, cold and sharp, filled the air, intoxicating the wolf further.

Gritting her teeth against the pain, Yoko changed tactics. She stopped taunting and started running in earnest, leading the enraged wolf on a desperate chase deeper into the forest, away from any chance of it circling back to the cottage. It was a dangerous game. One misstep, one stumble, and Enid’s jaws would be around her throat.

Back in the cottage, time stretched into an agony of waiting. Davina’s quiet efforts had slowed the bleeding, but not stopped it. Wednesday’s breathing was shallow, her skin clammy. Bianca paced the small room, her mind racing through every piece of magic she knew, finding all of them useless.

“We need a doctor” Bianca finally said, her voice tight. “A real one. This is beyond us.”

“No doctors” Wednesday rasped, her eyes flashing with a remnant of her old fire. “No one can know.”

“Addams, you’re bleeding out on Rotwood's sofa! This isn’t about your pride anymore!”

“It’s not pride” Wednesday insisted, a fresh wave of pain making her gasp. “It’s… strategy. If word gets out… the pack… ” The effort of speaking drained her, and her head lolled back against the pillow.

"Well, you wont have to worry about the pack finding out if you and the baby die from blood loss woman" Said Bianca in a mix of worry, exhaustion and frustration "Davina call Weems, she is bleeding too much"

Bianca stared at her, a horrifying admiration cutting through her fear. Even on the brink of death, Wednesday Addams was playing a long game no one else could see, but the long game wasn't worth her life, or her baby's life.

Davina nodded quickly as she dialed the headmaster's number.“It’s Davina. At the cottage. It’s Wednesday. She’s… there’s blood. A lot of it. We need help.” Davina’s voice was stripped of all its usual calmness, raw with a panic she couldn’t control.

There was a beat of silence on the other end, then a sharp intake of breath. “Hold on. I’m on my way. Isadora is with me.” The line went dead.

Isadora? Davina had no time to wonder.

It felt like an eternity, but it could only have been minutes before headlights cut through the pre-dawn gloom, illuminating the wrecked cottage door. Principal Weems stepped through the splintered frame, her face a mask of controlled alarm. Behind her was a woman Bianca had never seen.

She was tall and striking, with a quiet, muscular strength to her frame and eyes that held a strange, dual intensity, a wolf’s sharp awareness layered over a deeper, more unsettling stillness. This was Isadora Capri.

Weems’s gaze swept the scene: the blood, Wednesday’s terrifying pallor, Davina’s desperate efforts. Her composure wavered for a single, heart-stopping second before she locked it down. “Isadora” was all she said.

The woman moved with a preternatural grace, kneeling beside the sofa without a word. She didn’t push Davina aside; she simply joined her, her movements efficient and devoid of panic. She placed a firm, capable hand on Wednesday’s abdomen, her eyes closing for a moment in concentration.

“The pup is stable, for now” she announced, her voice a low, calming alto. “The shift was arrested in time. But the placental attachment is stressed. There’s tearing.” Her eyes opened and found Wednesday’s. “You are in a tremendous amount of pain.”

It wasn’t a question. Wednesday gave a tiny, jerky nod, her pride gone, replaced by sheer survival instinct.

Isadora opened a large, worn leather bag she carried. Inside along with modern medical instruments were vials of herbs, polished stones, and ancient-looking tools. “Larissa, I need hot water. You” she said, glancing at Bianca, “hold her shoulders. This will not be pleasant”

The sounds from the forest began to change. The snarls were less frequent, more interspersed with heavy panting. The crashes became less violent. The wolf was tiring. The insane rage was being burned away by pure physical exhaustion.

Isadora didn’t wait. She worked quickly, mixing liquids in a vial before using a very long and weirdly shaped syringe on Wednesday. Wednesday cried out, a sharp, bitten-off sound, her back arching as Bianca held her down, the intrusion of the object was excruciating.

“Breathe through it, it's going to be okay, I'm using a Intracervical injection, that is why it is hurting so much, but it is going to pass” Isadora instructed, her voice unwavering but sympathetic. “The herbs will sting, but they will seal and soothe. Your body has been through a war. It needs to heal, fast, otherwise the child will not survive.”

As she worked, she spoke to Wednesday, her tone shifting from clinical to something more personal. “Your mother never could do anything the easy way either. Stubbornness is a family trait, it seems.” A faint, knowing smile touched her lips. “Morticia will be insufferably proud of you, once she’s done being furious.”

Wednesday’s eyes, wide with pain, focused on Isadora’s face. The mention of her mother, from this stranger who spoke with such familiarity, was a lifeline to a world that still made sense.

“You… know her?” Wednesday gasped out.

“We ran in similar circles” Isadora said cryptically, continuing her work. “Before I chose a quieter path. She sent me a lock of your hair when you were born, for a protection charm. I see it didn’t take.” Her smile was wry. “You clearly have your own ideas about protection.”

The bleeding was slowing. The terrifying flow became a trickle, then stopped altogether under the pressure of the injection and Isadora’s steady hands. The agonizing tension in Wednesday’s body began to ease, replaced by a deep, bone-aching exhaustion.

Yoko, bleeding and bruised, her clothes torn, sensed the shift. She risked a glance back. The wolf was still following, but its pace had slowed, its movements becoming clumsy. The moon was beginning its descent.

“That’s it” Yoko panted, her own undead muscles screaming in protest. “Just a little longer, E. Almost there.”

She led the wolf to a small, rocky clearing, a dead end where she could make a stand if she had to. She turned, bracing herself.

The wolf stumbled into the clearing, its great head hanging low, saliva dripping from its jaws. It took a few more stumbling steps toward Yoko, a weak growl rumbling in its chest. Then, its legs buckled. It collapsed onto its side, its massive flanks heaving. The gold faded from its eyes, leaving them confused, exhausted, and deeply animal. A whine, soft and lost, escaped its throat.

Yoko approached slowly, her hands up. “Hey” she said softly, her voice gentler than it had been all night. “It’s me. It’s Yoko. It’s over, Enid. The moon’s going down.”

The wolf didn’t move, just watched her with weary eyes. The fight was gone, burned out of it.

Back at the cottage, the first grey light of dawn filtered through the broken door. The forest had fallen silent.

The silence was more terrifying than the noise had been.

Bianca and Davina exchanged a worried glance. Had Yoko failed? Had Enid…?

A figure appeared in the doorway, silhouetted against the pre-dawn light. It was Yoko, supporting a barely-conscious, naked, and shivering Enid. Both were covered in dirt, leaves, and blood, some of it Yoko’s, some from the scratches covering Enid’s arms and torso.

Enid’s eyes, human again and filled with a disoriented terror, scanned the room wildly until they landed on Wednesday on the sofa. A broken sound escaped her.

She shoved away from Yoko and stumbled forward, collapsing on her knees beside the sofa. Her hands hovered over Wednesday, afraid to touch her, taking in the pallor, the bloodstained cloths.

“Wends?” she choked out, her voice a raw scrap of sound. “I’m so sorry. I’m so sorry. What did I do? Did I…?” She couldn’t finish, her body wracked with sobs of guilt and horror.

Wednesday’s hand, weak and trembling, lifted a few inches off the sofa. Her fingers found Enid’s tear-streaked cheek. “You… did nothing,” she breathed. “The pup… it tried to shift.”

The truth of it crashed over Enid. It wasn't her attack that had caused this. It was the moon. It was their impossible biology. The relief was so profound it was almost as painful as the guilt.

Isadora removed the medical device, with a struggled sound from Wednesday and sat back on her heels. “The immediate danger has passed. But the pregnancy is… fragile. The baby is a fighter, but it is a hybrid. Its needs are… specific. Your body,” she said to Wednesday, “is human. It complicates things. There will be other difficult nights. I am putting you on absolute bed rest for the next two weeks, Wednesday. The procedure may have mitigated the worst of the situation but the baby was in distress and so were you, situations like this can trigger contractions and even premature labor.”

She began packing her bag, her job done for now. “Rest is the best medicine now. And this.” She handed Enid a small, corked bottle of dark liquid. “For the pain, and for sleep. Two drops only. For both of you.”

Weems finally stepped forward, her gaze taking in the shattered door, the bloodstained room, the exhausted, battered group of girls. “The story is that Miss Sinclair had a particularly difficult transformation due to the stress of recent events and requires isolation for the time being. The rest,” her eyes swept over them all, a silent command in her gaze, “never happened. Is that understood?”

Nods all around. The conspiracy of silence was now absolute.

Bianca looked at the scene: the shattered door, the bloodstains, the exhausted vampire leaning against the doorframe, the weeping werewolf, the terrifyingly still Addams girl. The sun was finally rising, painting the room in a soft, hopeful light that felt like a mockery of the night’s trauma.

The immediate storm had passed. But as her eyes met Davina’s, she knew the same thing Wednesday did. This was not over. They had survived the night, but the cost had been immense, and the war was still waiting for them in the daylight.

Chapter Text

The cottage, once a scene of frantic terror, settled into a state of exhausted, shell-shocked quiet. The rising sun did little to warm the chill that had settled in their bones.

Bianca moved on autopilot, the adrenaline crash leaving her feeling hollow and shaky. She found a blanket and draped it around Enid’s shivering shoulders, then another for Yoko, who was grimly inspecting the deep, sluggishly bleeding gashes on her arm. The vampire’s healing factor was already at work, but the wounds were serious.

“Let me” Davina said softly, taking Yoko’s arm. She produced a vial of clear liquid from her own pouch, siren tears mixed with saltwater and began to gently clean the wounds, her touch infinitely tender. Yoko winced but didn’t pull away, her gaze fixed on her girlfriend’s worried face with a softness she showed no one else.

Bianca’s attention, however, was pulled back to the sofa. Wednesday had drifted into a fitful, pain-filled sleep, her breathing shallow but even. Enid had refused to move from her spot on the floor, her head resting on the edge of the sofa cushion, one hand possessively covering Wednesday’s where it lay on her stomach. She was watching Wednesday’s face as if trying to memorize every breath, her own expression a mess of guilt, relief, and bone-deep weariness.

Seeing them like that, so vulnerable and intertwined, sent a fresh, confusing jolt through Bianca. She busied herself with cleaning, picking up discarded cloths and righting a overturned chair, trying to physically scrub away the memory of Wednesday’s scream, the feel of her blood, the terrifying weight of her in her arms.

Why do I care? The question was a frantic, looping mantra in her mind. She’s a strategic asset. A piece on the board. Keeping her stable keeps the school stable. But the explanations felt thin, pathetic. She had sung for her. She had poured a piece of her soul into a lullaby to save a life she supposedly only valued for its utility. The vulnerability of it made her feel exposed, naked in a way that had nothing to do with the morning light.

She caught Davina looking at her, those perceptive eyes seeing too much. Bianca quickly looked away, her cheeks burning with an emotion she refused to name.

A soft knock announced the return of Weems and Isadora. The hybrid woman carried a basin of fresh water and clean bandages. Her presence was a calm, steadying force.

“How is she?” Weems asked, her voice low.

“Sleeping” Enid whispered, not taking her eyes off Wednesday. “The bleeding… it stopped.”

Isadora nodded, moving to check on the dressing she had done on Wednesday before she left. “Good. The healing has begun. But the risk of infection and premature labor is still high, she'll need you” she said, turning her gaze to Enid, “she'll need to be her strength. Your wolf is tied to her now, more than ever. Your calm will be her calm. Your fear will be her fear.”

Enid swallowed hard and nodded, the responsibility settling on her shoulders like a physical weight, but one she accepted without hesitation.

Isadora then turned to Yoko, examining her arm with a critical eye. “Deep, but clean. You are lucky. A few inches higher and she would have severed the tendon. Generally this would need stitches but with vampires stitches are redundant” She took out her medic kit, some gauze and ointment that smelled of honey and comfrey before re-bandaging it with efficient skill. “You have a brave friend, wolf” she said to Enid. “She led a very angry Alpha on a merry chase.”

Yoko managed to grin thru the pain. “All in a night's work, but you do owe me some good O- for the limp I will have for the rest of day, Furball”

Weems watched the interactions, her face an unreadable mask, but her eyes were troubled. She saw the blood on the floor, the splintered door, the utter exhaustion on every face. She saw Bianca’s forced composure, the way she couldn’t quite look at Wednesday. She saw the deep, abiding terror in Enid’s eyes.

This was beyond a schoolyard feud. This was a life-and-death struggle happening in the shadows of her academy. And she had been trying to manage it with detention slips and strategic hiding places.

Isadora finished her ministrations and stood, packing her bag once more. “I will return this evening to check on her. The dressing must stay on. Ensure she drinks plenty of fluids. And it should go without saying, but no sexual anything with Miss Addams for the foreseeable future” She gave Enid a very significant look.

"I would never…" started the wolf somewhere between scared, indignant and taken aback, the Doctor only looked back at her with a raised eyebrow.

"I'm afraid that the current situation we find ourselves in is a testament to the contrary Miss Sinclair." With that, she left, leaving a heavier silence in her wake.

Weems remained, her arms crossed, staring at the sleeping form of Wednesday Addams. She almost lost the girl last night, and for what? Loyalty to a scared teenager? Protection of Nevermore's reputation? No, those were the lie she told herself, the easly explainable reasons as to why she has being keeping Morticia in the dark about it all.

Truth is she is just a coward who doesn't want to have to face the woman that she loved, still loves, and tell her that she had failed so spectacularly in protecting her daughter that she not only go pregnant inside her school, she might actually die because of her neglect and fear.

The calculation she had been running since the beginning finally reached its conclusion. The risk was too high. Wednesday’s stubborn pride, Enid’s desperate love, the baby’s impossible biology, it was a combination too volatile for her to contain.

With a slow, resigned sigh, Principal Weems walked to the far corner of the room and pulled out her phone. She didn’t look at the girls as she dialed. She simply turned her back, a final, futile gesture of privacy for the decision she was about to make.

The phone rang once, twice. Then, it was answered by a voice that was like rich, warm velvet, tinged with its usual dramatic flair.

“Larissa, darling! To what do I owe the pleasure? Is Wednesday setting something fascinatingly morbid on fire?”

Weems closed her eyes. “Morticia” she said, and her voice, for the first time, held a tremor she could not control. “We need to talk. It’s about Wednesday. It’s… urgent.”

The silence on the other end of the line was instantaneous and absolute. The playful tone vanished, replaced by a chilling, focused intensity that could be felt even through the phone.

“What has happened?”

Back in the main room, Enid’s head snapped up at the sound of Wednesday’s mother’s name. Her eyes widened in panic, meeting Bianca’s. Bianca, in turn, felt a cold dread wash over her. The nuclear option had been deployed.

Weems had finally called Morticia Addams.

The calm was truly over. The storm was no longer coming; it had just been invited inside.

Chapter Text

A week after the full moon, a long, black hearse that smelled of damp earth and expensive leather purred to a stop in front of Nevermore Academy. The air around it seemed to grow still and cold. Gomez Addams emerged, his usual flamboyant energy subdued, replaced by a grim, protective tension. He moved to open the passenger door with a somber grace.

Morticia Addams emerged like a queen descending into a conquered, sorrowful land. Dressed in a flowing black gown, her face was a pale, beautiful mask of contained anguish. Her eyes, usually full of macabre amusement, were dark pools of worry.

They did not stop for idle chit-chat or to reminisce as they usually did, no they went straight to Larissa's office. The opulent room a testament of how the blond woman saw herself was in disarray, with papers scattered all around Larissa's desk and Larissa herself leaning heavily on the fireplace.

Gomez raised a hand to knock, but Weems turned to them, acknowledging their presence, her own composure visibly frayed. "Morticia. Gomez." Her greeting was flat, drained. Seeing Morticia again, here, under these circumstances, was a physical pain she had spent decades preparing for and was still entirely unprepared for.

"Where is she?" Morticia's voice was low, a velvet-wrapped blade.

Weems stepped aside, granting them entry to her office.

"She and Miss Sinclair are currently staying in the old professor Rotwood's cottage, I will take you there" Said the blond with a resigned look to her eyes.

The scene once they arrived at the Cottage was both better and worse than they had imagined. Wednesday was on the sofa, propped up by pillows. Color had returned to her cheeks, but it was a fragile, feverish flush. The pronounced curve of her abdomen was unmistakable. Beside her, perched on the edge of a chair like a nervous, blonde gargoyle, was Enid Sinclair. She looked as if she hadn't slept in a week, her eyes fixed on Wednesday with a mixture of devotion and sheer terror.

The moment Wednesday saw her parents, every ounce of hard-won control evaporated. Her chin trembled. A single, traitorous tear escaped before she could angrily wipe it away.

Morticia’s breath hitched. She crossed the room in a swirl of black silk and knelt before the sofa, ignoring everyone else. Her cool, elegant hands framed Wednesday’s face.

“My little storm cloud” she whispered, her voice cracking with emotion. “What have you endured?”

Gomez was there a second later, his hand on Wednesday’s shoulder, his own eyes suspiciously bright. “Mi querida víbora” he murmured. “We are here.”

For a long moment, Wednesday couldn’t speak. The wall crumbled under the weight of their unconditional love. A sob, raw and ugly, was torn from her throat. She leaned into her mother’s touch.

“I… I tried to manage everything, I thought I could do it” she choked out. “I failed.”

“Oh, my darling, no” Morticia said, pressing a kiss to her forehead, in any other situation Wednesday would've never had allowed such demonstration of affection, which only showed how dire the situation had become “You have been so brave. So impossibly brave and so foolishly stubborn.” Her gaze then shifted to Enid. “And you must be the remarkable young woman who has captured my daughter’s fiercely guarded heart.”

Enid flinched, expecting wrath. Instead, Morticia reached out and took one of Enid’s trembling hands. “You have been protecting her. Fighting for her. We owe you a debt we can never repay.”

Gomez grabbed Enid’s other hand, pumping it vigorously, his tears now flowing freely. “A Werewolf! Wonderful stock! Fierce fighters! Loyal to a fault! We are blessed!” He blew his nose with a sound like a distressed goose.

The unexpected acceptance was too much for Enid. She burst into tears, great, heaving sobs of relief and a week’s worth of pent-up terror. “I’m so sorry! I didn’t mean for any of this to happen! I love her so much and I almost, I almost.”

“Hush, child,” Morticia said, her voice firm but kind. “Love is never an apology.” She looked at Wednesday, then back at Enid. “This child you carry… it is a part of both of you. A most formidable combination.”

For the next hour, the cottage was filled with a torrent of words. The story spilled out. Wednesday spoke with a clinical detachment that couldn’t hide her fear, while Enid filled in the gaps with raw emotion. Gomez wept openly. Morticia listened, her face growing grimmer, her hand never leaving Wednesday’s. Weems remained by the door, a silent spectator, each word a fresh cut. She saw the pain she had allowed to happen to Morticia's child.

When the tale was done, a heavy silence fell. Morticia finally stood, her expression unreadable.

“This dormitory is suitable for now” she declared. “You need peace. Security. And family.” She turned to Weems. “We would like to remain here, with them”

Weems, her voice thick, nodded. “I have no objections, but the Cottage is not prepared for long term use Morticia.”

“Gomez will see to it” Morticia interrupted. “He will have it habitable by nightfall. We will stay here. Wednesday and Enid will join us. They will have their own space, but we will be close.”

The decision was made. The Addams family was taking command.

Gomez was already on the phone, barking orders in rapid-fire Spanish.

The transition was a whirlwind. Within hours, Rotwood Cottage was aired out, and filled with Addams family belongings that seemed to have appeared out of nowhere. Wednesday and Enid were installed in a spacious bedroom on the ground floor.

Finally, after everything was settled around the house, the girls were left alone to settle in. The heavy drapes, the scent of ozone and decay, the looming four-poster bed, it was a piece of home.

As dusk began to fall, Morticia found Weems standing on the porch of the main house, watching Rotwood Cottage.

“They have retired for the night, now we can talk” Morticia said, her voice cold as a grave.

Weems turned, her face etched with a profound weariness and a deep, personal shame. “Morticia. I thought I was doing what was best. Wednesday was adamant that you not be told. I was trying to respect her autonomy. I thought I could… I could handle it.”

The last two words were a whisper, a confession she hadn't meant to make.

The slap was so fast it was barely a movement. A sharp, stinging crack that echoed in the quiet evening. Larissa’s head snapped to the side, a red mark blooming on her cheek.

“Handle it? Just like you handled things 20 years ago” Morticia’s voice was dangerously soft.

“I didn’t…” Weems’s composure, her principal’s mask, finally shattered. The truth tumbled out, raw and desperate. “We were kids Morticia, what was I supposed to do” Her voice broke.

"You are right, we were kids…them. What is your excuse now? My daughter almost died because of you, because I trusted her in your care and you didn't do your job" Morticia's eyes bored into her with glacial fury.

"I thought I was doing the right thing, I thought…I thought…that if I could fix it…"

The controlled fury on Morticia’s face was terrifying. “You arrogant, selfish fool” she hissed, every word dripping with a venom forged in betrayal. “You let my child suffer. You let her bleed. You left her terrified and alone because you wanted to fix it? Because even after all this years you still can't face me?”

Weems touched her stinging cheek, the truth of the accusation worse than the blow. “I was wrong. I see that now. I am so sorry, Tish.”

The use of the old nickname shattered the last of Morticia’s control. “DO NOT!” she roared, her voice raw. “You do not get to call me that! Not when you used the ghost of what we were to justify this… this neglect! My daughter’s life was in the balance! Her child’s life! And you were worried about your wounded pride and a heartbreak that is decades old!”

Tears of pure, undiluted rage streamed down Morticia’s face. “You were her guardian. You were the one person here I trusted. And you chose to let her drown in silence because you were too much of a coward to call for help! My help! You chose your own comfort over her survival. That is not a mistake, Larissa. That is a betrayal of the highest order.”

The words hung in the air, final and damning. Weems had no defense. The deepest, most secret reason for her inaction was now exposed, and it was more pathetic and selfish than any strategic excuse could ever be.

“I am sorry” Weems whispered, the words utterly inadequate.

Morticia stared at her, the anger slowly receding, leaving behind a grief so profound it seemed to age her. “Sorry does not mend torn flesh. It does not un-break a heart.” She turned away, looking back toward the cottage where her daughter was finally safe. “Your apology is noted. Now, you will give my family a wide berth. We will handle this from here. You may continue to run your school. But you are no longer a part of this family’s story.”

Without another glance, Morticia Addams walked away, her black gown merging with the shadows, leaving Larissa Weems alone on the porch. The sting on her cheek was nothing compared to the crushing weight in her chest. She had not just failed her duty; she had proven herself unworthy of a trust that had once been the foundation of her life. And she had lost, forever, the last lingering connection to the only woman she had ever loved.

Inside Rotwood Cottage, Wednesday was lying in the enormous bed, Enid curled protectively around her, her head on Wednesday’s shoulder. They could hear the low, soothing murmur of Gomez’s voice in the kitchen as he prepared a potent, family-recipe tea.

“They’re not mad,” Enid whispered, still scarcely able to believe it.

“They are furious” Wednesday corrected quietly, her hand resting on her stomach. “But not at us.” She paused. “They see you. They see what we are. And they approve.”

Enid snuggled closer, breathing in the unique scent of Wednesday mixed with the familiar Addams aroma of old magic and dust. For the first time since the battle, a true, deep sense of safety began to seep into her bones. The war wasn't over. The moon would still rise. But they were no longer a fortress of two. They were now a clan.

The silence on the porch after Morticia left was absolute, broken only by the distant, cheerful sound of Gomez singing a Spanish lullaby from within Rotwood Cottage. The contrast was a cruelty in itself. Inside, a family was healing, drawing together. Out here, Larissa Weems stood alone in the ruins of a trust she had shattered with her own hands, twice.

The sting on her cheek was a brand. It wasn't the pain that mattered; it was the source. Morticia’s hand. The same hand that had once, a lifetime ago, gently tucked a flower behind her ear in the Nevermore gardens. The memory was a ghost that now haunted the fresh imprint of her failure.

She didn't move. She couldn't. The weight of Morticia's words, coward, selfish, betrayal, pressed down on her, a physical force that made it hard to breathe. She had spent her entire adult life building a fortress of competence and control, a bastion against the vulnerability of her own heart. And with a few sentences, Morticia had reduced it to rubble, exposing the frightened girl who still lived inside the principal's tailored suits.

Her motivation, once so clear and logical in her own mind, now seemed pathetic. Respect for Wednesday's choice. A noble sentiment, but a lie she had told herself. The truth was far uglier. She had been afraid. Not of the pack, not of the scandal, but of the look in Morticia's eyes. The look she had just received. The look of utter devastation and contempt.

She had prioritized her own fragile heart over the literal heartbeats of Morticia's daughter and grandchild.

A dry, heaving sob escaped her, devoid of tears. She was too hollow for tears. She turned away from the warm lights of the cottage, from the family she was no longer part of, and walked back to the main building. Her heels clicked on the stone path, each step an echo of her own isolation.

Her office, once her sanctuary of order and authority, felt like a tomb. The portrait of herself as a younger woman, confident and ambitious, seemed to mock her from the wall. She went to the sideboard and poured a generous measure of amber liquid into a crystal glass, her hand trembling so badly the decanter clinked against the rim.

She didn't drink it. She just stood there, holding the glass, staring at nothing. The image of Wednesday on the sofa, pale and bleeding, superimposed itself over the room. The sound of Enid's desperate sobs. The feel of Morticia's slap.

She looked back to the picture half-buried in her desk, three young woman smiling wide for a photo, two blonds and a raven haired woman.

She had failed. Completely and utterly.

Inside Rotwood Cottage, a different kind of intensity reigned. Morticia stood in the kitchen, her back to the room, her hands braced on the polished black countertop. The regal composure she had worn like armor was gone. Her shoulders trembled. The confrontation with Larissa had cost her.

Gomez was at her side in an instant, his large, warm hands covering hers. "Tish, my love" he murmured, his voice a low, soothing rumble. "The storm has passed. Our viper is in her nest. She is safe."

Morticia turned into his embrace, burying her face in his shoulder. For a moment, she allowed herself the luxury of weakness, of leaning on his unshakable strength. "I could have lost her, Gomez" she whispered, her voice muffled by his jacket. "Our little storm cloud. She was here, alone, and she was so afraid, and I didn't know. I didn't know."

"And now you do" he said, stroking her hair. "And we are here. And we will make it right. We will fill this cottage with such love and protection that not even the moon itself will dare to harm them." He pulled back, cupping her face. "And you, my magnificent, terrifying wife, were a force of nature. You always are."

A small, genuine smile touched Morticia's lips. She drew a shaky breath and straightened, the matriarch once more. "We must be their strength now. Both of them."

She prepared a tray with a pot of the special tea and two cups. Gomez followed with a plate of what he called "fortifying biscuits" that looked suspiciously like animal crackers iced with black frosting.

In the bedroom, Wednesday and Enid were nestled together in the vast bed. Enid was tracing idle patterns on Wednesday's shoulder, while Wednesday stared at the canopy above, her mind undoubtedly analyzing every second of the past week, searching for errors, for different outcomes.

Morticia set the tray down. "How are we feeling?" she asked, her voice soft.

"Functional" Wednesday said, her automatic default.

"Liar" Enid whispered, her voice thick with emotion. She looked at Morticia, her eyes wide. "Thank you. For… for not being angry with us. For… all of this."

Morticia sat on the edge of the bed. "There is nothing to thank us for. This is what family does." She poured the tea, the steam carrying a scent of dark berries and valerian root. "We have spoken with Isadora. She will be by daily to monitor your progress. The next few weeks are critical. Your body must recover its strength."

Wednesday accepted the cup, her fingers brushing her mother's. The simple contact was a silent communication of gratitude and relief that words could never convey.

"We will also be dealing with the pack issue" Gomez announced, puffing out his chest. "A few well-placed letters. A conversation with the elders. Perhaps a weekend visit. We have a dungeon that's been dreadfully underused…"

"Gomez" Morticia chided gently.

"…or we can simply use the devastating power of social and financial ostracization!" he finished cheerfully. "The point is, the harassment ends. Now."

Enid looked overwhelmed. "My parents…"

"Will be handled with the precise amount of pressure required to ensure they understand the new… hierarchy" Morticia said smoothly. "Your place is here, with your mate and your child. They will learn to accept that, or they will learn to regret it."

The ferocity of the protection, offered so freely, finally broke through the last of Enid's defenses. Fresh tears welled in her eyes. "I… I don't know what to say."

"Say you will drink your tea and get some rest" Morticia said, her tone leaving no room for argument. She leaned over and pressed a kiss to Wednesday's forehead, then, after a moment's hesitation, did the same to Enid's. The gesture was so instinctively maternal that Enid's breath hitched.

As Morticia and Gomez left, closing the door softly behind them, Enid turned to Wednesday. "Your parents are… amazing."

Wednesday was silent for a long moment, staring into her tea. "They are… relentless" she finally conceded. "And their methods are often unorthodox. But their loyalty is… absolute." She looked at Enid, a rare, unguarded vulnerability in her dark eyes. "They see you as family. That is a designation they do not bestow lightly."

Enid snuggled closer, her heart so full it felt like it might burst. "I know."

Back in her office, Larissa Weems finally sank into her chair. The glass of untouched whiskey sat before her. The darkness outside her window was complete.

She opened the her desk drawer, tucked underneath a stack of papers. It was a picture of her and Morticia, taken during their own time at Nevermore. They were young, arms slung around each other's shoulders, laughing at something forgotten. The future was a bright, endless road ahead of them.

She reached out a trembling hand and traced the glass over Morticia's smiling face. The grief that washed over her was so profound it was a physical ache. She had not just lost the woman she loved a second time; she had proven herself unworthy of that love all over again.

She had worn the crown of Principal Weems with pride, believing it made her strong, immune to the messiness of human emotion. But it was just a crown. It couldn't protect her from herself. It couldn't protect the one person she had truly wanted to shield.

With a final, shuddering sigh, she opened the bottom drawer of her desk and placed the photograph inside, face down. Then she closed the drawer, locking away the ghost of a happier past.

The crown felt heavier than ever. And she was utterly alone beneath its weight. The war for the future was being waged in the cottage down the path, and she had been deemed unfit for service. All that was left was to reign over her empty kingdom and await the consequences of her failure.

Chapter Text

The weeks following the full moon settled into a new, tense rhythm at Nevermore. The overt harassment from Ethan’s pack ceased, as if a switch had been flipped. The news of the Addams family’s direct involvement, and their very physical presence on campus, had acted like a bucket of ice water on the embers of their rebellion. The war wasn't won, but a ceasefire, brokered by sheer, terrifying power, was in effect.

For Bianca Barclay, the quiet was unnerving. The constant state of low-grade crisis had been a distraction. Now, with the immediate threat gone, she was left alone with a quiet, buzzing confusion that was far more difficult to manage.

It began with Wednesday. Bianca found herself crafting excuses to walk past Rotwood Cottage. She’d suddenly remember a question about a semester project, or need to “verify a detail” about the Poe Cup standings. Each time, she was met at the door by either a jovial, sword-cane-wielding Gomez or a serene but impenetrable Morticia. They were always polite, always grateful, they always asked if she wanted to come in, she never said yes. She caught only glimpses of Wednesday inside, often reading or sleeping, her form more pronounced each time, a living reminder of the night Bianca had held her, blood-soaked and trembling, not that the image ever left her.

She wasn't just checking on an asset. The feeling was… proprietary. A fierce, protective urge that made her jaw clench when she thought of how close it had all come to ending. She’d find herself in the middle of a conversation, her mind conjuring the image of Wednesday’s pale, determined face, and a strange ache would settle in her chest. She, Bianca Barclay, who found children messy and irritating, was deeply, illogically concerned about the well-being of a gothic fetus. It made no sense.

But it was Enid who truly unraveled her.

With the threat diminished, Enid had begun to… bloom. The constant tension had drained from her shoulders, replaced by a new, confident grace. She was always at Wednesday’s side when they ventured out for classes and supervised walks, her arm a steady support. But it was more than that.

Bianca found her gaze lingering. She noticed the way the sunlight caught the gold in Enid’s hair, making it look like a lion’s mane. She saw the defined curve of her bicep as she carried a stack of books, the effortless strength in her back. This wasn't the bubbly, slightly insecure girl from the beginning of the year. This was an Alpha in her prime, her vibrancy dialed to a hundred, her every movement radiating a potent, unconscious power.

And her smile. When she looked at Wednesday, it wasn't just happy; it was… devastating. A sun-breaking-through-clouds radiance that was so genuine, so full of adoration and ferocious love, that it felt like a physical blow to Bianca’s solar plexus. She’d catch herself staring, her breath caught in her throat, her heart doing a strange, skipping rhythm she’d never felt before.

It hit her one afternoon in the library. She was supposed to be studying, but her attention was fixed across the room where Enid was helping Wednesday find a specific text, reaching for a high shelf. The movement stretched her shirt across her back, outlining the powerful muscles there. Bianca’s mouth went dry. A flush of heat traveled up her neck. It was a wave of pure, undiluted attraction.

She looked away, her heart hammering. What is wrong with me?

She had never felt this way about a girl. Boys were simple. They were predictable, easily charmed, and useful. Her attraction had always been a calculated choice, a part of her armor. This was… involuntary. A current she hadn’t invited and couldn’t control.

It made her feel off-balance, exposed. She was the queen of Nevermore. She controlled the social currents, she didn't get swept away by them. Yet, here she was, watching a werewolf with the dumbstruck fascination of a sailor lured by a siren’s song. The irony was not lost on her, and it was infuriating.

Her confusion curdled into a sharp, irritable restlessness. She snapped at her friends during lunch over nothing. She abandoned her homework halfway through. She found herself pacing her room, the image of Enid’s smiling face and Wednesday’s guarded eyes playing on a loop in her mind.

Davina watched it all with a quiet, knowing calm that only made Bianca more agitated.

“You are troubled, my song,” Davina said one evening, finding Bianca staring out their window toward the lights of Rotwood Cottage.

“I’m fine,” Bianca snapped, the lie brittle and transparent.

“You are not” Davina said simply, coming to stand beside her. “But it is not my place to interfere. Not yet.”

Bianca didn’t answer, Davina was always like this, lost between present and future. She just crossed her arms tighter over her chest.

“It is not a weakness to care for them” Davina continued, her voice soft. “It is not a flaw to see the beauty in her strength, or the courage in her fragility.” She didn't specify which ‘her’ she meant. She didn't need to.

“I don’t care for them” Bianca insisted, the words sounding hollow even to her. “I just… I have a vested interest in their stability. That’s all.”

Davina smiled, a gentle, infuriatingly perceptive curve of her lips. “Of course. A vested interest.” She placed a cool hand on Bianca’s arm. “Just remember, the strongest currents are not meant to be fought. They are meant to be navigated. Trying to swim against them will only leave you exhausted and drowned.”

She left Bianca alone at the window.

Navigated. The word echoed in the silence. Bianca looked out at the cottage, a knot of conflicting emotions tightening in her stomach. Protectiveness for Wednesday. A dizzying, unwanted attraction to Enid. A confusing sense of longing for… what? Their closeness? Their certainty? The sheer, terrifying realness of what they had?

She didn't know. All she knew was that the perfectly ordered world she had built for herself, where every relationship was a transaction and every emotion was a tool, had been irrevocably cracked open. And pouring through the cracks were two girls, one dark and sharp as a shard of obsidian, the other bright and warm as the sun and Bianca had no idea what to do with the storm they had unleashed inside her. She was adrift, and for the first time in her life, her siren’s song had no map to offer.

The coming days after her talk did not bring Bianca any magical clarity to her situation or comfort. All she knew is that had felt something, a pull, a connection she couldn't explain, something that left her unbalanced and frightened and her reaction was immediate and visceral: retreat. She fortified her walls, doubling down on the one thing she could always control: herself.

She began a meticulous campaign of avoidance. It was a tactical withdrawal, she told herself. A strategic move to regain her equilibrium. If Enid's laugh echoed from the quad, Bianca found a reason to be in the library. If she saw Wednesday's dark form moving slowly toward the greenhouse, Bianca abruptly remembered a meeting elsewhere. She stopped her nocturnal vigils to Rotwood Cottage, forbidding herself the weakness of that lonely watch. She buried herself in student council paperwork, in advanced mesmerism theory, in anything that would fill the silence and occupy a mind that kept treacherously circling back to them.

But the absence of them was a presence in itself. It was a constant, low-grade hum of wrongness under her skin, a feeling of being off-balance, like a ship straining against its anchor in a changing tide. The frustration of not understanding why she felt this way began to curdle into a sharp, petty malice that she unleashed on everyone else.

She became a tyrant in student council meetings, her critiques morphing from constructive to harsh to cruel. "Is that the best you can do?" she'd sneer at a proposal, watching the student wilt. "Did you even bother to think this through, or are we just wasting time?" During fencing practice, she was a whirlwind of aggressive precision, disarming her opponents with brutal efficiency and leaving them humiliated and rubbing their wrists. The smallest infraction, a dropped book, a whisper in the hall, felt like a personal insult, a grain of sand irritating the raw, exposed nerve of her entire being.

She was drowning in a feeling she refused to name, and she was determined to make everyone else just as miserable.

The most damning evidence of her unraveling was her attempt to reassert control in the only way she knew how. This… feeling… it had to be a fluke. A stress-induced anomaly. If it was just a weird, misplaced attraction, she could fix it. She could control it. She could prove she was still the one in charge of her own desires.

She sought out Xavier, they had broken up, but ever since Addams and Sinclair had went public he started to message her again, she had completely ignored his attempts so far, but this time when he asked to take her out she said yes. She let him buy her overpriced coffee at the Weathervane. She let him kiss her, she let him take her back to his dormitory, his hands clumsy and eager on her waist. His touch felt wrong, a damp, meaningless pressure. His lips on hers were devoid of any spark, any connection. All she could feel was a cold, clinical disgust and a profound, inexplicable sense of doing something deeply wrong. She left him as soon as he was done, muttering an excuse about curfew, and power-walked back to Nevermore feeling emptier and more irritated than before.

Desperate, she tried again, Xavier was never that good at making her feel good anyway, this time she chose a vampire, a senior, named Selene, maybe if she got this gay thing out of her system everything would go back to how they were supposed to be, right?

Selene had cold hands, she was sophisticated, powerful, everything her logical mind told her she should find appealing. They walked through the moonlit woods, and she spoke of centuries of history, of art and power. But as she kissed her and whispered promises of eternal night in her ear, her words felt hollow. Her mind kept drifting, comparing her calculated charm to Wednesday's brutal honesty, her cold strength to Enid's vibrant, warm power. When her cold fingers brushed her clothed breasts, she recoiled as if burned, a wave of nausea washing over her. She excused herself abruptly, claiming a sudden headache, and practically ran back to Ophelia Hall, where she scrubbed at her mouth until her lips were raw.

It was no use. Every attempt to feel something, anything, for someone else only left her feeling more hollow and more frustrated. It was like her capacity for attraction had been mysteriously and specifically narrowed to two people who were completely, utterly off-limits.

The pressure built until she was a tightly coiled spring, vibrating with a frustrated, directionless energy. She stopped sleeping, haunted by a restlessness she couldn't name. She picked at her food, her appetite gone. She moved through the world like a ghost of her former self, her features drawn, her famous Barclay composure stretched to a transparent, brittle veneer.

The breaking point came in the solitude of her room. She was trying to study, but the words on the page blurred together. All she could see was the worry in Wednesday's eyes that day in the hallway, the fierce set of Enid's jaw as she stood up to Ethan. The memory of Wednesday's blood on her hands was a phantom sensation that made her own hands tremble.

A wave of helpless, furious anger washed over her. She snatched the book from her desk and hurled it across the room. It hit the wall with a satisfying thud and clattered to the floor.

"Why?" she screamed into the empty room, her voice cracking with the strain. "Why can't I stop thinking about them?"

She paced, running her hands through her shaved hair, ruining it. "It's pathetic. She's… she's Wednesday Addams. She's a nightmare in a pleated skirt. And Enid… she's all sunshine and rainbows and… and muscles…" The word slipped out, and she froze, her own breath catching in her throat.

Muscles. The memory of Enid's arm, defined and strong, as she helped Wednesday walk flashed in her mind. The way her tank top had stretched across her back…

Bianca shook her head violently, as if to dislodge the thought. "No. No, no, no."

She grabbed a vase of flowers from her nightstand, a gift from some admirer and threw it against the opposite wall. Glass shattered, water sprayed, petals scattered like casualties.

"This is stupid! This is insane! I don't even like girls!" she yelled, the declaration sounding hollow and false in the quiet room. She was panting, her chest heaving, standing amidst the wreckage of her own outburst.

The anger drained away as quickly as it came, leaving behind a crushing weight of confusion and despair. She slid down the wall onto the floor, drawing her knees to her chest, ignoring the shards of glass nearby. She buried her face in her arms.

What was happening to her? This wasn't her. She was Bianca Barclay. She was in control. She chose who to charm, who to dismiss. She didn't lose sleep. She didn't throw tantrums over people who didn't give her a second thought.

But she was. She was losing sleep over whether Wednesday was in pain. She was throwing things because the sight of Enid's smile made her feel things she couldn't categorize.

A single, hot tear of pure frustration escaped and traced a path down her cheek. She was unmoored. Adrift. And the only two points of light on the horizon were the very ones she was desperately trying to sail away from.

She didn't understand it. She couldn't name it. All she knew was that she was caught in a riptide of her own making, and for the first time in her life, her siren's song had no power to save her. She was just… lost.

The shattered vase lay where it had fallen, a testament to Bianca’s fractured control. The silence in the room after her outburst was heavier than before, thick with the scent of damp earth and bruised petals. She stayed on the floor, knees drawn to her chest, forehead pressed against them. The tears were gone, burned away by the fire of her own frustration, leaving behind a hollow, aching exhaustion.

I don’t even like girls.

The words echoed in the silence, a flimsy shield against a truth she was too terrified to examine. It wasn't about girls. It was about her. About them. Wednesday’s unflinching, razor-sharp mind. Enid’s fierce, sun-warmed strength. They were opposites, and yet they fit together in a way that felt… inevitable. And Bianca was trapped in their orbit, a rogue planet pulled by a gravity she couldn’t escape and didn't understand.

A soft knock on the door made her flinch. “Go away” she mumbled, her voice muffled against her knees.

The door opened anyway. Davina stood there, her gaze taking in the scene: the shattered glass, the scattered flowers, Bianca curled on the floor like a wounded animal. Her expression was not one of surprise, but of deep, weary understanding.

“The entire hall heard your symphony of destruction” Davina said softly, closing the door behind her. She stepped carefully around the glass and knelt a few feet away, not touching, just present. “I thought a poltergeist had finally taken up residence.”

Bianca didn’t look up. “I dropped something.”

“You threw something” Davina corrected gently. “Several somethings, by the sound of it.” She paused. “The current is pulling you under, Bianca. You are fighting it, and it is tearing you apart.”

“There is no current!” Bianca snapped, lifting her head. Her eyes were red-rimmed, her face pale. “I’m just… stressed. With the semester. With… everything.” The excuse sounded pathetic even to her own ears.

Davina’s gaze was unwavering. “You are not stressed. You are heartsick. And you are in denial.”

“I am not heartsick!” Bianca pushed herself to her feet, needing to be taller, needing some semblance of advantage. She began to pace, a caged panther. “You’re imagining things. So what if I’m a little on edge? This school is a circus, and I’m the only one who seems to care about keeping the lions from eating the clowns!”

“The lions and the clowns are doing remarkably well, considering,” Davina said, her voice still calm. “It is the ringmaster who is coming undone.” She stood as well, mirroring Bianca’s movement, a serene counterpoint to her chaos. “You avoid them. You watch them when you think no one sees. Your song… it has changed. It calls for them.”

Bianca stopped pacing, whirling to face her. “My song? What are you even talking about? This isn’t one of your oceanic metaphors, Davina! This is real life! I don’t have a song that calls for people!”

“Don’t you?” Davina challenged, her voice gaining a rare edge. “You are a siren. Your magic is your voice, your essence. It is tied to your deepest self. And your self is in turmoil. It is drawn to the Addams girl’s unwavering truth, to the Sinclair girl’s ferocious light. You try to fill the void with humans and vampires, and it only makes you feel more empty because they are not them.”

Each word was a hammer blow, chipping away at the wall of Bianca’s denial. The failed encounter with Xavier. The nausea with Selene. The constant, aching need to know they were safe.

“It’s not… I don’t…” Bianca stammered, her composure crumbling. The fight was leaving her, replaced by a wave of helpless confusion. “It doesn’t make any sense. She’s… Wednesday. She’s impossible. And Enid is… she’s just so… good. And I’m… me.” The last word was a whisper, laced with a self-loathing she usually kept buried deep.

“And ‘you’ are a force of nature who values strength and authenticity above all else,” Davina said, stepping closer. “Is it so impossible that your nature would recognize itself in theirs? That you would see the strength in Wednesday’s resilience and the authenticity in Enid’s love?”

Bianca wrapped her arms around herself, a shiver running through her despite the warm room. “So what? I admire them? Fine. I admit it. I admire Wednesday’s stupid, stubborn brain and I think Enid is… impressively strong. Is that what you want to hear? Are you happy now?”

“It is a start” Davina said softly. “But it is more than admiration, and you know it. You are not this cruel to others over simple admiration. You are cruel because you are afraid of what you feel.”

The truth of it was a sucker punch to the gut. Bianca’s breath hitched. The image of Anya’s tear-streaked face flashed in her mind. Of the fencers she’d humiliated. She had been terrible. And it was because she was terrified.

Tears welled up again, hot and shameful. “What is wrong with me?” she whispered, her voice breaking. “Why does it hurt so much to be away from them? Why do I want to…” She trailed off, unable to voice the terrifying depth of the need.

Davina finally closed the last bit of distance between them. She didn’t embrace her, but she placed a cool, steadying hand on Bianca’s arm. “There is nothing wrong with you. Your heart is simply trying to sing a new song, and you are refusing to listen. You are trying to sing the old, lonely melody, and it is causing you pain.”

Bianca looked at her, truly looked at her, and saw no judgment in Davina’s eyes. Only understanding and a deep, patient love. The last of her resistance broke.

“I think about her all the time,” Bianca confessed, the admission torn from her. “Wednesday. I need to know she’s okay. It feels like… like an itch under my skin I can’t scratch. And Enid…” She swallowed hard, the next admission even harder. “When I look at her, I feel… warm. And it scares me. It all scares me so much.”

Davina nodded, her hand gently squeezing Bianca’s arm. “I know.”

“What do I do?” Bianca asked, her voice small, lost. The queen of Nevermore was gone. In her place was just a seventeen-year-old girl, terrified of her own heart.

“You stop fighting” Davina said simply. “You accept the current. You do not have to understand it yet. You simply have to stop swimming against it. The ‘what to do’ will come later.”

Bianca let out a shuddering breath. Stop fighting. It sounded impossible. And yet, the thought of continuing this internal war was even more exhausting.

She wasn't ready to put a name to what she was feeling. Love was too big, too terrifying a word. Bond was a fantasy. But she could, perhaps, admit to a pull. An attraction. A deep, abiding… interest.

It was a tiny crack in the dam of her denial. But for now, as she stood in her wrecked room with her patient girlfriend, it was enough. The storm inside her hadn't passed, but she had finally found her eye. And for the moment, that was all she could handle.

Chapter Text

The world had shrunk to the dimensions of Rotwood Cottage. For Wednesday Addams, this was both a prison and a sanctuary. The constant, watchful presence of her parents was a cage of smothering concern, but it was a cage that kept the wolves at bay. The deep, aching fatigue was slowly receding under Morticia’s potent tonics and Gomez’s relentless, cheerful force-feeding.

Her recovery was a meticulous, frustrating process. Her body, which she had always commanded with precise control, had become a traitorous vessel. It demanded rest. It demanded bland, nutrient-rich foods. It demanded that she accept help.

The one constant, the single point of sanity, was Enid. Enid, who seemed to have absorbed all of Wednesday’s lost strength and multiplied it. She was a whirlwind of devoted care, anticipating needs Wednesday would never voice. Her touch had become the most familiar and comforting sensation in Wednesday’s world.

But their sanctuary had a scheduled intrusion: Isadora Capri’s daily visits.

The doctor was a study in contradictions. With Wednesday, she was the picture of gentle, focused competence. Her hands were infinitely careful as she checked Wednesday’s vitals, her voice a soft, soothing murmur. “Just relax, my dear. You’re doing beautifully. So strong.” She treated Wednesday like a precious, fragile artifact, her sympathy palpable, Wednesday hated that.

But she was different with Enid, the shift was never dramatic. It was in the subtle cooling of her tone, the slight tightening around her eyes when Enid moved into her periphery. Her disdain wasn't a weapon she wielded with conscious intent; it was a poison that had seeped into her very bones, and it leaked out in tiny, almost imperceptible doses.

Wednesday, a connoisseur of the unspoken, noticed every single one.

“Your resilience is remarkable, Wednesday” Isadora would murmur, her stethoscope cold on Wednesday’s skin. “It’s a testament to your unique constitution. To have endured so much…” Her gaze would drift to Enid, who was nervously straightening already-straight pillows. “…to have been put under such strain… and to be recovering so well. Most wouldn’t have your fortitude.”

The compliment to Wednesday was a beautifully wrapped indictment of Enid. You have put her under immense strain.

Another time, discussing nutrition: “We need to focus on easily digestible proteins for you, Wednesday. Your system is still so delicate.” She’d then glance at Enid’s lunch, a massive sandwich piled high with rare roast beef, and add with a faint, seemingly polite smile, “Of course, the dietary needs of the sire are so much more… straightforward. A simpler metabolism to manage.”

The comparison was always there. Wednesday: complex, delicate, refined. Enid: simple, brute, uncomplicated.

The most insidious comments were about the future. “You’ll need to be very firm about your boundaries after the birth, Wednesday” Isadora said one afternoon, her tone gentle, advisory. “The pup will be demanding, of course, but you must remember your own health comes first. Don’t let yourself be… overwhelmed. Some don’t know their own strength, and their good intentions can be just as draining as malice.” She didn’t look at Enid as she said it. She didn’t have to.

Enid, for her part, seemed to sense the disapproval like a change in barometric pressure. She’d become quieter during these visits, folding herself smaller, trying to take up less space. She’d offer a timid smile that Isadora would never quite return, or she’d over-apologize for tiny noises. She was trying so hard to be… less. Less wolf. Less her.

And Wednesday watched. She cataloged each micro-expression, each loaded pause, each compliment that was a dagger in disguise. Her cold fury was a slow-building pressure.

The breaking point was a masterpiece of subtlety. Isadora was finished with her examination, helping Wednesday sit up with a careful hand.

“There we are. All stable, you are finally cleared to go back to your normal school activities” the doctor said, her voice warm for Wednesday. Then, her eyes fell on a small, hand-knitted wolf toy Enid had placed on the nightstand, a gift for the baby. Isadora picked it up, her nose wrinkling almost imperceptibly. “Ah. How… rustic.” She set it down with a soft click that sounded like a dismissal. “It’s good to see you surrounding yourself with comforting things, Wednesday. You deserve every softness after all you’ve been through.”

It was the final straw. The implication was crystal clear: Enid and her world were “rustic,” unrefined, a hardship Wednesday was enduring. A thing to be tolerated, not celebrated.

“Doctor Capri.”

Wednesday’s voice was not loud. It was flat, cold, and it froze the air in the room.

Isadora turned, her expression one of polite inquiry. “Yes, Wednesday? Do you need something for the pain?”

“I need you to clarify a statement” Wednesday said, her dark eyes locked onto the doctor’s. “You said I deserve every softness. Could you define what you mean by ‘softness’? Are you referring to textiles? Or are you making a qualitative judgment on the emotional environment my mate provides?”

Isadora’s smile became strained. “I only meant that you should be pampered, my dear. You’ve earned it.”

“Pampering implies a level of indulgence I do not require or desire” Wednesday countered, her voice a scalpel. “What I ‘deserve’ and what I have chosen, is a partner whose strength complements my own. Not a ‘softness’ to cushion me from the world.” Her gaze flicked to the knitted wolf. “I find that particular object, for example, to be perfectly adequate. Its value is not in its aesthetic, but in the intent behind its creation. A concept you seem to consistently undervalue.”

The room was utterly silent. Enid had stopped folding a blanket, her hands suspended in mid-air. Gomez and Morticia were watching, their usual levity gone.

Isadora’s face flushed. “Wednesday, I think you’re misinterpreting my meaning. I have only your best interests at heart.”

“Your ‘heart’ seems to have a very specific and recurring bias that I find medically irrelevant and personally offensive” Wednesday stated, her tone devoid of emotion. “Your continued, subtle disparagement of Enid's role in this pregnancy is a stressor. And as you yourself have noted, stress is detrimental to my health.”

She let the words hang in the air, watching as Isadora finally, truly understood that her carefully coded language had been deciphered and rejected.

“Therefore” Wednesday concluded, “for the sake of my recovery, I am terminating our appointments. Your services are no longer required.”

The dismissal was absolute. Isadora stood there, her professional mask shattered, revealing the stunned woman beneath. She had been so sure her judgments were invisible, her disdain expertly hidden behind a veil of concern. To have it all laid bare, so clinically and without passion, was a devastating blow.

Without another word, she picked up her bag and left, the door closing with a soft, final click.

The silence she left behind was clean, like air after a storm.

Enid was staring at Wednesday, her eyes wide with a mixture of awe and anxiety. “Wends… you… you didn’t have to…”

“Yes” Wednesday said, the coldness leaving her voice, replaced by a simple, factual tone. “I did. Her commentary was inefficient and its underlying premise was flawed.” She looked at Enid, truly looked at her, seeing the faint tremble in her hands. “You are not a stressor. You are the antithesis of one.”

A single tear escaped and traced a path down Enid’s cheek. It was not a tear of sadness, but of profound relief. The constant, low-grade pressure of Isadora’s judgment had been a weight she hadn’t even fully acknowledged until it was gone.

Wednesday observed the tear with clinical interest. “Your lacrimal ducts are expressing a positive emotional response to the removal of a negative stimulus. Good”

Enid let out a wet, choked laugh. “Yeah” she whispered. “They really are.”

She crossed the room and sat on the edge of the bed, carefully taking Wednesday’s hand. “Thank you.”

Wednesday gave a slight, almost imperceptible nod. “It was a logical decision.”

But as she felt Enid’s warm, strong hand in hers, and saw the light return to her eyes, Wednesday knew it was more than that. It was protection. It was loyalty. It was, perhaps, the closest thing to ‘softness’ she would ever willingly accept. And she had just declared war on a respected physician to defend it.

The silence in Rotwood Cottage after Isadora’s departure was profound, but it was a clean silence, scoured of the doctor’s lingering, toxic presence. The relief was palpable, a shared exhalation held for too long.

Morticia was the first to move. She glided to the window, watching Isadora’s retreating figure march across the grounds toward her car, her posture rigid with a fury that was visible even from a distance.

“She will not take that well” Morticia murmured, more to herself than to the room.

“She can add it to her list of grievances” Wednesday stated from the bed, her voice already regaining its usual flat affect now that the confrontation was over. “It will hardly make a dent.”

“You were magnificent, cara mia!” Gomez proclaimed, though his cheer was slightly subdued. “A verbal duel for the ages! But Tish is right. Izzy has always held a grudge like a master sommelier holds a fine wine, she cherishes its maturity.”

Enid, still sitting on the edge of the bed, looked between them, her earlier relief now tinged with a new, complicated unease. “Did I… did I make things worse? By being here? If I’d just waited outside…”

“No” Wednesday and Morticia said in unison. Wednesday continued, “Your absence would not have altered her core beliefs. It would have merely provided a temporary reprieve.”

Morticia turned from the window, her expression thoughtful. “The core belief is the issue. And it is one I had hoped time had mellowed. I see now it has only festered.” She smoothed her black skirts. “I should speak with her. An old friend should at least attempt to apply a poultice to a wound she helped create.”

“You are going after her?” Enid asked, surprised.

“The roots of this dislike run deep, child” Morticia said. “And they are tangled with my own history. It is a conversation long overdue.” She swept from the room, a decision made.

Gomez immediately began practicing his lunges with a fire poker. “Just in case the good doctor forgets her manners! Not that I think she would, Izzy has kept her head straight in worst situations”

Morticia found Isadora not at her car, but in the Nevermore greenhouse, standing amidst the poisonous night-blooming flowers. She was staring blankly at a specimen of wolfsbane, her arms wrapped tightly around herself. The professional armor was gone, leaving behind a woman who looked tired and bitterly angry.

“She dismissed me” Isadora said without turning, her voice hollow. “After everything I’ve done. After I dropped everything to come here, to help her child… she dismissed me like a incompetent servant. What is it with your family and dismissing people like they are dirty on their shoe”

“Wednesday is not Ophelia, Isadora, She dismissed your prejudice” Morticia corrected softly, coming to stand beside her. “Nothing else”

Isadora flinched as if struck. “Prejudice? Wolves are prejudiced I was just concerned for a patient’s well-being. That wolf in there is a hazard, Tish! They are volatile, emotional creatures, that girl got your daughter pregnant without a second thought and is dragging her into a world of brute force and pack politics that will crush her! Wednesday is attached to her, and it’s a disaster waiting to happen!”

The venom was out in the open now, raw and unfiltered.

“We both know this is not about Enid, It's about you” Morticia said, her voice calm, a still pool against the other woman’s raging current. “Why this deep-seated conviction that a wolf’s love is inherently destructive? It did not used to be so absolute.”

Isadora let out a sharp, bitter laugh. “Love? Is that what we’re calling it? It’s not love. It’s obsession. It’s possession.”

She turned to face Morticia, her eyes shining with unshed tears of rage and old pain. “You want to know why? You really want to know? My father was an Alpha. A ‘strong, traditional’ Alpha, just like that one’s cousins. He saw my mother, a delicate, artistic woman with a… a latent condition… and he decided he wanted her. It wasn’t love. It was acquisition.”

Her voice dropped to a whisper, trembling with the weight of the memory. “He claimed her. He isolated her. Told her his way, the pack’s way, was the only way. He called her human sensitivities a weakness, her fears a flaw to be purged. He pushed and pushed, justifying his control as ‘protection,’ his domination as ‘devotion.’” A tear finally escaped, tracing a path through the makeup she wore like a mask. “He loved her so perfectly that he broke her. And when she finally shattered, when the Hyde he’d buried inside her was unleashed by his relentless, ‘loving’ pressure… he was the first one she killed.”

The confession hung in the humid air, terrible and devastating.

“I was ten years old” Isadora whispered. “I found what was left of him. And I saw her, covered in his blood, a monster he had created. And the pack? They didn’t see a victim. They saw a rogue Hyde who had slain their one of their own. They saw an abomination that had infiltrated them. They drove her out. They drove me out. A pariah for being the hybrid child of a monster and the fool who created her. They called it ‘purifying the bloodline.’”

She looked at Morticia, her expression raw. “So you will forgive me if I look at a young, powerful werewolf from a ‘traditional’ pack and I see a system that creates monsters. I see a culture that justifies abuse as strength and calls obsession love. I see a society that would rather exile a child than question its own brutal rules. And I will not stand by and watch it consume your daughter without saying a word.”

Morticia listened in silence, her heart aching for the lonely, terrified child her friend had been. She reached out and placed a hand over Isadora’s. “Oh, my dear friend. You have carried this alone for so long.”

Isadora pulled her hand away, wiping angrily at her eyes. “Don’t. Don’t pity me. Just see the truth. That girl in there… Enid… she might be sweet now, but she was raised in that system. It’s in her bones. She will pull Wednesday into that world, and it will demand things of her that will break her. It is the nature of the beast.”

Outside the greenhouse, hidden behind a thick, flowering thorn bush, Enid Sinclair stood frozen, her hand clamped over her mouth.

She had come to find Morticia, to ask if she could help with anything. She’d caught the scent of both women and followed it, her wolf hearing picking up the conversation just as Isadora began her story.

She heard every word. Every painful, devastating detail.

The image of Isadora as a child, finding her father’s remains. The story of a wolf’s “love” so controlling it was indistinguishable from abuse. The pack’s response: not justice, not grief, but a violent purge. An exile.

“They called it ‘purifying the bloodline.’”

The words landed like a physical blow, connecting with a deep, personal truth. Isadora didn’t just dislike werewolves. She saw the entire, rotten structure of traditional pack mentality for what it was: a system that chewed up anyone who was different and called it tradition.

A cold clarity washed over her. The doctor’s flinches, her disdain… it wasn’t about Enid personally. It was about what Enid represented: a society that had murdered her mother and abandoned her. Isadora saw the entire White Mountain Pack, her own family, the Sinclair pack—all the same monolithic entity of conformity and cruelty, standing in their dorm room.

Her perspective didn’t just shift; it shattered and reassembled into something new and fiercely defiant. For the first time, she saw her own pack’s behavior, her mother’s rejection, the elders’ disdain for Wednesday, their obsession with dominance and “pure” values, not as her personal failing, but as a systemic sickness.

She wasn’t the defective one. They were. She wasn’t the problem. Their rules were. Isadora’s tragedy wasn’t a warning about Enid’s love for Wednesday; it was a devastating indictment of the very world Enid had been trying to earn a place in her entire life.

She thought of her mother’s threats, of Ethan’s challenge. They weren’t just protecting their own; they were enforcing a brutal, unforgiving code that destroyed people like Isadora’s mother. Like Isadora. Like her.

She didn’t hear Morticia’s response. She turned and fled back toward the cottage on silent feet, her mind reeling. The enemy was no longer a faceless pack or a prejudiced doctor. The enemy was a legacy. A pattern of abuse so ingrained it was mistaken for love.

And for the first time, Enid Sinclair felt not insecurity, but a furious, righteous certainty. She would protect Wednesday from that world, not because Wednesday was fragile, but because that world was corrupt. And she would build a new one, a better one, right here. A pack that would never, ever demand purification.

Back inside Rotwood Cottage, the air was still and warm, scented with Morticia’s dark tea and the lingering, comforting smell of Wednesday’s skin. Wednesday was dozing, her breathing even, one pale hand resting on the swell of their child. The scene was the picture of hard-won peace.

Enid stood in the doorway, her body thrumming with the aftershocks of what she’d heard. She looked at Wednesday, not as the fragile human the pack saw, not as the burden her mother feared, but as the anchor of her new world. She looked at the curve of her stomach, at the life they had created together—a life that would be part of both worlds, human and wolf, and entirely their own.

Isadora’s story wasn’t a prophecy. It was a cautionary tale. A map of a path she would never, ever take.

She crossed the room, her steps silent on the floorboards. She knelt by the bed, careful not to wake Wednesday. In sleep, Wednesday’s fierce features were softened, the constant analytical sharpness replaced by a profound, trusting calm. This was what she fought for. This was what she would burn the old world down to protect.

Gently, so gently, she placed her hand over Wednesday’s on her stomach. She felt the pup stir, a sleepy, rolling greeting.

“I understand now” Enid whispered, her voice a vow in the quiet room. “They see a system to uphold. I see a system to break.”

She leaned forward and pressed her lips to Wednesday’s knuckles, a kiss of loyalty, of promise, of a future rewritten.

“Our pack doesn’t need purification” she murmured against her skin, the words a sacred oath. “It just needs us.”

Outside, the sun began to set, casting long, protective shadows across the cottage. The old world, with its rusted chains and cruel traditions, was receding. Inside, a new one was being born, built not on bloodlines, but on a choice made in the echoes of blood and promise. And it was already stronger than any curse.

Chapter Text

The dawn that broke over Nevermore felt different to Enid. It wasn't just the light; it was the clarity. Isadora’s horrific story had been a key, turning in a lock she hadn’t known existed, and the door it opened revealed a path she was now determined to walk.

She had spent the night watching Wednesday sleep, her mind a whirlwind of painful history and fierce, new purpose. The self-doubt that had been her constant companion, the nagging fear that she was the problem, the liability, had been burned away in the cold fire of that revelation. Her mother’s voice, Ethan’s sneers, the pack’s judgment, they were no longer indictments of her worth. They were the dying echoes of a poisonous creed.

When Wednesday’s dark eyes finally fluttered open, they immediately focused on Enid’s face, reading the new intensity there.

“You did not sleep” Wednesday observed, her voice rough with sleep. It wasn’t an accusation, merely a data point.

“I was thinking” Enid said. Her hand was still covering Wednesday’s on her stomach.

Wednesday’s eyebrow quirked infinitesimally. “A dangerous pastime.”

“A necessary one.” Enid took a steadying breath. “I heard her. Isadora. Last night, in the greenhouse with your mom.”

Wednesday went very still. Her analytical gaze swept over Enid’s face, assessing for damage. “I see. And this new… resolve… is the result of processing that information?”

“It’s the result of understanding it” Enid corrected, her voice firm. “She wasn’t just judging me. She was judging the whole screwed-up system I came from. And you know what? She was right to.”

She told Wednesday everything, the words spilling out in a low, fervent stream: the story of Isadora’s father, her mother’s Hyde, the pack’s brutal purge. Wednesday listened, her expression unchanging, but her fingers tightened around Enid’s.

When Enid finished, the room was silent for a moment. “A tragic and predictable outcome of inflexible, pack-mentality groupthink” Wednesday stated, her tone clinical, though her grip on Enid’s hand was anything but. “The desire to maintain a homogeneous structure often leads to the destruction of the very things that could make it stronger. Her prejudice, while understandable, is misdirected. You are not your ancestry.”

“But I am a product of it” Enid said. “And I have a choice. I can either let that system define me, try to fit back into a box that was never meant to hold me… or I can break the box.” Her eyes blazed with a new light. “I choose our pack. You. Me. Our pup. Our friends and anyone else who gets that a pack isn’t about bloodlines or dominance. It’s about loyalty. It’s about choice.”

Wednesday studied her for a long moment. The early morning light caught the determined set of Enid’s jaw, the fierce love in her eyes. It was a look Wednesday had seen directed at her before, but now it was backed by a steelier core.

“A pack of two is statistically vulnerable” Wednesday noted, though there was no disapproval in her tone, only assessment.

“Then we’ll make it a pack of more than two” Enid said, the idea forming as she spoke it. “We have allies. Yoko. Eugene. Even Bianca, in her own weird, emotionally constipated way. Ajax. They stood with us. That’s a start. We don’t have to be alone.”

A slow, rare, and genuine smile touched Wednesday’s lips. It was a small thing, but in the economy of Wednesday Addams, it was a radiant beam of sunlight. “You are proposing a mutiny against centuries of lycanthropic tradition and forming a new social order based on strategic alliances and mutual benefit.”

Enid grinned, her first real, easy grin in weeks. “When you say it like that, it sounds way cooler than I thought.”

“It is a sound strategy” Wednesday conceded. She shifted slightly, wincing as a twinge shot through her back. The reminder of their current physical reality settled over them both. “But one that requires a stable foundation. My current state of convalescence is a tactical disadvantage.”

“Then that’s our first mission” Enid declared, her Alpha persona settling over her with a newfound, comfortable authority. It wasn’t about dominance anymore; it was about protection, about building. “Getting you strong. Everything else can wait.”

The day’s routine began, but the energy within it had shifted. Enid’s care was no longer born of frantic anxiety; it was focused, purposeful. Every spoonful of broth, every supported walk to the bathroom, every moment of quiet companionship was a brick laid in the foundation of their new world.

When Morticia and Gomez arrived with breakfast, they felt the change immediately. The tension that had hummed around Enid had been replaced by a calm, steady certainty.

“You seem… fortified, my dear” Morticia remarked, her perceptive eyes missing little.

Enid looked up from fluffing Wednesday’s pillows. “I am” she said simply. “We’re building something new. And we’re going to need a really strong foundation.”

Gomez beamed, catching the spirit of it immediately. “Splendid! Nothing like a little light construction to stir the blood! Shall I have the contractors brought in? We could add a moat! Perhaps some landmines for the solicitors!”

Wednesday sighed. “A functional endocrine system for the primary occupant would be a sufficient start, Father.”

Later that afternoon, there was a knock that was less a request for entry and more a announcement of presence. Enid opened the door to find Yoko Tanaka, leaning on a neon pink cane with a rubber duck for a handle. Her injured arm was in a sling that had been custom-printed with a pattern of tiny, fanged bats. Apparently even vampire healing wasn't a match to a Alpha who wanted a piece of you.

“Don’t start” Yoko said, hobbling inside with a theatrical wince. “The docs said I need to ‘stay off it’ and ‘avoid strenuous activity.’ So naturally, I’m considering parkour. Anyway, the cane’s a vibe, don’t you think? Very ‘eccentric Victorian ghost with a fabulous accessory.’” Her sharp eyes scanned the room, taking in Wednesday’s improved color and Enid’s new demeanor. “Well, don’t you two look disgustingly domestic. I take it the worst is over?”

“The immediate physical crisis, yes” Wednesday said. “The restructuring of inter-species social contracts is ongoing.”

Yoko barked a laugh. “Nerd. But yeah, glad you’re not, you know, dying anymore. It was seriously cramping my style.” She tossed a small, black velvet bag onto the bed. “From Davina. Said it’s a ‘deep-sea stability charm.’ Probably just a pretty rock she found, but she insists it’s soaked in ‘abyssal serenity’ or whatever. I told her you’d prefer a shiv, Addams, but she’s sentimental like that.”

Enid picked up the bag, a lump forming in her throat. “Thank you, Yoko. For everything. For… you know. The other night.”

Yoko waved her good hand dismissively. “Pfft. Please. Chasing a giant murder-puppy through the woods? That was the most exciting thing since Weems prohibited the vampire's midnight racing. Besides, you owe me. I’m thinking a lifetime supply of O-negative, a signed apology, and maybe you name the kid after me. ‘Yoko’ works for any gender, it’s very versatile.”

She hopped onto the foot of the bed, careful of Wednesday’s legs, and launched into a wildly exaggerated story about her physiotherapy, complete with impressions of a nurse she claimed was a reincarnated, disgruntled tortoise.

After a while, she stretched, groaning dramatically. “Alright, my public awaits. Gotta go make my girl happy, we have a date tonight.” She hopped off the bed and grabbed her ridiculous cane. As she reached the door, she paused, as if a thought had just occurred to her.

“Oh, hey” she said, her tone deliberately casual. “You might wanna invite Barclay over for a menacing starring contest or whatever you two do for fun. Davina says she’s been… I don’t know, off her game. Moping around Puck Hall like someone kicked her favorite designer heels into the lake. Probably just siren stuff, but it’s getting dull. Thought maybe a project, like, I don’ know, keeping you two alive might snap her out of it. Just a thought. Don’t strain yourselves.”

With a final wink, she was gone, her cane tapping a jaunty rhythm down the path.

The room was quiet again. Enid smiled, shaking her head. “She’s a mess.”

But Wednesday wasn’t smiling. Her gaze was distant, fixed on the door Yoko had just exited through. Her analytical mind, never at rest, was already processing the offhand comment.

‘Off her game.’ ‘Moping.’ ‘Siren stuff.’

Yoko’s delivery had been flippant, but the data was specific. Bianca Barclay did not mope. She dominated. She did not get ‘off her game’; she changed the rules to her advantage. For her behavior to be noticeable enough for Davina to comment on, and for Yoko to passively-aggressively report… it was a significant deviation from her established patterns.

It was a puzzle piece. A small one, but in Wednesday’s world, no piece was insignificant. She stored it away for later analysis, her dark eyes thoughtful.

The shape of their new pack was still forming. But it seemed it might have more applicants than initially anticipated.

Chapter Text

Bianca Barclay was at war with herself.

The battlefield was her own mind, and the enemy was a relentless, traitorous instinct she could not silence. After her conversation with Davina, she had vowed to stop fighting the "current." But acknowledging its existence did not mean she had to like it, or that it had stopped pulling her under.

Her siren nature, that deep, primal part of her she had always weaponized for control, was now working against her. It was a constant, low-grade hum in her blood, a song without words that was perpetually tuned to a specific, maddening frequency: Them.

It was worst in the quiet moments. During a tedious student council meeting, her mind would drift, and she’d find herself mentally mapping the shortest route to Rotwood Cottage. In the middle of practicing a complex mesmerism technique, the image of Wednesday’s pale, bloodless face from that terrible night would flash behind her eyes, and her concentration would shatter, the magic fizzling into nothing. She’d snap at the nearest person, her frustration a cover for the cold fear that memory invoked.

And then there was Enid.

Her attraction to the werewolf was a physical ache, a persistent, dizzying heat that flared at the most inopportune times. Seeing Enid laugh with Yoko in the quad, her head thrown back, the strong column of her throat exposed, could make Bianca’s breath catch. Watching her effortlessly carry a stack of books for a struggling freshman, the muscles in her arms flexing, sent a jolt through Bianca that was equal parts desire and self-loathing.

She tried to reason with herself, to use the cold, hard logic that had always been her shield.

She is a werewolf. You are a siren. It is a biological impossibility. A social suicide. She is emotionally needy, relentlessly sunny, and she is irrevocably in love with Wednesday Addams. You are Bianca Barclay. You do not pine. You do not yearn. You conquer.

But the siren in her didn’t care for logic. It sang of strength, of a vibrant, life-giving power that was the antithesis of her own calculated coolness. It sang of a loyalty so fierce it was a tangible force. It was a song of sunlight, and it was slowly driving her insane.

Her only reprieve was the library’s restricted section, a place of dust, silence, and forgotten knowledge. Here, surrounded by the ghosts of long-dead outcasts, the humming in her blood was quieter. She was searching for anything, a spell, a potion, a historical precedent that could explain what was happening to her. Or better yet, stop it.

Bianca Barclay’s summons to Principal Weems’s office arrived via a crisp, formal email. No reason given. Just a time.

A week ago, Bianca would have strode in, confident it was about student council affairs or her academic performance. Now, she walked the familiar path with a sense of trepidation, the humming in her blood a nervous thrum. Had Weems heard about her library research? Had she been that obvious?

The office was as imposing as ever. Weems sat behind her vast desk, but she wasn’t working. She was staring at a small, faded photograph half-tucked under a ledger, her expression unreadable. She looked up as Bianca entered, her gaze sharp but weary.

“Miss Barclay. Thank you for coming. Please, sit.”

Bianca sat in the offered chair, her posture perfect, a shield against the unknown.

Weems didn’t speak immediately. She leaned back, steepling her fingers, her eyes assessing Bianca in a way that felt different from her usual disciplinary once-overs. This was more… clinical. And deeply personal.

“I have been the principal of this school for a long time,” she began, her voice low and measured. “And a student here before that. In that time, you see certain… patterns repeat. The same heartbreaks, the same triumphs, the same foolish, beautiful mistakes, dressed in different uniforms.”

She paused, her gaze drifting to the window overlooking the quad. “I have also become adept at recognizing when a student is fighting a battle with themselves. The signs are universal: a drop in performance not from lack of ability, but from distraction. A sharpness in tone that is really a defense against a perceived vulnerability. A certain… haunted look.”

Bianca’s spine straightened another fraction. She said nothing.

“It is a battle one cannot win, Miss Barclay,” Weems continued, her eyes returning to Bianca, filled with a profound and unexpected sympathy. “The self is the most relentless of opponents. It knows all your weaknesses.”

She sighed, a soft, tired sound. “I knew a girl here, once. Brilliant. Powerful. Ambitious. She was deeply in love with another student. A force of nature, that one. Theirs was a… formidable connection. All-consuming.”

Weems’s voice took on a distant, storytelling quality. “But there was a complication. A twin. Jealous, manipulative, although they couldn't be more different as people they were equals in form. One night, she used that similarity to deceive the first girl. She came to her in the dark, wearing her beloved’s face, and… well. The deception was consummated.”

Bianca’s breath caught. She remained perfectly still, listening.

“When the truth was discovered” Weems said, her voice tightening almost imperceptibly, “it shattered everything. The girl she truly loved could not bear the betrayal and the many things that came after, however unintentional. The trust was obliterated. The relationship was incinerated in the fire of that one, cruel deceit.”

Weems looked down at her hands. “The girl who was deceived… she was never the same. The heartbreak didn’t just hurt her; it unmade her. It hardened her. She buried that vibrant, loving part of herself so deep, she convinced herself it had never existed. She built her entire life, her career, her identity on the ashes of that pain. She chose control over vulnerability, safety over love, because love had proven itself to be a lie that could wear a familiar face.”

She finally looked up, and her eyes were ancient with sorrow. “She became someone else. Someone colder. Someone who watched the world from behind a pane of glass, forever separate. And she has lived every day since in the silent, perfect prison of that choice, wondering what her life might have been if she had been brave enough to forgive, to seek the truth, to fight for the real thing instead of retreating from the false.”

The office was silent. The story hung in the air between them, a ghost of a tragedy that had clearly shaped the woman sitting before her.

“I tell you this story, Miss Barclay,” Weems said, her voice regaining its professional composure, though the pain still lingered in her eyes, “not to entertain you, but to warn you. The battles we fight with ourselves have consequences that echo for a lifetime. That girl believed she was protecting herself by building walls. She only succeeded in burying herself alive.”

She leaned forward slightly. “I see you fighting. I see the turmoil. And while I do not know its source, I know its signature. It is the look of someone who sees something they want but are terrified to reach for, because they have calculated every possible way it could destroy them.”

Weems held her gaze, her message clear, though the words were never spoken aloud. Don’t be like me. Don’t let fear make your choices for you. Don’t become a ghost in your own life.

“My advice,” Weems said, her tone final, “is to cease the internal combat. It is a drain on your energy and your focus. Whatever this is… examine it. Not with fear, but with curiosity. The truth is rarely as terrifying as the monsters we conjure to guard it. You are dismissed.”

Bianca stood, her mind reeling. She hadn’t been called out. She had been given a key to a lock she didn’t fully understand, and a devastating glimpse of the woman who held it.

“Thank you, Principal Weems,” she said, her voice quieter than she intended.

Weems merely gave a faint, sad nod and turned back to the ledger on her desk, the moment of vulnerability gone, the principal’s mask firmly back in place.

As Bianca left the office, the story echoed in her mind. The brilliant girl. The terrible deceit. The life built on a foundation of ash. It was a cautionary tale, a mirror held up at an angle, reflecting a potential future she suddenly, desperately wanted to avoid.

The humming in her blood wasn’t quieter. But the fear surrounding it was now joined by a new, urgent question: What was her truth? And was she brave enough to face it before she, too, became a ghost?

Chapter Text

Parents' Weekend at Nevermore was a spectacle of forced cheer and awkward reunions. The sun-drenched quad was packed with students in their formal uniforms and parents ranging from proudly beaming to bewilderedly intolerant. The air buzzed with stilted conversation, the clinking of punch glasses, and the underlying, electric tension that came from stuffing so many different outcasts into one space.

For Enid Sinclair, it was a special kind of torture. The looming full moon, five days away, had her nerves stretched to their breaking point. Every loud laugh was a physical jolt, every unfamiliar scent a potential threat. She stood stiffly beside Wednesday at the edge of the crowd, a fixed, strained smile on her face that didn't reach her eyes, her mother had made sure to inform her before hand that she would be attending the event. Wednesday, for her part, was a statue of pale disdain, her hand a constant, cool presence on the small of Enid's back, a grounding weight in the sea of overwhelming stimulus, she for obvious reasons had been given a pass on attending the event, but with Enid being forced to attend after Esther called demanding her daughter be present, Wednesday would not allow her mate to face her hag of a mother alone.

It was a fragile peace, shattered the moment Esther Sinclair strode into the quad.

She moved through the crowd like a shark through calm waters, her black fur coat and severe look a stark contrast to the Gothic and eclectic styles around her. Her eyes scanned dismissively until they locked onto her daughter. She didn't see a young woman; she saw a misbehaving asset.

"Enid." Esther's cold and severe voice greeted, her eyes held no love or care for her own offspring. Her gaze swept over Wednesday, lingering on her evident pregnancy with a look of pure contempt. "I see that the rumors are true, you not only broke from the pack, but disgraced our bloodline. Very well, this little teenage rebellion of yours has gone far enough already, the car is waiting. We're leaving Nevermore."

Enid flinched, the public setting making the confrontation a thousand times worse, her mother had set out to humiliate her in public "Mother, can we not discuss this in private" she pleaded, her voice a tight whisper.

"Private? Like your little display with your cousin a couple of weeks ago, because I heard you were very public when you decided to humiliate your family. Besides there is nothing to discuss Enid, I've already made my decision, you will leave with me, I will send you to a all werewolf boarding school where they will remind you of your place and you will never speak or see this little freak Addams again" said the woman, her cold eyes running over Wednesday as if she was a particularly easy prey to devour.

Enid stiffened, her hand instinctively finding Wednesday's. "Mother. This is my home. And Wednesday is my mate."

"Home? This is a private school pup, this place is your 'home' as long as pay for you to stay here, which I will no longer do" Esther retorted, her voice cold. "And this... situation... is a complication you do not need, nor will I allow you to keep wasting your time on." said the woman with a cold venom in her voice, her eyes never left Wednesday, Enid's wolf was getting more and more agitated as she moved to be closer to her mate.

"I'm not going anywhere with you. I don't need to be reminded of my place, it is right here with my mate and my child." She said the word with a newfound, shaky defiance.

Esther's laugh was a harsh, brittle sound. "Is that what they're calling it now? A pretty label for your irresponsibility and idiocy. You willful, disobedient child. You have no idea what you're throwing away for this... this human." The word was spat like a curse.

Wednesday, who had been observing the exchange with her customary icy detachment, slowly rose to her feet. The movement was careful, deliberate, but her eyes were black pools of impending menace. "Miss Sinclair" she said, her voice dangerously quiet. "You may attempt to drag Enid from these halls, lock her in a wolf boarding school, or bury her in the deepest cellar of your pristine suburban home, but it won’t change the fact that we have already chosen each other. And unlike you, I don’t demand her blind obedience. I only ask for her loyalty. If you attempt to sever us, you’ll only teach Enid to hate you with the same passion she loves me. And should you try to erase me from her life… I assure you, I am not so easily erased. Death itself couldn’t manage it. What makes you think you could?"

Esther's eyes flashed with fury, she was not amused to have a human talking back to her, She took a step forward, looming over Wednesday, using her height as a weapon, Enid growled low in warning. " Who do you think you are to tell me what to do with my daughter, you little ghoul. You and your... unnatural little problem have poisoned her against her own kind. You've made her weak, a rogue"

"She is stronger than you could ever comprehend" Wednesday countered, not yielding an inch, though Enid could see the slight tremor of fatigue in her stance.

It seemed that Wednesday's answer was enough to sever the last of Esther's control, In a flash of movement, Esther's patience snapped. She reached out not for Enid, but for Wednesday, her hand wrapping around Wednesday's neck with cruel pressure. "You will not drag my daughter down with you!"

It was the wrong thing to do.

A guttural snarl ripped from Enid's throat, a sound so primal and ferocious it didn't seem like it could come from a human girl. Her eyes flashed molten gold. The air around her seemed to crackle with raw power. The Alpha, seeing its mate threatened, was rising with a violence that promised evisceration.

From her peripheral vision Wednesday could also see Davina, Yoko and Bianca quickly making their way thru the mass of scandalized parents, Ajax was coming from the other side, and if Wednesday wasn't in such a dire situation she would be impressed by the fury in the usually ease going gorgon's eyes.

Before Enid could move, another voice spoke. It was low, velvet-wrapped steel, and it carried an ancient, chilling authority that froze everyone in place.

"Take. Your. Hands. Off. My. Daughter. Before you lose them"

Morticia Addams stood right behind the Sinclair matriarch, her rapier standing inches from the flesh of Esther's throat, she had arrived silently with Gomez. She was a vision of terrible beauty, her black gown seeming to drink the light from the sun. Her face was a mask of cold, regal fury. Gomez stood beside her, his usual joviality utterly vanished, replaced by a protective stillness that was more threatening than any bluster.

Esther, startled, released Wednesday's neck but held her ground, her own defiance wilting slightly under Morticia's gaze. "This is a family matter" Esther insisted, though her voice had lost some of its conviction.

"It mostly certainly is dear" Morticia stated, her sword still in hand but no longer withing killing range of Miss Sinclair, Morticia glided forward. Each step was measured, deliberate. "Or had you forgotten? Your daughter is mated to mine. That makes us family. And we Addamses have a particular... aversion... to those who threaten our family."

She stopped mere inches from Esther. The temperature seemed to drop. "You speak of your daughter's weakness, yet the only reason you're not dead at her hand right now is because I intervened. You speak of pack loyalty, yet you would cage a magnificent wolf and break her spirit to fit your narrow, fearful world. That is not loyalty. That is a profound and pathetic cowardice."

Esther opened her mouth to retort, but Morticia continued, her voice dropping to a deadly whisper. "Let me be perfectly clear. If you ever attempt to lay a hand on Wednesday again, or if you ever try to remove young Miss Sinclair from where she chooses to be, you will learn the true meaning of regret. My family has roots that go back to Salem and beyond. We know things. Terrible, wonderful things. The soil in my garden is very fertile, Esther. It thrives on the most unusual fertilizers. I would hate for you to become one of them."

To emphasize her point, Morticia's hand, which had been hidden in the folds of her skirt, emerged holding a single, perfectly bloomed flower of Atropa belladonna, deadly nightshade. With a grace that was both elegant and horrifying, she gently tucked the poisonous blossom into the buttonhole of Esther's jacket. "A small gift. For remembrance."

Esther Sinclair looked down at the flower, then back at Morticia's implacable face. All the color drained from her cheeks. The bluster, the arrogance, the confidence, it all evaporated, leaving behind pure, unadulterated fear. She finally understood the depth of the ocean she was threatening to navigate. She wasn't dealing with a quirky family; she was dealing with a force of nature.

Without another word, Esther Sinclair turned on her heel and with a frustrated growl, one that spoken of a predator who was humilited and did not like the experience, she left the quad.

The tension shattered. Enid’s transformation receded, the gold fading from her eyes as she swayed, adrenaline crashing. Wednesday immediately reached for her, steadying her.

Morticia's fierce expression softened as she turned to the two girls. She cupped Enid's cheek. "You are a daughter of this family now, my dear. No one will ever make you feel less than the powerful, beautiful Alpha you are. We protect our own."

She then turned to Wednesday, her gaze sweeping over her with maternal concern. "And you, my little storm cloud. Never confront a rabid dog without adequate backup." A faint, proud smile touched her lips. "Though your defense of your mate was... formidably executed."

Gomez, finally exploding with pent-up emotion, threw his arms around all three of them. "Brava! Brava! What a performance! The fury! The passion! The horticultural threat! Tish, you were magnificent! Enid, my girl, the snarl! The raw power! And Wednesday, defending your beloved's honor! It's enough to make a father's heart burst with pride!" He blew his nose loudly into a black handkerchief.

As the Addams family stood together in the courtyard, a united front, the message was sent to every watching eye and whispering ear at Nevermore: The lines were drawn. The Sinclairs' traditional, oppressive pack mentality had been challenged and found wanting. A new pack was forming, built on choice, loyalty, and a love fierce enough to face down any threat. And at its heart were two girls, one dark as night, one bright as the sun, and the formidable family that would move heaven and earth to keep them safe. The full moon was coming, but for the first time, Enid faced its approach not with dread, but with the unwavering knowledge that she would not face it alone.

Chapter Text

The spectacle in the quad had become the sole, incendiary topic of conversation at Nevermore. Whispers of Morticia’s horticultural threat and Esther Sinclair’s humiliated flight wove through the hallways, each retelling more embellished than the last. For most, it was thrilling gossip. For Bianca Barclay, watching from the marble steps of Ophelia Hall, the event had been a silent, personal earthquake.

Seeing the Addams family close ranks—a unified front of terrifying, unshakeable loyalty—had been the final blow to her crumbling defenses. Weems’s haunting story of the girl who built a gilded prison of her own fear echoed in her mind like a dirge. The sight of Enid, a golden-eyed force of nature ready to tear the world apart for Wednesday, and Wednesday herself, pale and fragile yet standing with unbending defiance, had completely rewritten Bianca’s understanding of strength. Their love wasn't just an emotion; it was a fortress, a weapon, a fact of the universe as immutable as gravity.

She couldn't hide in the library stacks anymore. The internal war was a deafening roar in her skull, a constant drain on power she usually wielded without thought. The "current" Davina spoke of wasn't a gentle pull anymore; it was a riptide, and she was exhausted from fighting it.

The courage to act came not as a surge, but as a quiet, desperate necessity. She found herself walking toward Rotwood Cottage, her heart hammering a frantic rhythm against her ribs. Each step was a battle. The part of her that was Bianca Barclay, Queen of Nevermore, screamed to turn back, to maintain the illusion of control. But the deeper, primal part, the siren who had sung a silent, involuntary song for weeks, dragged her forward.

The cottage door was open, inviting in the honey-gold light of the late afternoon. The scene inside was so profoundly peaceful it felt like a physical ache in Bianca’s chest.

Wednesday was propped on a chaise lounge swathed in black velvet, a heavy, leather-bound tome open in her lap. Her brow was furrowed in concentration, one pale finger tracing a complex rune. On the floor beside her, nestled against the chaise like a loyal guardian, sat Enid. Her head was resting against Wednesday’s leg, a sketchbook open in her own lap. She wasn't drawing monsters or rainbows, but a detailed, loving sketch of Wednesday’s profile, capturing the precise curve of her nose, the serious set of her mouth, the dark fan of her lashes against her cheek.

They weren't speaking. They didn't need to. A soft, contented hum seemed to emanate from Enid, a sound so purely happy and secure it was its own language. Wednesday’s free hand was absently carding through Enid’s blonde hair, a gesture of such unconscious intimacy that it stole the air from Bianca’s lungs.

She stood in the doorway for a long, paralyzing moment, a ghost at the feast of their happiness. She was an outsider here. An intruder. Her presence felt like a stain on their perfect, private world.

Enid noticed her first. Her head snapped up, the peaceful hum cutting off. Her blue eyes widened in surprise, then flickered with a hint of caution. Wednesday’s gaze lifted from her book more slowly, her dark eyes shifting from the runes to Bianca. They weren't hostile, but they were deeply analytical, assessing her like a new and complex equation.

“Barclay,” Wednesday stated. Her voice was flat, a neutral data point.

Bianca’s throat was desert-dry. She cleared it, and the sound was embarrassingly loud in the quiet room. “Can I… come in?” The words were tentative, stripped of all her usual Barclay bravado. She sounded young. She sounded lost.

Enid looked at Wednesday, a silent, profound communication passing between them in a fraction of a second. Wednesday gave a slight, almost imperceptible nod.

“Yeah, of course,” Enid said, setting her sketchbook aside and getting to her feet. She moved with a new grace, a confidence that hadn't been there before the confrontation. “You okay? You look… kinda pale.” Her concern was genuine, and it somehow made Bianca feel worse.

Bianca managed a weak, hollow smile. “Do I? Imagine that.” She stepped over the threshold, feeling the cottage’s protective wards tingle against her skin. She didn’t sit, just stood awkwardly in the center of the room, her arms wrapped tightly around herself as if holding her pieces together. “I, uh… I saw what happened. In the quad.” It was a stupid, obvious thing to say.

“It was a widely attended event,” Wednesday replied dryly, not helping.

“Yeah.” Bianca took a shaky breath. This was so much harder than any confrontation, any battle of wits. This was a surrender. “Look, I… I owe you both an apology.”

Enid’s eyebrows shot up. “You do?”

The dam broke. The words, once started, tumbled out in a raw, desperate rush, each one a shard of glass she was pulling from her soul.

“I’ve been… an asshole,” Bianca said, the admission shocking in its bluntness. She couldn’t look at them; she stared at a point on the floor between her boots. “A complete and total asshole. I’ve been distant. I’ve been avoiding you like you had some kind of plague. I’ve been… I don’t know, trying to pretend this…” She finally gestured vaguely between the three of them, her hand trembling. “…this… thing… wasn’t happening. Wasn’t real.”

Wednesday watched her, silent and still, giving nothing away. Her stillness was somehow more unnerving than any reaction.

“It’s just…” Bianca’s voice cracked. She squeezed her eyes shut, fighting back the humiliating heat of tears. “It’s so messy. And I hate messy. I like spreadsheets and five-year plans and social dynamics I can manipulate with a smile. I like things I can control. I like things that make logical, strategic sense. And you two… you don’t make any sense. You’re a disaster. A beautiful, terrifying, walking, talking, pregnant catastrophe waiting to happen around every corner.”

Enid flinched slightly at the word ‘catastrophe,’ but Bianca was in freefall now, unable to stop.

“And it terrifies me,” she confessed, the words a desperate, agonized whisper. “Because I can’t stop thinking about it. About you. I can’t stop… feeling it. This… this pull. This constant, buzzing need to know you’re okay. To know Wednesday’s not in pain, to know Enid hasn’t been cornered by another pack asshole. This… this protectiveness that feels like it’s going to burn a hole in my chest. And it’s not logical. It’s not strategic. It’s just… there. Like a second heartbeat. And I hate it because I can’t control it. I can’t weaponize it. It just… is. And it’s yours.”

She finally risked a glance back at them. Enid looked utterly stunned, her hand pressed over her mouth. Wednesday’s expression had shifted. The analytical coldness was gone, replaced by a deep, unnerving understanding.

“My siren song…” Bianca whispered, the truth she’d been fighting for weeks finally laid bare in the quiet room. “It’s not just something I sing to control people. Not really. It’s… it’s the deepest, truest part of me. My essence. And it’s been… calling for you. Both of you. A song I never meant to sing, to a melody I don’t understand. And I didn’t know what to do with that. So I ran. I fought it. I tried to drown it out with… with boys, with vampires, with student council nonsense. And it just made everything worse. It made me cruel. It made me someone I don’t like.”

The silence in the cottage was absolute and heavy. Bianca felt utterly exposed, flayed open, every one of her meticulously constructed walls lying in rubble around her. She was just a raw nerve, waiting for judgment.

It was Wednesday who spoke first, her voice softer than Bianca had ever heard it. “Your analysis, while emotionally fraught and grammatically chaotic, is factually correct. Our situation is a statistically anomalous disaster of the highest order.”

A surprised, watery laugh burst from Bianca. The sound was half-sob, half-relief.

“But,” Wednesday continued, her gaze flicking to Enid for a split second—a look of such profound connection it made Bianca’s heart clench—before returning to her. “It is our disaster. And your siren’s instincts, for once, appear to be sound, if inconveniently timed. Your assistance during the full moon was… more than adequate. It was critical. Your presence, however erratic and emotionally stunted, has been noted.”

Enid stepped forward then, her movements gentle. She didn’t hesitate; she simply reached out and her warm hand closed over Bianca’s cold, trembling one. The contact was an electric shock of pure, undiluted warmth. “You don’t have to have it all figured out, Bianca. We sure as hell don’t.” She smiled, a little wobbly but radiantly genuine. “And for the record, we’ve noticed you pulling away. We… I… missed you. It felt like we’d lost an arm. The stabby, sarcastic, incredibly useful arm.”

The simple admission shattered the last of Bianca’s walls. A single tear escaped, tracing a hot path down her cheek. She didn’t wipe it away. She was too busy holding onto Enid’s hand like it was a lifeline.

“I’m sorry,” she said again, her voice firmer now, anchored by that point of contact. “For being a coward. For making it all about me and my freak-out when you’re the ones going through… all of this.” She finally looked at Wednesday’s stomach, the reality of their situation hitting her anew.

Wednesday’s lip quirked. “Apology accepted. Your self-absorption, while historically tedious, is a known and manageable variable. Like a predictable, if dramatic, weather pattern.”

This time, Bianca’s laugh was real, a clear, ringing sound that felt like it was scrubbing her clean from the inside out. “You’re impossible.”

“It is one of my more charming and consistent traits,” Wednesday agreed.

Enid squeezed Bianca’s hand. “So… does this mean you’re done running? Because honestly, your hiding spots are getting predictable. The library restricted section smells like despair and your perfume.”

Bianca looked at their joined hands, then at Wednesday’s faint, approving smile, and finally at Enid’s hopeful, open face. The humming in her blood wasn’t a panic anymore. It wasn’t a scream. It was a harmony, finding its place in the strange, beautiful music they made together.

“Yeah,” she said, a weight lifting from her shoulders so profound she felt she might actually float away. “Yeah, I’m done running.”

She wasn’t sure what this was. A pack? A triad? A terribly complicated, fiercely loyal friendship that defied all known categorization? The labels didn’t matter. The current had finally, mercifully, pulled her into the harbor she’d been desperately trying to sail away from. And for the first time, Bianca Barclay stopped fighting, let go of the rudder, and let herself drift into the uncharted, terrifying, perfect waters of them.

"Good," Wednesday said, her voice returning to its usual dry precision, though her eyes remained soft. "Because your strategic input on managing the upcoming parental fallout will be required. My mother's methods, while effective, lack... subtlety."

Bianca finally laughed, a real, full-bodied laugh. "Okay. Okay, I can do that. I'm very good at subtlety."

And for the first time in weeks, she believed it.

Chapter Text

The silence in the cottage after Bianca’s confession was not empty; it was full. It was filled with the unspoken understanding that the world had just shifted on its axis, rearranging itself into a new, more complex, and infinitely more promising shape.

Bianca’s hand was still warm in Enid’s, a tangible anchor to her newfound certainty. The frantic, panicked hum in her blood had quieted, not to silence, but to a steady, resonant hum, a harmony finally finding its place in their strange song.

Wednesday observed the joined hands with a clinical curiosity that couldn't quite mask her approval. "The emotional catharsis appears to have been efficacious. Your pallor has improved by approximately twelve percent."

Bianca barked a laugh, the sound still shaky but real. "Only you would quantify a breakthrough of the soul, Addams."

"It is a measurable shift in dermal vascularity" Wednesday stated, as if it were the most obvious thing in the world. "Now that the tedious melodrama is concluded, we can focus on practicalities. The full moon is in five days. Your strategic input on managing the expected social fallout from Enid's mother's very public spectacle will be required. Her methods, while effective, lack... finesse."

"Right. Strategy." Bianca took a deep, steadying breath, slipping effortlessly back into the role she knew best, but this time, the armor felt different. It wasn't a wall to hide behind; it was a tool to protect with. "Okay. First, we control the narrative. The official story is that Esther Sinclair made a scene, the Addams family defended their own with their characteristic... flair... and the matter is settled. We don't deny it happened, but we frame it as a closed issue. Any whispers about... well, about all of this..." She gestured between the three of them. "...we neither confirm nor deny. Mystery is a better deterrent than explanation."

Enid grinned. "Ooh, I like it. Keep 'em guessing."

"Precisely" Bianca said, a flicker of her old smirk returning. "Second, we present a united front. We're seen together. Not hiding, not explaining. Just... being. A fact. The more normal we make it look, the less power the gossip has."

Wednesday gave a slow nod. "A sound tactic. Normalcy as a psychological weapon."

"And third" Bianca said, her gaze softening as it landed on Wednesday. "You are on official bed rest until that moon passes. No arguments. I'll run interference with the teachers. Enid, you're on guard duty. I'll be... external operations. If anyone so much as looks at this cottage wrong, I'll know about it."

The orders were given not from a place of control, but of care. It was a language they all understood.

The next few days were a study in this new, fragile alliance. Bianca was true to her word. She became their fiercely efficient shield, navigating the curious stares and whispered questions in the halls with a cool, dismissive authority that brooked no argument. She brought them homework, delivered with a sarcastic comment about the intellectual poverty of the curriculum, but delivered nonetheless.

She spent more time at the cottage, the initial awkwardness melting away under the sheer, relentless force of their shared reality. She found herself sitting on the floor with Enid, helping her study for a history exam, her sharp mind easily recalling dates and treaties. She debated the ethical implications of various poisons with Wednesday, a thrilling intellectual duel that left them both oddly satisfied.

She watched them. She saw the way Enid would unconsciously press her ear to Wednesday's stomach, her face lighting up at a particularly strong kick. She saw the way Wednesday's hand would find Enid's hair, her fingers gently working through the blonde strands as she read, a gesture of such profound intimacy it made Bianca's breath catch. She wasn't an intruder anymore. She was a witness. A guardian. A part of the ecosystem.

The night before the full moon, the air grew thick with tension again. But this time, it was different. There was no terror, no desperation. There was a grim, determined preparedness.

Morticia and Gomez had overseen the reinforcement of the cellar door themselves, Gomez testing the new steel hinges with enthusiastic vigor. A series of complex protective wards, more potent than any before, were etched into the doorframe and the walls of the cottage itself, a blend of Addams family magic and siren-song enchantments that Bianca and Morticia had woven together in a surprising display of collaborative power.

As dusk fell, they gathered in the main room of the cottage. It was a council of war.

"The wards will hold" Morticia stated, her voice calm. "They are designed to contain an Alpha's energy, not just resist it. They should... cushion the pull, for both of you." Her gaze included Enid and, by extension, the pup within Wednesday.

Enid nodded, her jaw set. "I'm ready. I'm not fighting it this time. I'm just... going to let it happen. And I'm going to remember that you're all here. That I'm safe, and Bianca is going to sing the baby to sleep as soon as I enter the cellar" Bianca nodded with her head behind Wednesday.

Wednesday placed her hand over Enid's. "The probability of a successful, controlled transformation is significantly higher than last time. The variable of panic has been largely eliminated."

Bianca stood behind her, her arms crossed. "Yoko and the others have the perimeter. Nothing's getting in. And we'll be right here." She met Enid's eyes. "We've got you."

When the moon's pull became irresistible, Enid kissed Wednesday, a long, lingering promise, before turning and descending into the cellar. The heavy door closed behind her with a soft, definitive thud.

The wait began.

Wednesday sat perfectly still on the sofa, her hand on her stomach, listening. Bianca paced for a few minutes before forcing herself to sit in an armchair, her knee jiggling with nervous energy.

The first sound was a low, pained groan from below, followed by the unmistakable sound of bones beginning to shift. Wednesday flinched, her fingers curling into the fabric of her dress.

Bianca was at her side in an instant, not touching, just present. "Breathe, Addams. She's okay. It's supposed to hurt. It means it's working right."

Wednesday gave a tight nod, her eyes fixed on the cellar door. Bianca had started singing her siren's lullaby to calm the baby.

The sounds continued, snarls and cracks and deep, shuddering breaths. But they were different from the chaotic, frantic violence of the last full moon. This was a controlled, if agonizing, process. There was no splintering of wood, no shriek of tearing metal. Just the powerful, contained transformation of an Alpha surrendering to her nature without losing herself.

After what felt like an eternity, a new sound emerged. A deep, resonant howl. But it wasn't a sound of rage or madness. It was a clear, strong note that vibrated through the very foundations of the cottage. It was a declaration. A call that said, I am here. I am Enid Sinclair. And I am not alone.

The howl was answered not by other wolves, but by the gentle, harmonious hum of the protective wards, a siren's silent song woven into the stone and wood, and by the steady, strong beat of Wednesday Addams's heart.

Wednesday finally let out the breath she'd been holding.

Bianca saw it, she didn't see weakness. She saw the most formidable strength she had ever witnessed: the strength to love so fiercely that it could hold back the darkness, the strength to build a new world in the shell of the old, the strength to be vulnerable in a fortress of their own making.

She didn't say a word. She just sat beside Wednesday, a silent sentinel in the moonlit room, as the howl of their wolf echoed into the night, a promise of protection, a song of belonging, and the beautiful, deadly sound of a pack that had finally, truly, come home.

The echo of Enid’s howl faded, leaving behind a profound, vibrating silence in the cottage. It was not the quiet of absence, but of held breath, of a storm that had passed through without breaking the walls. The sounds from the cellar had stilled, replaced by the heavy, rhythmic panting of a large animal at rest.

Wednesday remained motionless on the sofa, her hand still pressed to her stomach. The pup, which had been still and watchful during the height of the transformation, now gave a soft, rolling kick, as if in answer to its mother's call.

Bianca let out a slow, shaky breath she hadn't realized she'd been holding. "She did it" she whispered, the words filled with a kind of reverent awe. "She really did it."

Wednesday’s head turned slowly, her dark eyes meeting Bianca’s. The single tear track glistened in the lamplight. "The data supports your conclusion" she said, her voice huskier than usual. "The transformation was completed without external structural damage or signs of psychological fracture. A successful trial."

Before Bianca could formulate a response to Wednesday's uniquely clinical form of relief, the cellar door creaked open.

A wave of potent, wild scent, musk, pine, and cold night air wafted into the room. Enid stood in the doorway, draped in a large blanket Gomez had left ready for her. She was trembling, her skin slick with sweat, her face pale with exhaustion. But her eyes… her eyes were clear, human, and blazing with a triumphant, weary light.

She took a stumbling step forward, her legs barely holding her. Wednesday was on her feet in an instant, crossing the room with a speed that defied her own condition, her fatigue forgotten. She didn't flinch from the wild scent or the residual energy rolling off Enid. She simply moved into her space, her small, pale hands coming up to frame Enid’s face.

"Enid" she said, her voice a low, anchoring force.

Enid’s knees buckled. Wednesday held her weight without a word, her own body straining, until Bianca was there, sliding a strong shoulder under Enid’s arm, taking half her weight.

"Easy there, wolf girl" Bianca murmured, her voice surprisingly gentle. "You just ran a marathon on the inside. Let's get you off your feet."

Together, they guided Enid to the sofa, lowering her onto the cushions. Enid slumped back, her eyes closing, a long, shuddering sigh escaping her lips. "It was so… loud" she whispered. "But I could… I could hear you. Both of you. The wards… they hummed. It was like a… a leash on the rage. I could feel it, but I didn't have to be it."

Wednesday knelt on the floor beside the sofa, her concern overriding her usual aversion to such undignified postures. She pressed the back of her hand to Enid’s forehead, then her cheek, her touch clinical yet infinitely tender. "Your core temperature is elevated, but within acceptable parameters for post-transformation. Hydration is required." She reached for a glass of water and a vial of a murky, restorative potion Morticia had prepared.

Enid drank obediently, her eyes fluttering open to look at Wednesday. "The baby?" she asked, her voice raspy.

"Unharmed" Wednesday assured her, her hand drifting back to her own stomach. "And, I believe, impressed. The movement suggests approval of your performance."

A weak, joyous smile broke across Enid’s face. She reached out a trembling hand, and Wednesday met it halfway, lacing their fingers together.

Bianca stood back, watching them. The raw, intimate connection between them was a physical thing in the room, powerful and private. She felt a familiar pang, not of jealousy, but of a profound, aching wonder. And something else, a sense of belonging to this moment, to this protection. She had helped hold the line. She was a part of this.

As if reading her mind, Enid’s gaze shifted to her. "You stayed" she said softly.

"Where else would I be?" Bianca replied, the words coming out with a shrug that was meant to be casual but felt like a vow.

The first rays of dawn began to filter through the windows, painting the room in soft, hopeful light. The longest night was over.

The following days were a time of quiet consolidation. Enid recovered with a werewolf’s rapid resilience, her strength returning by the hour. The story of Esther Sinclair’s defeat and Enid’s controlled transformation became legend, but under Bianca’s strategic management, it was a legend that inspired wary respect rather than frantic gossip. The message was clear: the outcasts had their own royalty now, and it was best not to challenge them.

One afternoon, a week after the full moon, a formal-looking letter arrived for Enid. The wax seal was broken, the Sinclair family crest stamped into it. Her hands shook slightly as she opened it.

She read it in silence, her expression unreadable. Then, she handed it to Wednesday.

It was from the White Mountain Pack Council of Elders. The language was stiff, formal, and utterly devoid of warmth. It did not apologize. It did not welcome her back. But it did acknowledge her. It stated that, given her "demonstrated Alpha strength and… unorthodox but formidable alliances," the pack recognized her status as an independent Alpha. She was, effective immediately, formally released from her obligations to the Sinclair bloodline and the White Mountain Pack. She was no longer a rogue. She was her own sovereign territory.

It was an exile, polished and presented as a concession. But to Enid, it was a victory. It was a treaty signed with a sword.

She looked up from the letter, her eyes meeting Wednesday’s, then Bianca’s. There were no tears. Only a deep, steady certainty.

"They don't get to shun me anymore" she said, her voice quiet but strong. "I dismissed them."

Wednesday’s lips curved into one of her rare, true smiles. "A strategically superior outcome."

Bianca came to stand beside them, reading the letter over Enid’s shoulder. "They're scared" she said, a note of satisfaction in her voice. "They're giving you what you want because they're afraid of what happens if they don't. This is a good precedent."

Enid folded the letter neatly, setting it aside on the desk as if it were a receipt for a paid debt. "It's not a precedent. It's a beginning."

That evening, they sat together on the floor of the cottage, Wednesday, Enid, and Bianca surrounded by books, half-finished homework, and the comfortable silence of a battle won. Eugene had stopped by earlier, buzzing with excitement about a new hybrid honey his bees were producing. Ajax had texted a blurry picture of a stone statue that looked suspiciously like a school trustee, captioned "oops." Yoko and Davina were on their way, bringing takeout and the latest campus gossip.

It wasn't a traditional pack. It was better. It was a choice. A mosaic of outcasts, each piece sharp and different, but fitting together to form a picture of breathtaking, unbreakable strength.

Wednesday watched them all, her sharp eyes missing nothing. She saw the easy way Bianca teased Enid, the protective glance Enid shot her when she thought no one was looking, the way her own heart no longer felt like a caged, frantic thing but a steady, determined drum.

Her hand rested on the pronounced curve of her stomach, feeling the vigorous, insistent life within. The future was still a terrifying cliff edge. The vision of cold, small hands was a ghost that still haunted her darkest moments. But she was no longer standing at the edge alone.

She had a wolf who would tear the world apart for her. A siren who would sing the stars down from the sky for them. A hive boy, a gorgon, a vampire, and a sea-witch. A family forged not in blood, but in choice, in battle, in the echoes of a promise made in a shattered room.

The pup kicked, a bold, demanding movement.

Wednesday Addams allowed her fingers to curl, not in a fist of defiance, but in a gentle cradle around the life she carried.

"Soon" she whispered, a promise to the future, to her child, to the strange, beautiful pack she had built in the ruins of everything she thought she knew. "We are ready for you."

Chapter Text

The formal decree from the White Mountain Pack Council arrived on a Tuesday. It was addressed to Esther Sinclair, a final, cruel twist of the knife, ensuring the mother would bear the official shame of her daughter’s exile before the news inevitably spread through the gossip channels of the supernatural world.

Ethan Whitefang did not hear of it through gossip. He was summoned to the headmaster's office, where Principal Weems, her face a mask of grim neutrality, handed him a sealed copy. It was a courtesy, she explained in a voice devoid of warmth, extended to all recognized pack members of a dismissed individual. A formality.

He took the heavy parchment, the Sinclair crest embossed in wax that felt like a cold, dead eye. He didn't open it in front of her. He carried it out of the office, his posture rigid, his own heartbeat a deafening drum in his ears. He made it to the relative privacy of the Lupine Cages, the sterile, concrete room that smelled of antiseptic, fear, and suppressed power.

There, leaning against the cold steel of a barred door, he broke the seal.

The language was legalese, dry and precise, but the meaning was a sledgehammer.

...hereby and henceforth severed from all ties, obligations, and protections afforded by the White Mountain Pack...
...status as an independent Alpha is recognized, though not sanctioned...
...the Pack bears no responsibility for the actions or welfare of the aforementioned Enid Sinclair, or any offspring thereof...

It was a disownment. A sterilization of their bloodline. They had not just cast her out; they had surgically removed her from their history as if she were a cancer. And they had done it with the cold, impersonal approval of the Elders. They had given her their blessing to be a rogue.

The parchment crumpled in his fist. A low, wounded sound escaped his throat, part growl, part sob. This was his fault. He had been the one to challenge her publicly. He had been the one to fail. He had let the Addams witch humiliate his aunt, his Alpha, and by extension, the entire pack. This decree was his sentence as much as it was Enid's. He was the oldest, the Alpha in charge, the one that should've been in control and the one who had let the infection take root. His name would be whispered alongside hers in shame.

The voice that had been a whisper in the back of his mind, a constant critic since the day in the quad, now rose to a clarion call. It didn't sound like his own thoughts anymore. It sounded like his grandfather, Silas Sinclair, a hard, cruel Alpha whose portrait hung in the great hall of the pack house, his eyes promising violence for any sign of weakness.

"You see?" the voice slithered through his consciousness, cold and sharp as an icicle. "Your mercy is their weakness. Your failure is their victory. They do not negotiate with disease. They cut it out. You should have done the same."

Ethan sank to the cold floor, drawing his knees to his chest. He wasn't a Alpha anymore. He was nothing. A ghost in his own skin. The future he had been raised for, a position of respect within the pack, a strong mate from a good family, powerful pups to carry on the Whitefang legacy, evaporated before his eyes. The scent of his own despair was rancid in his nostrils.

His thoughts turned to Enid. Not to the fierce, defiant young Alpha in the quad, but to the little girl she had been. The one who had failed her first transformation. The one who had cried in his aunt's garden, her hands covered in dirt, because she couldn't make the roses grow thorns sharp enough. He remembered feeling a pang of pity for her, his strange, weak cousin who preferred colorful sweaters to the scent of the hunt.

That pity curdled in his gut now, replaced by a venomous hatred. Her weakness had been a contagion. It had tempted him to be soft. It had made him hesitate. And now, her sudden, unnatural strength was a perversion. She hadn't earned it through discipline and adherence to pack law. She had stolen it by debasing herself, by letting a human's dark magic and a family of freaks twist her into something she was never meant to be.

She was an abomination. A mockery of everything a true wolf should be. And the pack, his pack, had just given its tacit approval.

The voice of his grandfather agreed. "The rot must be burned out. Not just the branch, but the root. The human whore is the root. She is the poison in your cousin's blood. She is the sickness growing in her belly."

A terrifying clarity descended upon him. The pack elders were cowards. They were afraid of the Addams family's power, their wealth, their ancient, obscure magic. They had chosen political expediency over purity. They had sanctioned the abomination to save their own skins.

But he would not. His loyalty was not to the politicians on the council. It was to the true spirit of the pack. To the raw, uncompromising strength of his grandfather's generation. He would become the purifying fire they were too afraid to light.

He would not just challenge Enid. He would eradicate the source of the corruption. He would destroy the thing she loved most, the symbol of her betrayal: the half-breed child growing in the Addams girl's womb. It was a mercy, really. Preventing a monster from being born. And in doing so, he would prove his strength, his purity of purpose. He would purge the weakness from his bloodline and earn a place in history far greater than any a pack council could grant.

He would either save them all, or he would die a martyr trying.

The decision ignited something in him. The crushing despair was burned away, replaced by a single, focused purpose. It was a mad purpose, but in his madness, it felt like the only sane thing left in the world.

He began to plan. He couldn't do it alone. The Addams girl was too well protected now, sequestered in that cottage with her freakish parents and her growing circle of allies. He needed someone who understood what it was like to be cast out. Someone who hated Nevermore and its inhabitants as much as he did. Someone with the power to create the chaos he needed as a distraction.

There was only one name that came to mind. Tyler Galpin.

Finding the Hyde was not difficult. Ethan's heightened senses tracked the residual scent of rage and transformation to the outskirts of Jericho, near the crumbling husk of the old Gates mansion. The place reeked of despair and old blood.

He found Tyler not in the mansion itself, but in the dilapidated greenhouse out back, its glass panes shattered, its interior a jungle of withered plants and creeping weeds. Tyler was huddled in a corner, sharpening a piece of metal against a stone. He looked up as Ethan approached, his eyes gleaming with a feral suspicion. He was thinner than Ethan remembered, all sharp angles and tense muscle, a coiled spring of barely-contained violence.

"Well, well" Tyler's voice was a rough scrape. "Look what the wolf dragged in. Lost your way, little pup? The country club is the other direction."

Ethan didn't rise to the bait. He stood at the entrance, letting Tyler take in his disheveled appearance, the wild look in his eyes. "They cast her out" Ethan said, his voice flat. "The pack. They gave her their blessing. They approved of it. All of it."

Tyler paused his sharpening. A slow, ugly smile spread across his face. "Let me guess. The puppy and the witch? Yeah, I heard. It's all anyone talks about. The great love story." He spat the words like they were poison.

"She's an abomination" Ethan stated, the word feeling holy on his tongue. "And the thing she's carrying... it's worse. It's a disease. And the so-called leaders are too scared to do what's necessary."

Tyler's smile vanished, replaced by a look of intense interest. He got to his feet, moving with a predator's grace. "And I suppose you're here to do what's necessary?"

"I'm here to purify the bloodline" Ethan said, his gaze unwavering. "But I can't get to the source. Not with her new... family... guarding her."

Understanding dawned in Tyler's eyes, followed by a spark of malicious glee. He had been alone, festering in his hatred for the school that had rejected him, for the normies who feared him, for the friends who had abandoned him. Here was a kindred spirit. Another weapon. And a target he could get behind.

"You want to hit the Addams bitch" Tyler stated.

"The root of the corruption" Ethan corrected, his voice fervent. "Remove her, and the diseased branch will wither and die. It's a mercy."

Tyler let out a short, barking laugh. "A mercy. Right." He circled Ethan, assessing him. "And what's in it for me? Why should I stick my neck out for your pack's purity problems?"

"Revenge" Ethan said simply. "You hate them. I hate what she's done to my family, to our ways. Our goals align. You help me create a distraction, draw the guards away... and I will do the rest. You get your chaos. I get my purification."

Tyler stopped his circling. The deal was naked and brutal. He would be the hammer, and Ethan would be the scalpel. The chaos would be beautiful. And the thought of causing Wednesday Addams unimaginable pain... it was a siren's song he couldn't resist.

"A distraction" Tyler mused, his Hyde stirring with interest at the prospect of unleashed havoc. "I can do that. I know the school's weaknesses. I know the schedules. When do we do it?"

"The next blood moon" Ethan said, his eyes glazing over with a fanatical light. "In three nights' time. Its power will magnify my strength. It is a sign."

Tyler's grin returned, wider and more terrifying than before. "Just the blood moon doesn't just give you strenght, it makes her unstoppable and I don't know about you, but I'm not in the mood to lose another part of me for that bitch, we need her distracted before we attack"

The alliance was forged not in trust, but in a shared, all-consuming hatred. The mad wolf and the vengeful Hyde. A pact made in the ruins of a greenhouse, destined to bring fire and blood to the steps of Rotwood Cottage.

Ethan left the greenhouse feeling lighter than he had in weeks. The rot had a name. It had a face. And now, it had an expiration date. He was no longer a failed beta. He was an instrument of vengeance. A righteous blade.

He didn't see the twisted, broken path he was on. He only saw the glorious, purified future at the end of it. The voice in his head approved, whispering promises of glory and a legacy written in the blood of the unclean.

The madness had its architect. And the clock began to tick.

Chapter Text

The air in Rotwood Cottage had settled into a new, fragile rhythm. The terror of the full moon had passed, replaced by the grinding, mundane anxiety of constant vigilance. For Wednesday Addams, the world had narrowed to a series of data points: the frequency of the pup’s movements, the precise angle of sunlight that indicated the time for Enid’s medication, the minute fluctuations in the protective wards surrounding the cottage that she could feel like a change in barometric pressure.

She was the commander of a silent war, her body the battlefield. Every twinge, every flutter, was a report from the front lines. She accepted this reality with cold, analytical precision. Vulnerability was a variable to be managed, not a feeling to be indulged.

Which was why, when her mother glided into the main room with a carefully neutral expression, Wednesday immediately identified the anomaly.

“We have a guest, my dear storm cloud” Morticia announced, her voice a smooth velvet that did little to conceal the steel beneath.

Wednesday, who was engaged in the meticulous task of organizing her throwing stars by sharpness and metallurgical composition on the coffee table, did not look up. “Unless they are a licensed embalmer or a vendor of industrial-grade acid, I am not receiving visitors.”

“It’s Isadora, cara mia” Gomez said, his usual boisterous tone subdued. He stood by the fireplace, restlessly polishing the handle of his sword cane. “She’s come to… well, to talk.”

The air in the room solidified. Wednesday’s hand, which had been poised over a particularly finely balanced star, froze. She slowly lifted her gaze, her eyes black pools of instant, glacial hostility.

“No.”

The word was absolute. A final verdict. It echoed in the cozy room, clashing with the colorful afghans and Enid’s collection of smiling plushies.

From the kitchen doorway, Enid stiffened, a glass of water in her hand. Bianca, who was ostensibly helping her make tea but was mostly just criticizing the quality of the leaves, went very still.

“Wednesday” Morticia began, her tone gently persuasive. “She is the foremost expert on lycanthropic hybrid gestation. Her knowledge is…”

“Her knowledge is tainted by a prejudice that makes her observations scientifically unreliable” Wednesday interrupted, her voice like chips of flint. “Her presence is a contaminant. A psychological stressor, which, as she herself noted, is detrimental to my condition. The answer is no.”

Enid set the glass down with a soft click. She exchanged a worried glance with Bianca. They had known this was a possibility. Morticia had confided in them earlier, believing Isadora’s expertise was too critical to discard, no matter the personal history. The memory of the bloody night of the full moon was a ghost that haunted them all; they couldn’t afford to be without the best care.

“Wends” Enid said softly, crossing the room. She didn’t touch her, knowing Wednesday’s boundaries were like tripwires. “I know what she said. I know how she was. But… she’s also the reason the baby is okay. Her injection… it stopped the bleeding.”

“A broken clock is correct twice a day” Wednesday retorted, her gaze still locked on her mother. “I will not allow a bigot with competent surgical skills to pollute our environment. Her continued presence is an unacceptable risk.”

Bianca pushed off the doorframe, her arms crossed. “Addams, I get it. I do. What she did was shitty. But let’s look at this strategically.” She fell back into the clinical, unemotional language Wednesday preferred. “She is a unique asset. Her medical knowledge is a weapon we don’t have anywhere else. Dismissing an asset out of hand, especially when the threat level is this high, is a tactical error.”

Wednesday’s eyes flicked to Bianca. “The asset’s loyalty is compromised. Its judgment is clouded. It is a weapon that is just as likely to fire backwards.”

“Then we recalibrate the weapon” Bianca shot back. “We test its alignment. We don’t just throw it away when we’re standing in the middle of a war zone.”

“Bianca’s right, I think…you guys really have to stop talking like you are in a World War II” Enid added, her voice gaining strength. She moved to stand beside Bianca, a united front. “I’m not asking you to forgive her. I’m asking you to use her. For the pup. What if something happens again? Something worse? What if we need someone who knows what to do, and we sent her away because our feelings were hurt?”

Wednesday’s jaw tightened. They were leveraging her own ruthless logic against her, and she despised it. The pup gave a sudden, sharp kick, a painful jab to her ribs that felt like a punctuation mark to their argument. Listen, it seemed to say.

“My feelings are not hurt” Wednesday hissed, the lie transparent. “My judgment is clear. She sees you as a ‘rustic’ liability, Enid. She sees our child as an abomination. I will not subject us to her disdain.”

Before anyone could respond, the front door opened. Morticia must have given some unseen signal. Isadora Capri stood on the threshold, backlit by the grey afternoon light. She looked older than Wednesday remembered, the lines on her face etched deeper. She did not try to enter. She simply stood there, her medical bag in hand, her posture not defiant, but… defeated.

“She will not be subjected to it” Isadora said, her voice low and rough, as if she hadn’t used it in days. “Because I will not offer it.”

All eyes turned to her. Wednesday’s expression could have frozen hell over.

Isadora’s gaze was fixed on the floor just inside the door. “May I enter? I will say what I have come to say, and then I will leave. You never have to see me again if that is your wish.”

Morticia gave a slight nod. Gomez’s hand tightened on his cane.

Isadora took three steps into the room and stopped, maintaining a respectful distance. She finally lifted her eyes, and Wednesday was surprised to see not arrogance, but a profound, weary shame.

“You were right, Wednesday” she began, her voice unwavering though her hands trembled slightly. “My commentary was inefficient and its underlying premise was flawed. It was more than flawed. It was cruel. And it was wrong.”

She took a shaky breath, her gaze shifting to Enid. “I looked at you, Enid Sinclair, and I did not see you. I saw a ghost. I saw the system that broke my mother and abandoned me. I saw the rigid, cruel, unforgiving world of traditional packs that values purity over people and power over love. I projected the sins of an entire culture onto you, and for that, I am deeply and utterly ashamed.”

The confession hung in the air, stark and undeniable.

“My prejudice made me see your strength as volatility” she continued, her eyes glistening. “I saw your devotion as obsession. I saw your love as a pathology. I was so busy fighting the monster I thought was lurking in your bloodline that I became a monster myself. A condescending, judgmental, deeply unprofessional monster.”

She looked back at Wednesday, her expression raw. “You were not a patient to me. You were a symbol. And in doing so, I failed you both in the most fundamental way a healer can. I did not see you. I saw my own past. And I am so sorry.”

The silence that followed was absolute. Gomez looked visibly moved, dabbing at his eyes with his handkerchief. Morticia’s face was a mask of quiet satisfaction. Bianca watched Isadora with a critical, analytical gaze, assessing the truth of the words.

Enid’s eyes were wide, filled with a complex mix of emotions, old hurt, surprise, and a dawning empathy. She understood trauma. She lived with its echoes every day.

Wednesday, however, remained unmoved, a statue carved from ice. “An apology is a verbal construct. It does not alter the fundamental nature of the individual. It does not guarantee a change in behavior. You have simply identified the flaw in your own programming. You have not proven it is fixed.”

Isadora nodded, accepting the harsh judgment. “You are correct. Words are easy. Actions are the only currency that matters. Which is why I am not asking for forgiveness. I am asking for a chance to provide you with the care you deserve. Not because I am a good person seeking absolution, but because you need a competent physician, and I am, despite my personal failings, the best one for this specific, impossible situation.”

She opened her medical bag and withdrew a thick, handwritten journal. “These are my notes. Everything I know about hybrid lycanthropic gestation. The protocols I used to stabilize you. Theories on preventing another premature shift. It’s all here. You can have it. You can give it to another doctor. I will leave it with you and go.”

She took a step forward and placed the journal on the edge of an armchair, then retreated back to her spot.

“Or” she said, her voice barely a whisper, “you can allow me to stay. Not as a penitent, but as a tool. Use my knowledge. Use my skills. Question my every move. Hold me to a standard so high I will have no choice but to meet it. Let my actions, from this moment forward, be my only apology.”

The offer was laid bare. It was the most Wednesday Addams proposition she could have possibly made. It was not based on emotion or trust. It was a contract. A transaction of utility.

Wednesday’s eyes fell upon the journal. It was a treasure trove of irreplaceable data. The scientist in her coveted it. The strategist recognized its value. The expectant mother… the expectant mother felt the pup shift again, a slower, more deliberate movement this time. A question.

She looked at Enid. Her mate’s face was hopeful, but not pleading. She was leaving the decision to her. She looked at Bianca, who gave a single, slight nod. The asset can be managed.

Wednesday’s gaze returned to Isadora. The woman stood there, stripped of her arrogance, offering not excuses, but a weapon. Herself.

“Your bedside manner remains deficient” Wednesday stated flatly.

A faint, sad smile touched Isadora’s lips. “I will work on it.”

“You will submit all treatment plans for my review prior to implementation.”
“Of course.”

“You will address all questions and concerns to both of us, as we are a single unit in this endeavor.”
Isadora’s gaze flicked to Enid, and she gave a firm, respectful nod. “Understood.”

Wednesday was silent for a long, excruciating moment, weighing variables, calculating risks. The potential gain of unparalleled expertise versus the risk of recurring psychological harm. The memory of the woman’s disdain versus the stark honesty of her apology.

“Your presence is tolerated” Wednesday finally announced, the words dripping with reluctant concession. “On a probationary basis. Your every action will be scrutinized. One micro-expression of prejudice, one condescending inflection, and you will be removed. Permanently. The journal will be forfeit. Are the terms clear?”

Isadora’s shoulders slumped in palpable relief. “Crystal clear.”

“Then you may proceed with an examination,” Wednesday said, as if granting a great favor. “The entity has been unusually active today. I require a physiological baseline.”

It was a command. A test.

Isadora didn’t hesitate. She approached with a new, cautious reverence. She set her bag down and pulled on a pair of gloves. “May I?” she asked, her hands poised over Wednesday’s abdomen.

Wednesday gave a curt nod, her body tense.

Isadora’s touch was clinical, but different. There was no judgment in it now, only focused assessment. Her fingers pressed gently, mapping the position of the pup. She listened with a stethoscope, her face a mask of concentration.

“Strong heartbeat” she murmured. “Position is optimal for this stage.” She then did something she never would have before. She looked at Enid. “Would you like to listen?”

Enid’s face lit up. She hurried over, and Isadora gently placed the earpieces of the stethoscope in her ears. Enid’s eyes widened, a look of pure, wondrous awe spreading across her face as she heard the swift, strong rhythm of their child’s heart.

“Oh” she breathed, her voice thick with emotion.

Wednesday watched the exchange, her own icy resolve fracturing just a fraction. Isadora was trying. She was including Enid, treating her not as a complicating factor, but as a parent.

Wednesday noticed Bianca standing in the sidelines, a cautiously wanting look in her face "Bianca" She called out, the siren snapping to attention, a red tint to her cheeks.

"Oh…do you want to listen too" asked Enid noticing the same thing, Bianca gave a stiff nod as she came over, her eyes lighting up as she heard the heartbeat.

The examination continued in a tense but professional silence. When it was over, Isadora stepped back. “Everything appears to be progressing within expected parameters. The pup is robust. Your recovery from the last event is remarkable.”

She packed her equipment away. “I will leave the journal. Review it. We will discuss a long-term plan at our next appointment.” She turned to leave.

“Doctor Capri” Wednesday said.

Isadora paused at the door.

“The apology” Wednesday stated, not looking at her. “While linguistically adequate, it was received. The data has been logged.”

It was the closest she would ever come to acceptance.

Isadora gave another slow nod, a look of profound understanding passing between them. “Thank you.”

She left, closing the door softly behind her.

The room exhaled. Enid immediately came to Wednesday’s side, taking her hand. “Are you okay?”

Wednesday was silent for a moment, processing the internal seismic shift. “I am… adequate.” She looked at the journal on the chair. It represented a ceasefire in a different kind of war. A necessary, if uneasy, alliance.

Bianca picked it up, flipping through the pages filled with precise diagrams and dense notes. “This is gold” she muttered. “She wasn’t kidding.”

“The enemy of my enemy is a useful asset, not a friend” Wednesday recited, her old mantra. But it felt hollow now. The line between enemy and ally had just become dangerously, complicatedly blurred.

She placed her hand on her stomach, feeling the pup’s restless energy. They had just acquired a powerful new weapon. But as any Addams knew, the most dangerous weapons were always the ones that could turn in your hand. Only time would tell if this one would protect them, or if they had just invited the rot back inside their walls.

Chapter Text

The leather-bound journal sat on Wednesday’s desk like a condemned man awaiting execution. It was a thing of beauty and terror, its pages filled with the elegant, precise script of a mind that saw the body as a complex and often failing machine. Isadora Capri’s life’s work, or at least the part of it that pertained to her specific, monstrous area of expertise.

For three hours, Wednesday had not touched it. She had instead engaged in a series of increasingly esoteric tasks: reorganizing her venom collection by potency and country of origin, composing a sonnet in iambic pentameter about the futility of hope, and mentally calculating the structural weaknesses of the cottage’s new reinforced door. Anything to avoid the confession bound in leather and ink.

Finally, with the grim resolve of a surgeon amputating her own limb, she opened it.

The first page was not a table of contents, but a hand-drawn anatomical illustration. It was a cross-section of a uterus, but not one from any medical textbook Wednesday had ever seen. The placental structure was bizarrely complex, with additional, fibrous layers she intuitively recognized as lycanthropic in nature. Tiny notations, in Isadora’s microscopic hand, pointed to areas of “magical confluence” and “transformative stress points.”

It was the map of her own internal prison.

A cold thrill, entirely separate from fear, went through her. This was data. Raw, uncensored, terrifyingly specific data. She turned the page.

The journal was not a narrative; it was a log. Case studies, each one a tragedy outlined in cold, clinical detail. Subject A: Female, 28, human-lycanthrope bond. Spontaneous transformation at 22 weeks. Fetal demise. Maternal mortality due to catastrophic uterine rupture.
*Subject B: Male, 31, siren-lamia bond. Gestation arrested at 16 weeks. Autopsy revealed…*

Wednesday read each entry with a detached, analytical hunger. Each failure was a lesson. Each death was a variable accounted for. Isadora had not shied away from the horrors. She had documented them with a ghoul’s fascination and a scientist’s respect. There were theories, too. Wild, radical ideas about using specific harmonic frequencies to soothe a hybrid fetus, about herbal concoctions that could “trick” the body into accepting the foreign DNA, about the critical importance of the sire’s emotional state in stabilizing the gestational environment.

Enid. Her stability was a quantifiable factor in this equation.

Wednesday’s gaze drifted from the journal to where Enid slept. She was curled on her side on their bed, one arm thrown protectively over Wednesday’s pillow. The morning light caught the faint scars on her face, silver lines against gold. Each one a testament to a fight she had won for them. Isadora had called her devotion “obsession.” The journal called it a “critical stabilizing agent.”

The two perspectives clashed in Wednesday’s mind. One was prejudice masquerading as concern. The other was cold, hard science. It was maddening to find truth in the words of a bigot.

A particular passage caught her eye. The lunar pull on a hybrid fetus is not merely hormonal; it is a sympathetic magical resonance. The fetus, being of two worlds, is a conduit. The sire’s transformation triggers an empathetic response, a desperate attempt to synchronize. The stronger the sire, the stronger the pull. An Alpha-level bond may be catastrophic without significant dampening.

The blood moon. Ethan’s words echoed in her mind. Its power will magnify my strength. It wasn’t just about him. A blood moon’s power would magnify everything. It would turn her womb into a crucible of competing magics. The journal offered a potential solution: a series of warding sigils drawn directly onto the skin with a mixture of crushed obsidian and mother’s blood, designed to create a “null-field” around the fetus for the duration of the lunar peak.

It was a barbaric, painful-sounding procedure. It was also, according to the data, their best chance.

The door to the bedroom opened softly. Morticia stood there, a tray with two steaming cups of tea in her hands. Her eyes went from Wednesday’s face to the open journal, and understanding flickered in her dark gaze.

“She is a difficult pill to swallow, is she not?” Morticia murmured, setting the tray down. “All the best poisons are.”

“Her methodology is sound” Wednesday admitted grudgingly, closing the journal. “Her personality remains a toxic side effect.”

Morticia smiled faintly. “Isadora has always been… blunt. She sees the world in systems and failures. It is what makes her brilliant and what makes her cruel. Love, to her, was never an equation that balanced. It was a variable that introduced chaos.” She placed a cup of bitter, black tea in front of Wednesday. “She is trying to learn a new arithmetic.”

“I do not have time to be her tutor” Wednesday said, wrapping her hands around the warm cup. “The blood moon is in two nights. According to this, we require a… significant intervention.”

She explained the warding sigils. Morticia listened, her expression growing graver by the second. “Blood magic” she said softly. “Dangerous. Imprecise.”

“But necessary” Wednesday countered. “The probability of a catastrophic event during a blood moon, given the strength of Enid’s Alpha bond and the pup’s proven volatility, is approximately 87 percent. This procedure reduces it to 34 percent. The calculus is clear.”

“And if Isadora’s calculations are wrong?” Morticia asked, her voice barely a whisper.

“Then we have merely traded one catastrophe for another” Wednesday replied, her voice flat. “But inaction has a 100 percent probability of failure. I choose the variable.”

The decision was made. When Isadora returned that afternoon for her first official probationary appointment, Wednesday was waiting for her, the journal open to the relevant page.

“We will implement the blood warding protocol” Wednesday stated without preamble.

Isadora, who was unpacking her equipment, went very still. She looked from Wednesday to the journal, her face paling slightly. “That is… an extreme measure. The risks are…”

“…outlined in meticulous detail on pages 43 through 47,” Wednesday interrupted. “I have assessed them. The alternative is unacceptable. Do you have the necessary components?”

Isadora’s jaw tightened. She gave a curt nod. “I do. But it requires precision. And… fortitude. The process is… intense.”

“I am familiar with pain, Doctor. It is an old acquaintance. Proceed.”

Enid, who had been listening with wide, worried eyes, stepped forward. “Whoa, whoa, whoa. Back up. Blood warding? What does that mean? What are you going to do to her?”

Isadora turned to her, and for the first time, she addressed Enid directly, her tone professional but devoid of its former condescension. “The blood moon’s energy will act as a catalyst. It will amplify the pup’s connection to you, Enid. To your wolf. Given what happened last time, we cannot risk another sympathetic transformation. The procedure involves inscribing warding sigils onto Wednesday’s abdomen using a… special ink. It will create a barrier, isolating the pup from the lunar surge.”

“Inscribing? You mean cutting her?” Enid’s voice rose, a protective growl underlying the words.

“The sigils must be etched into the dermal layer to be effective” Isadora confirmed, not flinching from Enid’s anger. “It will be painful. There is a risk of infection, of scarring, of triggering premature labor if the shock is too great. It is a last resort.”

“And you think we’re there?” Enid demanded, her hands curling into fists at her sides.

“I do” Wednesday answered for her. “The data supports the conclusion. My body is the battlefield, Enid. This is a necessary fortification.”

The room was tense. Bianca, who had been observing silently from the corner, finally spoke. “Is there an anesthetic? Something to take the edge off?”

Isadora shook her head. “The magic requires clarity. The mother’s conscious focus is part of the ward. Any dampening agent would dilute the effect. She must be fully present.”

Enid looked horrified. She moved to Wednesday’s side, her hand finding hers. “Wends, no. There has to be another way.”

Wednesday looked up at her, and for a fleeting moment, she allowed the mask to slip. She let Enid see the cold, clinical terror that underpinned her decision. The vision of the small, cold hands was a constant shadow. “There isn’t” she said, her voice quiet but absolute. “This is the way we protect our child.”

The word our hung in the air. It was a weapon and a shield. Enid’s resistance crumbled. She saw the same fierce, desperate determination in Wednesday’s eyes that she felt in her own heart. She gave a slow, reluctant nod, her grip on Wednesday’s hand tightening.

The procedure was set for that evening. The atmosphere in the cottage was funereal. Gomez paced like a caged tiger, muttering curses in Spanish. Morticia prepared a suite of potent painkillers and healing poultices for after the fact, her movements serene but her eyes shadowed. Bianca took up a post by the door, a silent sentinel against any interruptions.

When the time came, Wednesday lay back on the bed, her abdomen exposed. Isadora had laid out her tools: not surgical steel, but a sliver of obsidian, its edge wickedly sharp, and a small mortar and pestle containing a thick, black paste that smelled of ozone and grave dirt.

“I will be as quick and as precise as I can” Isadora said, her voice low. Her hands were steady, but a fine sheen of sweat glistened on her brow.

Enid knelt by the head of the bed, holding both of Wednesday’s hands. “Look at me” she whispered. “Just look at me. Don’t watch.”

Wednesday fixed her eyes on Enid’s. She saw the love, the fear, the unwavering strength there. She used it as an anchor.

The first touch of the obsidian was a line of pure, white-hot fire. Wednesday’s breath hitched, but she did not flinch. Her fingers tightened around Enid’s. She could feel the precise movement as Isadora carved the first complex symbol into her skin. The pain was immense, a sharp, tearing agony that seemed to slice right through to her spine. She could hear the faint, gritty sound of the stone against her flesh.

She did not cry out. She retreated into her mind, compartmentalizing the sensation. It was just data. Nerves firing. A biological response to trauma. She focused on the data in the journal. The 34 percent success rate. The 66 percent chance of failure without it. The numbers were a mantra against the pain.

Enid was whispering to her, a steady stream of nonsense, promises of the future, descriptions of the ridiculous names Gomez had suggested for the baby, anything to drown out the sound of the cutting.

Isadora worked with a terrifying, focused silence. Each movement was deliberate. Each line was a prayer and a punishment. The black paste was rubbed into the fresh wounds, a cold, burning counterpoint to the heat of the cut. Wednesday could feel the magic in it, a dark, prickling energy that seeped into her, weaving a net around the life within her.

The pain began to blur, a crescendo of agony that made the room swim. She clung to Enid’s voice, to the sight of her blue eyes, a fixed point in a universe of pain.

Finally, it was over. Isadora sat back, her shoulders slumping. Wednesday’s entire abdomen was a constellation of angry, bleeding lines, pulsing with a dark, powerful energy.

“It is done” Isadora said, her voice hoarse with exhaustion. “The ward is active.”

The tension in the room broke. Morticia was immediately there with a cool cloth and healing salves. Gomez looked like he was going to be sick. Bianca let out a long, slow breath.

Wednesday lay there, trembling from shock and adrenaline, her body a map of fresh pain. But beneath the pain, she felt it. A strange, humming stillness where there had been frantic movement. The pup was quiet, soothed by the very magic that had been carved into its protector.

Enid leaned forward, pressing her forehead against Wednesday’s, her tears warm on Wednesday’s cheek. “You’re okay” she whispered, over and over. “You’re so strong. You’re okay.”

Wednesday closed her eyes. She had allowed the woman she despised to cut her open. She had trusted the science of a prejudiced mind. She had gambled her own body and the life of her child on the calculations in a journal.

The calculus of trust was the most terrifying equation she had ever solved. And as the dark magic settled into her skin, a permanent shield against the coming blood moon, she knew the answer was still unknown. They had only bought themselves a chance. The final calculation was yet to come.

The silence in the cottage after Isadora’s departure was a physical presence, thick and heavy as a burial shroud. The air itself seemed to vibrate with the residual energy of the blood ward, a low, ominous hum that was felt more than heard, a dissonant chord struck deep within Wednesday’s very bones.

The pain was not a singular entity but a symphony of agonies. The initial, searing fire of the obsidian blade had subsided into a deep, throbbing ache that pulsed in time with her heartbeat. Each beat sent a fresh wave of torment radiating from the intricate sigils carved into her skin. The magical paste felt like a colony of frozen ants burrowing into the wounds, their icy venom mixing with the fire to create a sensation so uniquely horrific it defied her extensive vocabulary for pain.

She lay perfectly still on the bed, her body rigid, her jaw clenched so tight her teeth ached. Every shallow breath was a calculated risk, a minor expansion of her diaphragm that tugged at the fresh carvings and made stars dance behind her eyelids.

Enid was a warm, trembling constant at her side. She had not let go of Wednesday’s hands, her grip a lifeline tethering Wednesday to the shore of consciousness. Her tears had dried, replaced by a fierce, watchful intensity. She was using a soft cloth dipped in cool water to gently dab the sweat from Wednesday’s brow, her movements infinitely tender.

“Don’t speak” Enid whispered, seeing the effort it took for Wednesday to even breathe. “Just… be here. I’ve got you.”

Morticia worked with a quiet, lethal efficiency, her usual ethereal grace replaced by the focused precision of a field surgeon. She applied a poultice of crushed comfrey and witch hazel over Isadora’s dark paste, the herbal scent a feeble challenger to the odor of ozone and blood. Her touch was feather-light, but Wednesday still flinched.

“The bleeding has stopped” Morticia murmured, more to herself than anyone else. “The magic is holding. The tissue is… accepting it.” There was a note of reluctant awe in her voice. Isadora’s brutal methodology was undeniably effective.

Gomez hovered at the foot of the bed, a portrait of helpless anguish. His usual vibrant energy was gone, replaced by a pall of fear that made him look older. He clutched his sword cane like it was the only thing holding him upright. “My little viper,” he choked out, his voice thick. “So brave. So formidable.”

Bianca had not moved from her post by the door. Her arms were still crossed, but her defensive posture had shifted into one of readiness. Her sharp eyes were fixed on the window, scanning the darkening woods beyond. She was the only one looking outward, already translating the internal trauma into an external threat assessment. The blood moon was coming. The ward was a defense, not a solution. The enemy was still out there.

Wednesday focused on the data. It was the only way to keep the pain from swallowing her whole.

Data Point: The pup was silent. The frantic, restless movement that had been a constant for weeks had ceased entirely. It was a profound, unnerving stillness. According to the journal, this was the desired effect. The null-field was active. The entity was isolated, protected from the escalating lunar pull. It should have been a comfort. It felt like a loss.

Data Point: The ward’s energy was a cold, foreign presence inside her. She could trace the paths of the sigils not by pain alone, but by this strange, thrumming power. It felt like being inhabited by a silent, watchful parasite. A necessary malice.

Data Point: Isadora Capri had performed the procedure with the emotionless proficiency of a master engraver. There had been no hesitation, no pity, no sadistic pleasure. It had been a transaction. Skill in exchange for a chance at redemption. The apology had been verbal. The carving was the real penance.

Hours bled into one another. The pain did not lessen, but Wednesday’s capacity to endure it expanded, forced to adapt by sheer force of will. The world narrowed to the four walls of the bedroom, to Enid’s face, to the rhythm of her own labored breathing.

It was deep into the night when the first tremor ran through the ward.

It was not a sound, but a sensation, a violent shiver in the magical field, like a plucked harp string wound too tight. Wednesday gasped, her back arching off the bed as a fresh, electric agony lanced through her. The sigils on her stomach flared with a sudden, sickly violet light, illuminating the room for a terrifying second.

Enid jolted upright. “What was that? What’s happening?”

Morticia was at Wednesday’s side in an instant, her hands hovering over the glowing sigils. “The moon” she breathed, her eyes wide. “It’s rising. The ward is being tested.”

Another tremor, stronger this time. The violet light pulsed, and the hum escalated into a high-pitched whine that set Wednesday’s teeth on edge. The null-field was under assault. The blood moon’s power was a tidal wave, and Isadora’s ward was a levee trying to hold it back.

Wednesday could feel it, a colossal, external pressure grinding against the shield she had paid for in blood. It was a battle being fought on the surface of her skin, and she was the battlefield.

“It’s too much” Enid whispered, her voice frantic. She could feel it too, through her bond with Wednesday, a sympathetic echo of the strain. “It’s going to break her!”

“No” Wednesday gritted out, the first word she’d spoken in hours. It was ripped from her, raw and ragged. “It will hold.”

She had to believe it. The alternative was unthinkable. She focused everything she had on the ward, on the precise, brutal geometry of the sigils. She visualized them not as cuts, but as bars of cold iron. She fed her own will into them, her Addams stubbornness, her terrifying love for the silent life inside her. She became the ward.

The room watched, holding its breath. Gomez had drawn his sword, a useless but instinctive gesture against an intangible enemy. Bianca had finally left her post, drawn to the bedside, her face pale. Even she had no strategy for this.

The assault continued. Wave after wave of lunar energy crashed against the magical barrier. The violet light flared and dimmed, flared and dimmed, a strobe light in a torture chamber. Wednesday’s body was rigid with strain, every muscle locked, her skin slick with a cold sweat. A thin trickle of blood escaped from where she’d bitten her lip.

And then, as suddenly as it began, it stopped.

The violet light died. The high-pitched whine faded. The crushing pressure vanished.

The only sound was Wednesday’s ragged, sobbing breaths. The ward held. It had bent, groaned, screamed in protest, but it had held.

The blood moon had reached its peak, and they had survived it.

A profound, exhausted silence descended. The danger was not over, but the first, most immediate apocalyptic threat had passed.

Enid collapsed forward, burying her face in the pillow next to Wednesday’s head, her body shaking with relief. Morticia swayed on her feet, reaching out to steady herself on the bedpost. Gomez let out a strangled sob and sank into a chair.

Bianca was the first to speak, her voice hushed. “Holy shit.”

Wednesday could do nothing but breathe. The pain was still there, a roaring inferno, but it was a familiar hell now. She had faced the abyss and not fallen in.

Her hand, trembling uncontrollably, crept down to her stomach. The sigils were just raised, painful scars now, the magic within them spent and dormant. Beneath them, deep within the null-field, something shifted.

A tiny, tentative flutter.

Then another. Stronger this time.

The pup was waking up. The connection to Enid, to the world, was re-establishing itself. It was a feeling so immense, so profoundly relieving, that it dwarfed the pain.

A single, perfect tear escaped the corner of Wednesday’s eye and traced a path through the sweat and blood on her temple. It was not a tear of pain or fear. It was a tear of victory.

She had allowed herself to be carved apart. She had trusted a woman she despised. She had endured a pain she would have considered unimaginable hours before.

And it had worked.

The calculus of trust, for tonight, had balanced. The equation had held. They had bought their chance.

As the first grey light of dawn began to filter through the windows, promising a day without a blood moon, Wednesday finally allowed her eyes to close. The war was not over. But the most brutal battle was won.

She held onto the feeling of that tiny, insistent flutter, a secret signal from the future, a promise that the terrible cost had been worth it. For now, that was enough.

Chapter Text

The Culling Moon

The world had bled. The blood moon had painted the forest in hues of rust and vengeance, and Ethan Whitefang had breathed it in like sacrament. He’d felt its power thrumming in his own veins, a sympathetic echo to the lunar rage, and he’d known, with a certainty that felt like divine revelation, that the Addams witch was suffering. He’d felt her writhing, the abomination in her belly fighting to tear its way free under the moon’s maddening pull, Enid hadn't changed. Blood moon wolves don't need to change on the blood moon, another perk her rogue cousin had that she didn't deserve.

But the sun had risen. The cottage still stood. And the silence from within was not the silence of death, but of resilience. They had weathered it. The knowledge was a fresh brand of failure seared onto his soul.

He was a ghost in the machine of Nevermore now. The crisp uniform was gone, replaced by dirt-streaked jeans and a jacket that smelled of pine sap and damp earth. He slept in fits and starts in a shallow cave he’d scouted, his sleep haunted not by nightmares, but by the grating, approving whisper of his grandfather.

“Patience, boy. The wolf who howls too soon scares the prey. The kill comes in the silence after the cry.”

Patience. It was a acid in his gut. Every day was an exercise in exquisite torture. Through the high-powered scope he’d lifted from the Nightshades’ storage locker, he watched the rhythm of their doomed lives.

He saw the Capri woman arrive each morning, her posture less rigid than before, her head held not in arrogance but in a kind of weary purpose. Traitor. She had sold her expertise to the enemy, seduced by Addams power and pity for the freak show inside.

He saw the deliveries, sterile packages, clear bags of saline, boxes of gloves. Each one was a clock ticking down. They were preparing the nest. The sight should have filled him with triumph. Instead, it filled him with a furious, jealous impatience. They were so confident. So assured of their happy ending.

He saw the rotating guard. The Barclay siren, her sharp eyes constantly scanning, a general marshaling her pathetic forces. The gorgon boy, stumbling through his patrols, a useless sentry who’d be stone before he knew what hit him. The vampire and her fishy girlfriend, moving through the shadows with an infuriating grace. And the bee boy, a pointless, buzzing insect.

But most of all, he saw her.

Enid.

His cousin. The abomination’s whore.

Sometimes she’d be visible at a window, her face drawn with worry but alight with a softness that made him want to vomit. She was pouring all her strength, her wolf strength, into that human vessel. She was nurturing the very thing that was perverting their bloodline.

Other times, he’d see her on the perimeter, walking with the siren or her freak parents. Her gait had changed. It wasn't the bubbly bounce of the girl she’d been. It was the purposeful, powerful stride of an Alpha. His Alpha. The title she’d stolen. She was growing stronger in her exile, fortified by her deviancy. It was an insult to the natural order.

His hatred for her had crystallized into something pure and brilliant and deadly. It was no longer just about pack law or family shame. It was cosmological. She was chaos. She was the unraveling of everything that was right and strong and pure. She was the weak little girl who had been given power she didn't deserve and was using it to destroy the world that had rejected her.

And she was happy. That was the greatest obscenity of all. While he languished in the cold, exiled by his own failure, she was in there, playing house, glowing with impending motherhood. She had everything he had been promised—status, a mate, a pup on the way—but she had gotten it all through the most profound betrayal imaginable.

She didn’t deserve it. She didn’t deserve any of it.

The voice in his head agreed, a constant, soothing poison. “She took what was yours. The respect. The legacy. The future. She wallows in her filth and calls it love. You are the scalpel. You are the purifying fire.”

Tyler Galpin was less patient. The Hyde was a creature of impulse, and this waiting was agony for him. He’d come to the cave sometimes, his form flickering with barely-contained rage.

“This is stupid” Tyler snarled, kicking a rock that shattered against the cave wall. “They’re getting stronger in there. Every day we wait, they add another lock to the door.”

“They’re building their own cage” Ethan replied, his voice a low monotone. He didn’t look away from the scope. He was watching Enid help Wednesday walk a slow, painful lap around the cottage’s yard. The sight of the Addams girl, so frail and yet so fiercely protected, made his teeth ache. “They’re focusing all their energy, all their power, on one thing. The moment that thing happens, the door won’t matter. The cage will be open from the inside.”

“The baby” Tyler said, a slow, ugly smile spreading across his face. He understood violence on a primal level. “You want to hit them when the little thing is coming.”

“I want to hit them when she is coming” Ethan corrected, his eye glued to the crosshairs, centered on Wednesday’s pale, determined face. “When all of their love, all of their fear, all of their precious protection is focused on that one, bloody, messy moment. The siren will be shouting orders. The Addams parents will be weaving their spells. The vampire will be running interference. Andmy dear cousin…” He finally lowered the scope and turned to Tyler, his eyes glowing with a faint, lunar gold. “…the great Alpha Enid Sinclair, will be on her knees, holding her mate’s hand, weeping with fear and joy. She will be blind. She will be deaf. She will be utterly, perfectly vulnerable.”

He could see it. The scene played out in his head like a cherished dream. The chaos. The screams. The perfect, beautiful moment when he would step from the shadows not as a failed beta, but as an avenging angel. He would be the consequence they all thought they could avoid.

“And then we walk in” Tyler breathed, his own eyes flashing with the Hyde’s yellow gleam.

“Then we walk in” Ethan confirmed, his voice dropping to a whisper. “You create the distraction you’ve been dreaming of. Tear the world apart. And I…” He smiled, a cold, dead thing. “…I will perform the culling. I will purify the bloodline. I will tear the rot out by the root.”

It was a good plan. A righteous plan. It wasn’t about winning a fight anymore. It was about delivering a verdict. He was the judge, the jury, and now, finally, the executioner.

The waiting was still torture, but it had a flavor now. It was the patient, cold hunger of a wolf watching a pregnant doe, knowing the fawn would come, knowing the mother would be weak, knowing the kill was inevitable.

He raised the scope again. Enid was helping Wednesday back inside, her arm a strong, steady support around the smaller girl’s waist. The look on her face was one of such tender, devastating love that Ethan felt a snarl build in his chest.

Enjoy it, cousin, he thought, the crosshairs hovering over her heart. Savor every last second of your happiness.

It only makes the ending more poetic.

He settled back into the shadows, the scope never wavering. The patient hunter. The righteous blade. Waiting for the perfect, bloody moment when the world would finally be set right.

Chapter Text

The strategic integration of Bianca Barclay into the core of their defense had unforeseen consequences. For Wednesday, it was a matter of cold, hard logic. Bianca was a high-value asset. Her siren abilities were a potent tool for control and detection. Her strategic mind was sharp, often anticipating problems before they arose. Keeping her close was the most efficient way to utilize her skills. It was a tactical decision.

So why did the decision feel increasingly… non-tactical?

Wednesday found herself cataloging the siren’s presence not just as a list of competencies, but as a series of unsettling constants. The specific rhythm of Bianca’s knock on the cottage door—two sharp, one soft. The way she could silence a room with a single raised eyebrow. The scent of salt air and night-blooming jasmine that seemed to cling to her, a stark contrast to the cottage’s smells of herbal poultices and Enid’s cotton-candy shampoo.

Most disconcerting was the trust. It had crept up on Wednesday, a silent, insidious vine. She realized she no longer audited Bianca’s security reports with her usual microscopic suspicion. She simply accepted them. She found herself voicing half-formed strategic concerns, knowing Bianca would grasp the full implication without needing a detailed briefing. It was an intellectual synergy she’d only ever experienced with… well, with Enid.

It was inefficient. Illogical. And yet, her traitorous mind kept returning to the memory of the blood moon, to the raw, terrified determination in Bianca’s voice as she’d helped hold her down, not as a subordinate, but as an equal. As a partner.

One evening, as Bianca was going over the nightly patrol schedule, Wednesday watched her. The low lamplight caught the sharp angle of her cheekbone, the determined set of her jaw. She was all fierce, beautiful edges.

“You should stay here tonight” Wednesday said abruptly, cutting off Bianca’s report on Ajax’s perimeter check.

Bianca looked up, surprised. “The roster has me on the midnight shift with Yoko.”

“The roster is a suggestion, not a commandment” Wednesday stated, her tone leaving no room for argument. “The weather is deteriorating. Your presence inside the perimeter is a more efficient use of resources than patrolling in the rain.”

It was a lie. The light drizzle outside was inconsequential. The truth was a feeling, a primal, gut-level certainty that the cottage was safer with Bianca in it. That she was safer.

Bianca’s eyes narrowed slightly, as if she could see right through the flimsy excuse. But she simply nodded. “Okay. I’ll tell Yoko to pair with Davina. Let's just hope that they do their job instead of getting each other off in the middle of the forest” She didn’t thank her. She understood it wasn’t an offer of comfort; it was a strategic redeployment.

But when Bianca spread a blanket on the sofa, preparing for her watch, Wednesday felt a peculiar sense of… rightness. The fortress felt more secure. The data was conflicting, and Wednesday despised conflicting data.

For Enid, the realization was less analytical and more like being hit by a tidal wave.

Her feelings for Bianca had always been a jumble of admiration, rivalry, and a healthy dose of intimidation. Now, those feelings were… melting. Reforming into something warmer, more dizzying. She found herself seeking out Bianca’s opinion on everything, not just security, but on what music might soothe Wednesday’s headaches, or what foods might be easiest to keep down.

She admired the way Bianca commanded a room. She loved the dry, sarcastic humor she deployed like a weapon. She found herself staring at the confident sway of Bianca’s hips as she walked, or the way her slender, powerful hands gestured when she explained a complex point.

It was confusing and thrilling. Her wolf, usually so certain in its affections, was… intrigued. It didn’t see Bianca as a threat to her bond with Wednesday; rather, it seemed to view the siren as a potential new pillar of their den. A strong, sharp, fascinating pillar.

This led to the incident at the siren pools.

It was a brisk afternoon. A minor crisis had emerged: Wednesday’s favorite brand of ultra-black, non-toxic ink had run out, and her attempts to sketch the baby’s probable skeletal structure were being severely hampered. It was a matter of utmost importance.

“Bianca will know” Enid declared, looking up from where she was trying to soothe a frustrated Wednesday. “She knows where to get everything. I’ll go find her.”

Wednesday, grumbling over a subpar sketch, merely waved a dismissive hand.

Enid hurried out, following the faint, familiar scent of jasmine and ocean that always led her to Bianca. It led her away from the main campus, towards the private, cliff-side grotto where the sirens maintained their pools. The air grew humid and salty. The sound of crashing waves grew louder.

She pushed through a curtain of hanging ivy, calling out, “Bianca? Are you in here? It’s an emergency! Wednesday needs, whoa.”

She stopped dead. The grotto was breathtaking, a natural cathedral of stone with a large, crystal-clear pool fed by a waterfall that cascaded from the cliffs above. The light filtering through the misty air was ethereal.

And there, in the center of the pool, was Bianca.

She was submerged to her waist, her back to Enid. And she was… glowing. Her skin shimmered with an iridescent, mother-of-pearl sheen. Scales, the color of a twilight sky, traced the line of her spine and dusted her shoulders. And as she turned, hearing Enid’s gasp, it became abundantly clear that sirens did not wear swimsuits when in their natural element.

Enid’s brain short-circuited. Her mouth fell open. All coherent thought, all words, were vaporized by the stunning, utterly unexpected vision of Bianca Barclay in her full, glorious siren form. She was all sleek muscle and powerful grace, a mythical creature made real.

Bianca didn’t startle. She simply arched one perfect eyebrow, a slow, knowing smirk playing on her lips. “See something you like, Sinclair?”

Enid’s face erupted into a blush so hot and immediate she felt lightheaded. She made a sound like a stepped-on squeaky toy. “I…you…the ink! Wednesday! She needs…the drawing…the…naked! You’re… swimming!”

Bianca laughed, a low, melodic sound that seemed to vibrate in the very steam of the grotto. She moved through the water with an effortless grace that made Enid’s heart hammer against her ribs. “Astute observation. We find clothing… restrictive. It interferes with the transformation. Now, take a breath and use your words. What about ink?”

Enid forced her eyes to stay fixed on Bianca’s face, which was a Herculean effort given the… everything else. “Her… her sketching ink. It ran out. The black one. She’s… very upset. It’s a crisis.”

Bianca’s smirk widened. “A crisis. Right.” She began to wade towards the edge of the pool, and Enid’s panic skyrocketed.

“Don’t…you don’t have to…I can come back!” Enid squeaked, spinning around to present her back, her entire body rigid with embarrassment.

She heard the water ripple and the soft, slick sound of Bianca stepping out. “Relax, furball. I’m decent. Mostly.”

Enid risked a peek over her shoulder. Bianca had wrapped a long, dark, iridescent sarong around herself, though it did little to diminish the overall effect of powerful, damp, and stunningly beautiful.

“The ink she uses is a special order from a boutique in Venice” Bianca said, as if discussing the weather while wringing saltwater from her hair. “I have a few bottles in my room. I’ll bring one by later.”

“You… you have her ink?” Enid asked, bewildered.

“Of course I do” Bianca said, as if it were the most obvious thing in the world. “I stockpiled it weeks ago, anticipating this exact ‘crisis.’ I know my Addams.” She said my with a casual possessiveness that made Enid’s stomach do a funny flip.

She then fixed Enid with a look that was both amused and penetrating. “You’re very red, Enid. Do you need to sit down? Is the big, bad wolf scared of a little water?”

“I’m not scared!” Enid insisted, her voice an octave too high. “I was just… surprised! I didn’t know you… shimmered.”

Bianca took a step closer, the scent of the ocean enveloping Enid. “There’s a lot you don’t know about me, Sinclair.” Her voice was a low, intimate hum. “But something tells me you’re… curious.”

Enid couldn’t form a sentence. She could only nod, her eyes wide.

Bianca’s smirk softened into something almost genuine. “Good. Now go tell your mate her ink is on the way. And try to breathe before you pass out.”

Enid fled the grotto, her mind a whirlwind of scaled skin, melodic laughter, and the terrifying, thrilling realization that her feelings for Bianca Barclay were definitely, absolutely, not platonic.

She returned to the cottage flushed and flustered.

Wednesday took one look at her and set down her subpar pencil. “You are exhibiting signs of extreme vasodilation and respiratory agitation. Did you encounter a threat?”

Enid shook her head, collapsing into a chair. “No. No threat. Just… Bianca.”

Wednesday’s head tilted. “Did she refuse the ink?”

“No. She… has it. She already had it.” Enid fanned her face with her hand. “She was… swimming.”

Wednesday processed this. “Aquatic activity is a biological necessity for sirens. Why would this cause a systemic stress response?”

“She was, uh… in her siren form,” Enid mumbled, avoiding Wednesday’s gaze.

Understanding dawned on Wednesday’s face, followed by a flicker of something that was not quite annoyance. It was more… proprietary. “I see. And this form is… aesthetically impactful?”

“You could say that” Enid breathed, the image seared into her retinas.

Wednesday was silent for a long moment, her dark eyes studying Enid’s flustered state. “Her efficiency in procuring the ink is commendable” she said finally, her tone carefully neutral. “Her timing, however, appears to have been… disruptive.”

She reached out and placed her cool hand over Enid’s warm one. “The data is unclear. This… reaction. Is it a problem?”

Enid looked at their joined hands, then up at Wednesday’s concerned face. Her mate wasn’t angry or jealous. She was analyzing. She was trying to understand this new, confusing variable.

“No”' Enid said, her voice firming up as her heartbeat finally began to slow. She turned her hand to lace her fin3gers with Wednesday’s. “No, it’s not a problem. It’s just… new. For both of us, I think.”

Wednesday gave a slow, thoughtful nod. “New data requires analysis.” Her thumb stroked the back of Enid’s hand. “We will analyze it together.”

The fortress had a new pillar. And for the first time, both of its inhabitants were looking at it not as a defense against the outside world, but as something that might just belong inside.

Chapter Text

My wolf was broken. Or maybe it was just really, really confused.

For months, my entire world had been a tightly controlled orbit around Wednesday. Her health, her pain, the terrifying, miraculous life growing inside her. My Alpha instincts had been dialed to eleven on a scale of ten, all protect-protect-protect, all the time. The part of me that used to doodle hearts in notebooks and get flustered over cute boys felt like it had been put in a cryogenic freezer. My sex drive hadn't just taken a backseat; it had gotten out of the car and hitchhiked to another state.

Then I saw Bianca Barclay naked and shimmering.

And the hitchhiker came back. With a vengeance. And it brought friends.

It was… inconvenient. And confusing. And honestly, a little terrifying. Every time Bianca was in the room now, my brain did this weird reboot thing. I’d be listening to her explain a warding strategy, and my traitorous mind would go, ‘Her voice is so commanding,’ which would quickly devolve into, ‘I wonder what it would feel like to have her command me to—’ and then I’d have to mentally slam on the brakes so hard I gave myself psychic whiplash.

I couldn’t talk to Wednesday about it. She had enough on her plate, literally and figuratively. The last thing she needed was her mate getting all hot and bothered over our… what was Bianca? Our head of security? Our… friend? The third point in our suddenly very confusing emotional triangle?

And I definitely couldn’t talk to Bianca. The humiliation would literally kill me. Plus, there was the tiny, massive issue of not wanting a repeat of the whole “sweaty, life-altering, magical-full-moon-baby-making” situation. One surprise pup before graduation was enough, thank you very much. My life didn’t need a sequel.

There was only one person left. One person who was mated to a siren, had zero filter, and lived for this kind of drama.

I found Yoko in her room, meticulously applying black lipstick in a mirror framed by band posters. The room smelled like incense, old records, and the faint, coppery tang of Type O Negative.

“I have a problem” I blurted out, closing the door behind me and leaning against it like I was being chased.

Yoko didn’t even turn around. “If it’s about the existential dread of our impending finals, join the club. I’m thinking of just writing ‘I Vant To Suck Your Blood’ on every answer and calling it a day.”

“It’s not about finals.” I took a deep breath. “It’s about… urges.”

That got her attention. She slowly turned around, her painted lips curling into a delighted, fanged grin. “Urges? Do tell, little wolf. Is the fur starting to chafe? Need recommendations for a good, werewolf-friendly lubricant? I know a guy.”

My face was already on fire. “No! Not… not that kind of urge. Well, kind of. But not with Wednesday!”

Yoko’s eyebrows shot up so high they disappeared under her bangs. She put down her lipstick with the reverence of a conductor setting down her baton before a symphony. “Oh. My. Goth. This is so much better than I thought. Spill. Now. Every detail.”

I slid down the door to sit on the floor, burying my face in my hands. “It’s Bianca” I mumbled into my palms.

“BARCLAY?” Yoko’s shriek was pure, unadulterated joy. She clapped her hands together. “You have the hots for the Ice Queen of Puck Hall? Oh, this is delicious. The gossip alone will power me for a month. How? When? Did she finally use that siren voice on you? ‘Enid Sinclair, report to my room for detention and/or sensual punishment’?”

“It’s not funny!” I whined, peeking through my fingers. “I saw her at the siren pools. In her… you know. Siren form. And now my brain is broken. I keep having… thoughts. Inappropriate, distracting thoughts! While my mate is carrying our child! I’m a terrible person! I’m basically cheating on Wednesday when she’s at her most vulnerable!”

Yoko stopped laughing. Well, she downgraded to a loud chuckle. She came over and plopped down on the floor opposite me, crossing her legs. “Okay, first of all, take a breath before you pass out from the sheer drama of it all.” She waited until I took a gulping breath. “Good. Now, let’s get a few things straight.”

She held up a finger. “One: you are not a terrible person. You’re a werewolf with a pulse. Bianca, love her or hate her, is a snack. A very sharp, sarcastic, emotionally constipated snack, but a snack nonetheless. Second, you’ve been in full-on Mama Bear mode for months. Your libido was just in hibernation, for the obvs. But now, it woke up, saw a hot, powerful siren glistening in the water, and went, ‘Hello, nurse!’ It’s basic biology.”

“But….” I started.

“And you're being stupid” Yoko interrupted. “Tell me, do you really think Wednesday doesn’t know?”

I blinked. “Know what?”

“Know that you’re practically vibrating every time Barclay walks into a room? Please.” Yoko rolled her eyes. “Your girl misses nothing and you're not subtle, If she had a problem with it, if she felt even a whiff of genuine betrayal, you’d already be a pelt on her floor. The fact that you’re still breathing, and that she’s letting Bianca keep playing her game, is her way of giving a very Wednesday Addams stamp of approval. It’s creepy and non-verbal, but it’s approval.”

I stared at her. “You think she’s… okay with it?”

“I think Addams you've made a werewolf Kebab out of you if she wasn't at least a little ok with it, also she sees the world in terms of assets and liabilities” Yoko said. “And having a powerful siren irrevocably bonded to her pack? That’s a huge asset. Plus, let’s be real, she’s probably a little intrigued herself. She’s just better at hiding it behind a wall of morbid poetry and weaponized stoicism.”

The idea was so bizarre it almost made sense. Wednesday was a very possessive person. She saw people as concepts, but also as property. Maybe she didn’t see this as sharing me, but as… acquiring Bianca. This didn't mean that Wednesday was incapable of love, far from it actually, she had no doubt in her mind that Willa loved her and the baby profoundly, her mind just had a different way to process emotions.

“And another thing” Yoko said, leaning forward, her voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper. “About the pool. You really think you just stumbled upon Bianca Barclay in her most vulnerable state?”

I frowned. “Well… yeah?”

Yoko laughed, a sharp, knowing sound. “Oh, honey. No. Sirens have a way of not being seen when they don’t want to be. If Bianca didn’t want you to find her, you wouldn’t have. Your wolf nose would have led you in circles until you got bored and went home. The fact that you saw her… that wasn’t an accident. That was an invitation.”

My jaw dropped. The memory replayed in my head. Bianca hadn’t been startled. She’d been… expecting me. She’d turned around with that smirk. “See something you like, Sinclair?”

Oh. My. God.

“She wanted me to see her” I breathed, the realization sending a fresh, electric jolt through me.

“Ding ding ding! Give the wolf a prize!” Yoko grinned. “So, stop feeling guilty for ‘gawking.’ You were meant to gawk. That is how they play with their food, believe me Davina did this a lot to me when we were starting out.”

The relief was so potent it felt like I’d shed a hundred-pound weight. I wasn’t a creep. I wasn’t…cheating. I should really talk to Wednesday about this part, I mean communication makes a health relationship right.

“Now” Yoko said, clapping her hands together. “The fun part, the mating rituals and all that. It’s not what you think. It’s not just a voice thing. It’s a… resonance thing. Sirens are attracted to strength, to harmony. They’re conductors; they’re looking for an instrument that plays their tune.”

I blinked. “I don’t speak metaphor, Yoko. What does that mean?”

“It means you don’t swoon at her feet” she said, tapping my forehead. “You stand your ground. You challenge her. You show her your strength. Your wolf’s strength, your Alpha strength. That’s what gets a siren’s motor running. They want an equal. Someone who isn’t just mesmerized by their song, but someone who can sing back.”

I tried to process this. Yeah, that was going to be a problem since all I can do when I see her lately is to get flustered and run away.

“But… how?” I asked, feeling utterly lost.

Yoko sighed, a dramatic, put-upon sound. “Fine. I’ll give you the crash course. Lesson one: eye contact. Don’t look away when she stares you down. Hold it. Let your wolf look back. Lesson two: give as good as you get. She makes a sarcastic comment? You volley one right back. Don’t be mean, just… sharp. Show her you’re not prey. Lesson three: touch.”

My eyes went wide. “Touch?”

“Not like that, you perv” she snorted. “A hand on her arm to make a point. A shoulder bump. Something that says ‘I see you as a physical presence, not an untouchable queen.’ It’s about breaking the barrier.”

This was a lot. It felt like learning a whole new language.

“OK, I'm not saying I'm going to do anything, specially because the last time I did something like that, I ended up as a statistic, but how do I not end up screwing up again?” I asked, the last of my worries clinging on.

“First, have you ever heard of condoms, they are a thing. Also Siren reproduction is… complicated. It involves tides and ocean magic, and the siren wanting to be pregnant in the first place. Believe me it’s not something that happens by accident in a broom closet. You’re safe. Now, go forth and be a challenging, strong, non-cheating Alpha. And for the love of darkness, please come and tell me everything after.”

I left Yoko’s room feeling like I’d been given a new set of eyes. The guilt wasn't gone, I still had to talk with Willa, but I could also feel a nervous, thrilling anticipation. Bianca meant for me to see. Don’t be shy. Be strong.

As I walked back to the cottage, I practiced how I was going to talk with Willa, I couldn't just tell her 'Hey I think I'm romantically and sexually attracted to Bianca, is that okay?' Should I even tell her, I mean the baby is almost here, should I even be adding something else to her plate, should I ask the doc before talking to her? Can I ask one of her parents for advice? I could ask Morticia…no, that is a terrible idea. She will kill me if she thinks I'm going to hurt Wednesday…

I was so busy running a documentary in my mind that I almost ran right into Bianca herself, who was emerging from the cottage.

“Whoa there, Sinclair” she said, steadying me with a hand on my arm. Her touch was electric, exactly like Yoko said it would be. “You look like you’re towards your execution, is everything alright?.”

My brain, short-circuited. In seconds I turned into a blushing and stammering mess, my wolf, was confused, he wanted to flirt with Bianca but also he didn't want to do it without Wednesday's permission.

“Huhhhh.” I said, my unable to come up with anything else, so much for the big powerful alpha wolf that I theoretically was.

Bianca’s eyebrow quirked up. She didn’t remove her hand. “Okay…Do you need some help?”

“Help…need?” I was pretty sure I was having a stroke. “No, talk to Wednesday”

Bianca looked genuinely worried for a moment there. Then, the efficiency mask fell again as she nodded and opened space for me to pass.

“She's not feeling very well today, the baby is very agitated and she's being having some Braxton Hicks contractions all day, Isadora put her on bed rest, which means Wends is not pleased, I was actually going to the cafeteria get her some doctor approved muffins” she said the worried tone back to her voice, we were all expecting this, the baby's due date was just 3 weeks away, these complications were bound to start at any moment.

“Well, I better go see her them.” Nothing better to take your head out of the gutter than your pregnant mate needing love and care.

She walked past me, leaving me standing there, my heart pounding a rhythm that had nothing to do with fear and everything to do with how divided I felt in that moment.

I really needed to talk with Willa before things got even more out of control.

Chapter Text

The solid oak door of Rotwood Cottage clicked shut behind Bianca, its sound a definitive period at the end of a sentence Enid hadn't finished speaking. For a moment, she was alone in the damp, twilight air, the world reduced to the drumming of her own heart and the phantom scent of jasmine and ocean salt clinging to her senses. The thrilling, terrifying realization that Bianca’s display at the pools had been a deliberate invitation warred violently with a surge of gut-wrenching guilt.

She’s not feeling very well today.
Braxton Hicks contractions.
Bed rest.
Wends is not pleased.

Bianca’s words, delivered with that practiced, clinical coolness, were a splash of reality so cold it felt like a physical blow. The intoxicating fantasy of siren songs and smirking invitations evaporated. The carefully constructed world of their cottage, their fragile peace bought with blood wards and whispered secrets, was shuddering under a new, internal pressure. Wednesday was in pain. Their child was restless, a prisoner fighting against the walls of its own making. The precarious countdown to the birth had just lurched forward with a terrifying, grinding inevitability.

Shame, hot and acrid, burned through Enid’s veins. She was an Alpha. Her sole purpose, the very core of her being since the battle, was to be the unshakeable shield, the steady ground for her mate. Yet here she stood, her blood humming with a confusing attraction, her mind replaying the sight of shimmering scales and a knowing smile while her world was cracking apart. It was a betrayal of her most sacred duty.

With a force of will that made her muscles ache, she shoved the entire tangled, bewildering mess of her feelings for Bianca into a mental strongbox, slamming the lid shut and turning a heavy key. Later. The word was a vow, a punishment, a promise. Right now, there was only pack. There was only Wednesday.

She pushed the cottage door open, the transition from the cool, damp outside to the warm, tense interior feeling like crossing a threshold into a different realm. The air inside was thick and still, heavy with the familiar scents of Morticia’s exotic herbs, old leather-bound books, and the underlying, comforting aroma of Enid’s own pack, Wednesday’s ozone-and-iron scent, now layered with Gomez’s expensive cologne and the faint, sweet smell of the baby. But today, a new note underscored it all: the sharp, electric tang of pain.

Wednesday was on the large sofa, but the sight was all wrong. She wasn’t perched upright with a book, her posture a study in controlled disdain. She was curled on her side, a black shroud against the colorful throw pillows, her knees drawn up protectively. One pale hand was splayed across the enormous, taut curve of her abdomen, the knuckles white with strain. Her eyes were squeezed shut, not in meditation, but in a fierce, internal battle against a sensation she could not control. Her breathing was a ragged, carefully measured hiss through teeth clenched so tight Enid could see the muscle in her jaw jumping.

Morticia Addams, a statue of serene grace, was kneeling on the Persian rug beside the sofa. She held a damp cloth infused with lavender and something colder, more astringent, gently dabbing at the sweat on Wednesday’s temples. Her face was a beautiful, unreadable mask, but her eyes, dark pools of ancient knowledge, held a deep, chilling worry that she would never voice aloud.

Gomez was a silent storm in the corner, his usual vibrant energy condensed into a frantic, helpless tension. He paced a short, worn path on the rug, his hand gripping the hilt of his sword cane as if he could duel the invisible enemy causing his little viper such distress. Every moan from Wednesday made him flinch as if struck.

“…just need to ride the wave, my little scorpion” Morticia was murmuring, her voice a low, hypnotic melody meant to soothe. “The baby is just testing the boundaries of his confinement. It is a necessary, if inconvenient, drill. He is just eager to join us.”

“He is not yet ready, the doctor said he needs three more weeks” Wednesday gritted out, her voice a raw scrape that was nothing like her usual flat monotone. It was laced with a vulnerability that made Enid’s heart clench. Her eyes flew open, dark and glittering with a pain she would never voluntarily show. They locked onto Enid, a lifeline in the storm. “The black muffin. Is it acquired?”

The question was so perfectly, absurdly Wednesday that a hysterical bubble of laughter fought its way up Enid’s throat. It was choked back by a sob. Even in the grip of what was clearly a powerful contraction, her mate’s priorities were macabrely, logically intact. The anatomical sketches of their child’s skeleton were more pressing than her own physical agony.

“Bianca’s getting it” Enid said, her voice thick. She crossed the room in three long strides, her boots soundless on the rug, and dropped to her knees on Wednesday’s other side, mirroring Morticia. She didn’t ask the useless, human question, Are you okay? She knew the answer was a resounding no. Instead, she placed her warm, strong hands over Wednesday’s icy, trembling one on her stomach. The skin beneath her palm was terrifyingly hard, a planet under seismic stress. “Breathe, Wends. Match me. In…” She took an exaggerated, deep breath. “And out.” She blew it out slowly.

Wednesday’s fingers twitched under hers. The terrifying rigidity in her jaw eased a microscopic fraction. Her gaze, though clouded with pain, was analytical, scanning Enid’s face with a familiar intensity. “You are… agitated. Beyond the parameters of this scenario. Your pheromones are spiking with a distinct conflict signature. Report.”

Of course she’d noticed. She was Wednesday Addams. She noticed everything. She could probably smell the lingering adrenaline and confusion from Enid’s encounter with Bianca.

“Later” Enid promised, her voice firm, brooking no argument. She leaned forward until her forehead rested against Wednesday’s, a gesture of intimacy and protection she knew her mate tolerated, even secretly craved. “Nothing is more important than this. Than you. Right now. Nothing.”

The moment stretched, taut and silent save for Wednesday’s ragged breathing. The contraction seemed to peak, holding her body in its vicious, unrelenting grip for what felt like an eternity. Enid could feel the muscles beneath her hands locked in a spasm that seemed to defy anatomy. Then, with a slow, shuddering release, it began to ebb. Wednesday’s body went limp against the cushions, a long, broken sigh escaping her lips. She was drenched in a cold sweat, her pallor more pronounced than ever.

Morticia gently wiped her brow again. “It has passed, my dear.”

“The eye of the hurricane is not a cessation” Wednesday corrected, her voice hoarse but regaining a sliver of its customary control. Her eyes, still dark with exhaustion, remained fixed on Enid. “The conflict. Your divided focus is a tactical vulnerability I cannot afford at this juncture. Data is required. Speak.”

Enid looked from Wednesday’s exhausted, expectant face to Morticia’s knowing, almost encouraging expression. Gomez had stopped pacing and was watching them, his hand still on his sword, his eyes wide with a mixture of paternal concern and morbid curiosity. There was no hiding it. Not from this family. They were human lie detectors, especially where each other was concerned. And Wednesday was right—her distraction was a vulnerability. A chink in the armor Ethan was doubtlessly waiting to exploit.

She took a deep, shuddering breath. The strongbox in her mind burst open, its contents spilling out into the tense, quiet room.

“It’s Bianca” she blurted out, the words tumbling over each other in a rushed, confessional torrent. “I… my wolf… it’s not just… protective anymore. It’s… it’s interested. When I see her, it’s… different. It’s this… pull. And I think she… I know she feels it too. She all but said it. And I feel so incredibly, disgustingly guilty for even having these thoughts, these feelings, when you’re…” Her voice broke as she gestured helplessly at Wednesday’s stomach, at the evidence of their shared sacrifice and love. “When we’re here. When you’re in pain because of our child. And I don’t know what to do, and it’s messing with my head, and I’m sorry. I’m so, so sorry. I’m failing you.”

The confession hung in the air, raw and ugly and laid utterly bare. She braced herself for the impact. For the cold withdrawal, the flash of betrayal in Wednesday’s dark eyes, the icy dismissal that could freeze hell itself.

Instead, Wednesday stared at her for a long, unnervingly silent moment. Her expression was unreadable, a clinician processing a fascinating but unexpected result. Then, a faint, almost imperceptible smirk touched her bloodless lips. “Is that all?”

Enid blinked, sure she had misheard. “Is that… all? Wednesday, I’m basically telling you I have… I don’t even know what to call it… feelings for someone else while you’re in possible labor!”

“You are not” Wednesday stated calmly, as if correcting a flawed theorem. “You are reporting an anomalous but statistically predictable shift in pack dynamics. Barclay has integrated herself into our defensive structure with a efficiency I must, reluctantly, admire. Her value is immense. Her loyalty, while undoubtedly rooted in self-serving intellectual curiosity and a desire to atone for her prior inefficiency, has proven… absolute.” She shifted slightly, a flicker of pain crossing her features before she suppressed it. “It is illogical to assume such a potent and proximity-based alliance would remain confined to the purely strategic or platonic. The biochemical and mystical chemistry was evident.”

Enid could only gape, her mind struggling to catch up. “Chemistry? Evident? Since when? You never said anything!”

“Since the blood moon” Wednesday said, as if it were the most obvious thing in the world. “Her song did not just mechanically soothe the pup. It resonated within my own psychic lattice. A… harmonization. It was… efficient.” The word was delivered with a weight that encompassed profound respect. “Your attraction is merely a biological and emotional acknowledgment of that efficiency. A pack bond solidifying on multiple, concurrent levels. It is not a subtraction from our bond. It is an addition to the pack’s overall resilience.”

Morticia’s smile was a slow, beautiful, terrifying thing. “A triad is a formidable structure, my dear wolf. The strongest shape. Three points create a plane. A foundation. Infinitely more stable and resilient than a simple, solitary line. It is how the deepest, oldest magic works.”

“Just so,” Wednesday agreed, her gaze intense on Enid. “Your guilt is an inefficient and misplaced emotional response. Your attraction is a data point. One that confirms Barclay’s place is not just outside the walls as a sentry, but within them. Within us. She is becoming pack. The parameters are simply… expanding.”

The cottage door opened again, cutting off the world’s most surreal relationship talk. Bianca stood framed in the doorway, a small bottle of jet-black ink in one hand and a paper bag from the Weathervane in the other. She took in the scene with a single, sweeping glance: Wednesday pale and spent on the sofa, Enid on her knees looking utterly emotionally flayed, Morticia’s knowing smile, Gomez’s tense posture.

Her sharp eyes narrowed, missing nothing. “I got the muffins” she announced, her voice carefully neutral, though a faint tension around her mouth betrayed her concern. “Crisis averted?” She stepped inside, the door closing behind her with a soft click, and placed the items on the low table.

Wednesday’s eyes, dark and knowing, tracked her. “Sinclair was just delivering her report on the shift in her… regard for you. She was experiencing a statistically significant but logically unfounded level of guilt over the matter.”

Bianca froze mid-step. A flicker of something unguarded and utterly human, surprise, vulnerability, a flash of fear passed over her face before she slammed her Barclay mask back into place, features settling into an expression of cool indifference. She looked directly at Enid, one perfectly sculpted eyebrow arched in a question that was both a challenge and a shield. “Is that so?”

Enid’s face burned. The ball, impossibly, was in her court. Yoko’s advice echoed in her mind, a lifeline in the storm of her embarrassment. Don’t be shy. Be strong. Show her you’re not prey. Hold her gaze.

She took a shaky breath and pushed herself to her feet, feeling unsteady but determined. She met Bianca’s challenging stare and didn’t look away. She let her wolf rise to the surface just enough for her eyes to flash a hint of gold, for her posture to straighten into that of an Alpha addressing an equal. “Yeah. It is. It’s… confusing as hell. And the worst timing in the history of terrible timing. But it’s there.” Her voice was stronger than she felt.

Bianca held her stare, the air in the room crackling with the unsaid. The mask slipped again, just for a heartbeat, revealing the fierce, curious, and unexpectedly nervous siren beneath the icy exterior. “Confusing,” she repeated, her voice a low, melodic hum that seemed to vibrate in the space between them. “Noted.”

Before the terrifying, thrilling tension could resolve into anything further, Wednesday gasped. It was a sharp, punched-out sound. Her body went rigid again, her back arching off the cushions. Her hand clawed at the sofa, her nails digging into the fabric. A low, involuntary moan was torn from her throat.

The moment shattered. The nascent, world-altering conversation about the boundaries of their relationship was instantly, violently relegated to the background. A more immediate, primal reality took its place.

“The frequency is increasing,” Wednesday managed to choke out, her eyes wide with a flicker of something that looked terrifyingly like fear. “The… intensity is… escalating beyond projected parameters for a false alarm.”

Morticia was on her feet in an instant, her serenity replaced by a lethal, focused calm. “My little spider it seems that your water just broke. Now. Enid, support her head.” She turned to Bianca, her voice leaving no room for question. “Isadora. We need her. Now. Use the emergency channel.”

Bianca didn’t hesitate. Her personal drama was forgotten, subsumed by the crisis. The strategist took over. “On it.” She was already pulling out her phone, her thumbs flying across the screen, her focus absolute. Her eyes met Enid’s for one last, fleeting second, a flash of understanding, of shared, terrifying purpose, of a pact forged in this moment of crisis, before she turned away, putting the phone to her ear, her voice low and urgent. “Isadora? It’s Barclay. We have a situation at the cottage. Contractions are five minutes apart and intensifying. You need to come. Now.”

Enid dropped back to her knees, gently sliding an arm under Wednesday’s shoulders, supporting her weight as another wave of agony seized her. She murmured nonsense, endearments, promises, her voice a steady counterpoint to Wednesday’s ragged breathing. The conflict wasn’t gone. The tangled knot of attraction, fear, and hope for Bianca was still there, a live wire in her chest.

But the guilt was gone, incinerated in the furnace of Wednesday’s pragmatic acceptance. Her mate, in her own bizarre, Wednesday way, had not just given her permission; she had reframed it as a logical, strategic evolution. She is becoming pack.

As Enid held onto her trembling mate, watching the pain etch itself across her beloved face, and felt the formidable, focused presence of Bianca coordinating their defense behind her, the truth of it settled into her bones. This wasn’t a choice between Wednesday and Bianca. It was an expansion. A consolidation of strength. The howl of the wolf, the song of the siren, and the silent, terrible strength of the raven were not in conflict. They were being forced, in this crucible of fear and pain, to learn a new harmony.

And they would need every note of that harmony, every shred of that combined strength, for the siege that was now, unmistakably, beginning. The final, bloody test of their walls was no longer a future threat. It was here.

The air in Rotwood Cottage had become a solid thing, thick and heavy with pain and fear. Wednesday’s breathing was no longer a series of measured hisses but a ragged, uneven sawing. The contractions were no longer distant tremors but tectonic plates grinding against each other deep within her, each one a fresh cataclysm that left her trembling and drenched in a cold sweat. The carefully drawn blood wards on her abdomen seemed to pulse with a sickly light, a stark reminder of the magical war being waged on the surface of her skin while the biological one raged within.

“The intervals are too close” Isadora Capri stated, her voice a blade of cold steel in the suffocating room. She withdrew her hand from Wednesday’s stomach, her face grim. “And the pup is not descending. It’s… stuck. Shoulders, I think. Or it’s simply too large for a natural human birth canal. We’ve moved beyond we can safely do here.”

The diagnosis landed like a death sentence. Gomez let out a strangled sound, his hand white-knuckled on his sword cane. Morticia’s serene mask finally cracked, a fissure of pure, undiluted terror showing through. “What are our options?” she asked, her voice barely a whisper.

“There are no options here” Isadora said, already snapping her medical bag shut with an air of grim finality. “We need a hospital. Now. Medical equipment I don’t have here. We need a C-section.”

A low, guttural sound of denial escaped Enid’s throat. She was holding Wednesday’s hand, her own strength pouring into her mate, feeling every agonizing spasm as if it were her own. “No. We can’t move her. It’s too dangerous. She is too far along isn't she…”

“We need to, the baby needs more than I can provide right now!” Isadora snapped, her composure breaking. “This isn’t a magical attack, it’s a mechanical one! Her body cannot do this! My car is outside. We load her up. Now. It’s our only chance.”

The decision was made in the space of a heartbeat. There was no time to argue, no time for a better plan. Action was the only variable left.

Moving Wednesday was a nightmare of muffled cries and pain. Gomez and Enid, with a strength born of desperation, managed to get her into a sitting position, then to her feet. She was a dead weight between them, her body bowed with agony, her face a mask of pale, sweating torment. Every step toward the door was a fresh assault.

Bianca yanked the cottage door open, her eyes scanning the dark, drizzle-soaked night for threats. “I’ll bring the car around! Cover us!” she yelled to no one and everyone, already sprinting into the darkness toward where Isadora’s sedan was parked.

It was in that moment of chaotic, vulnerable transition that the shadows attacked.

They came from the tree line, two blurs of motion fueled by hatred and lunar madness. Tyler Galpin, his form flickering with the unstable energy of the Hyde, and Ethan Whitefang, his eyes burning with fanatical gold fire.

Ethan didn’t go for the car. He went straight for the heart of the matter. He lunged for the group clustered in the doorway, his target clear: Wednesday, and the life within her.

“Hello little cousin!” he roared, a crazy glint to his eyes.

Enid’s reaction was instantaneous, a primal scream of defiance tearing from her lungs. She shoved Wednesday back into Gomez’s arms and met Ethan’s charge head-on. They collided with a sound like cracking timber, a whirlwind of snarls and flashing claws. Enid fought with a ferocity she didn’t know she possessed, every ounce of her Alpha power, every bit of her love for her family, channeled into pure, destructive force. She was a golden fury, a wall of muscle and rage between her mate and the madman.

But Tyler was the wild card. While Enid and Ethan were a storm of tooth and claw, Tyler moved with a predator’s cunning. He didn’t engage Enid directly. He circled, a phantom in the periphery, and with a guttural laugh, he slammed his full weight into Gomez.

The impact was brutal. Gomez, his focus entirely on supporting Wednesday, was caught off guard. He cried out as he was thrown sideways, losing his grip on his daughter. Wednesday crumpled to the rain-slicked ground with a sharp, cut-off cry of pain, her body curling protectively around her stomach.

The world narrowed to a single, horrifying point for Enid. Her mate was down, exposed, vulnerable. She turned, a split-second of distraction that was all Ethan needed. His claws raked across her back, tearing through her jacket and into the muscle beneath. She stumbled forward with a pained grunt, the coppery scent of her own blood filling the air.

She was strong. She was an Alpha. But she was one wolf against two monsters, and her focus was catastrophically divided. Every instinct screamed at her to go to Wednesday, to cover her body with her own. But to turn her back on Ethan was suicide. She was trapped, forced to fight a battle on two fronts she could not possibly win alone.

“Bianca!” Enid screamed, the name a prayer and a command, as she barely dodged another swipe from Ethan’s claws. “HELP HER!”

Bianca was at the car, fumbling with the keys. She heard Enid’s scream, saw Wednesday on the ground, saw the Hyde advancing on her, and the mad wolf keeping Enid pinned. Her mind, usually a chessboard of cold strategies, went blank with a terror so profound it was paralyzing.

She could fight. She was a siren. Her song could disorient, could command. But against a Hyde’s bestial rage and a wolf’s lunar fury? It would be a pebble against a tsunami. She could throw herself into the fray, but she would be torn apart in seconds, and it would change nothing. They would all die here in the mud.

Then, the calculation snapped into place, cold, ruthless, and absolutely terrifying. It wasn’t a plan born of hope, but of despair’s last, sharp claw.

They couldn’t win this fight. Not here. Not now.
The only variable that could change the equation was reinforcement.
She was the fastest. She was the only one who could get through.

The decision was a physical pain, a tearing in her soul worse than any claw could inflict. To run was to abandon them. To stay was to die with them, achieving nothing.

She met Enid’s eyes across the chaotic battlefield. The wolf’s gaze was wide with pain and desperation, but in that fleeting second, an understanding passed between them. It was not an accusation. It was a transfer of trust. A passing of the torch.

Isadora who had been thrown against a tree by Tyler got back up with a Roar, her eyes shinning red for a moment, she was bleeding but moving as she helped Morticia back to her feet. They reached Wednesday in the middle of the chaos and dragged her back inside the Cottage.

Go, Enid’s look seemed to say. Save us.

With a sob that was ripped from the deepest part of her, Bianca Barclay turned and started the car.

She didn’t run away from the fight. She ran towards the only hope they had. She drove faster than she had ever driven in her life, she could hear Tyler running after her until he turned back around. The sounds of the battle behind her, Enid’s snarls of pain, Wednesday’s whimpers, the Hyde’s mad laughter, were a dagger in her back. She poured every ounce of her being, every shred of her siren’s power, not into a song, but into pure, desperate speed.

She was a streak of darkness through the night, a comet of sheer will, her lungs burning, her heart hammering a frantic, terrified rhythm against her ribs. The lights of Nevermore’s main building glowed in the distance, a tauntingly faraway constellation.

Faster, she commanded the car, pushing past the limits of the car. You have to be faster.

She didn’t know if she could make it in time. She didn’t know if there would be anything left to save when she returned. All she knew was the brutal, simple arithmetic of the nightmare: she was their only chance. The single, fraying thread tethering her pack to life.

And so she ran, the Siren Queen of Nevermore, not with a song on her lips, but with a silent scream in her heart, leaving the howls of the wolf and the whimpers of the raven behind her, racing against the cruelest clock of all.

The world dissolved into a symphony of pain and fury. Ethan’s claws were scythes, his snarls a promise of annihilation. Each block Enid made sent a shockwave of agony through her wounded back. Each dodge was a prayer in motion. Her vision was tinted red with rage and blood, her universe shrunk to the manic gold of her cousin’s eyes and the terrifying, vulnerable form of her mate curled on the ground behind her.

A particularly vicious swipe caught her across the ribs. The pain was a white-hot brand. She stumbled, her breath hitching, and in that fraction of a second, his words cut deeper than his claws.

“You see?” Ethan spat, circling her, a predator savoring the kill. “This is what it costs! This weakness! This… human frailty you cherish! It makes you slow. It makes you pathetic. You were meant to be an Alpha, and you’ve become a nursemaid to a dying thing!”

Dying thing.

The words were a key, turning in the lock of her memory, and a door she didn’t know was there burst open. Not to a memory of pain, but to the very origin of it.

The air in the Weathervane was warm, smelling of coffee and pastries. It was a week after the blood-soaked triumph over Crackstone. The school was a shell-shocked ruin, and everyone was trying to pretend they weren’t. Enid had dragged a reluctant Wednesday here, a desperate attempt at something resembling normalcy.

Wednesday was a statue of gloom in the corner booth, her black clothes a stark void against the cheerful, kitschy decor. The gash on her forehead was stitched, her arm in a sling. But it was the emptiness in her eyes that scared Enid the most. She looked… hollowed out.

“You should really try the triple-chocolate muffin,” Enid chirped, her voice too bright, too forced. “It’s basically cake for breakfast! It’ll… put some color in your cheeks.”

Wednesday’s eyes, flat and obsidian, slid to hers. “I have no interest in consuming a substance that resembles geologic sediment and has the nutritional value of sawdust. My cheeks possess an adequate palette of their own: fifty shades of pallor.”

Enid’s smile faltered. The silence stretched, awkward and heavy. This was how it had been since that night. Wednesday had retreated behind walls thicker and higher than ever. Enid’s cheerful chatter just seemed to bounce off them, leaving her feeling foolish and alone.

She looked down at her own hot chocolate, the whipped cream melting into a sad, beige puddle. Her own hands were scratched and bandaged from her fight with Tyler. Her body ached with the memory of her first, brutal transformation. She had faced down a Hyde for this girl. She had changed for her. And now she couldn’t even get her to eat a muffin.

The frustration, the fear, the bone-deep exhaustion of the past week welled up in her, a tidal wave that finally broke through her own dam of forced cheer.

“Why do you do that?” The words came out quiet, trembling.

Wednesday’s eyebrow twitched. “Do what?”

“That!” Enid gestured vaguely at her, her voice cracking. “Shut down! Push everyone away! I get it, okay? You’re Wednesday Addams. You like torture and scorpions and hating everything. But I almost died for you! We all almost died! And you’re just… sitting there, criticizing muffins like it’s any other Tuesday!”

Tears, hot and humiliating, spilled down her cheeks. She swiped at them angrily. “I thought… after everything… I thought we were…” She couldn’t finish. Friends? The word felt pathetic. Inadequate for the cataclysm they had survived together.

Wednesday was silent for a long moment, watching her. The empty flatness in her eyes seemed to shift, to focus. She wasn’t looking at a noisy, crying nuisance anymore. She was analyzing data. A fascinating, malfunctioning machine.

“You’re incorrect” Wednesday stated, her voice not unkind, but precise. “It is Thursday.”

Enid let out a wet, choked sob that was half a laugh. “That’s not the point!”

“I am aware.” Wednesday paused, her gaze dropping to her own hands, clenched in her lap. “My… recalcitrance… is not a critique of your… muffin-based overtures.” She seemed to be choosing her words with the care of a bomb disposal expert. “The events of the battle were… statistically significant. The emotional fallout is a chaotic and inefficient variable I have not yet finished processing.”

She looked up, and her dark eyes held Enid’s. For the first time, there was a crack in the monochrome façade. A sliver of something raw and unsettlingly vulnerable. “Your presence is not… unwelcome. It is merely… loud. And my internal systems are currently operating at a reduced capacity. The volume is… overwhelming.”

It was the closest thing to an apology and an admission of need Wednesday Addams would ever utter.

Enid’s tears slowed. She hiccupped. “So… you’re not mad at me?”

“I am perpetually mad at the world, Enid. You are a rare exception.” Wednesday’s lips tightened almost imperceptibly. “Your incessant sunshine is a persistent irritant. But it is… my irritant. And I have grown… accustomed to its particular wavelength.”

She reached across the table then. It wasn’t a grand gesture. It was a small, hesitant movement. Her pale, cool fingers brushed against Enid’s bandaged knuckles. The contact was electric. A jolt of something profound and terrifying passed between them, silencing the entire noisy coffee shop.

In that touch, Enid didn’t feel the fearless warrior who had faced a Hyde. She felt the girl who had failed her transformation. The girl who was too loud, too colorful, too much. And Wednesday didn’t see a failure. She saw… a worthy exception.

Wednesday didn’t pull her hand away. “The muffin,” she declared, her voice regaining a sliver of its usual dryness, “does still look reprehensible. However, if its consumption will cease your lacrimal secretions, I will procure one for you. Under duress.”

Enid stared at their hands, at the pale, slender fingers resting so lightly, so deliberately, on her wounded ones. Her heart was doing a frantic, happy, terrified tap dance against her ribs. The hollow ache in her chest was gone, filled with a warmth so intense it was dizzying.

She hadn’t fallen in love with Wednesday Addams in the heat of battle, surrounded by smoke and glory. She had fallen in love with her in a stupid coffee shop, over a stupid muffin, because the most terrifying person she had ever met had seen her crying and had offered her a piece of pastry and the most back-handed compliment in human history.

It was the most perfect, most Wednesday thing that had ever happened to her.

The memory faded, leaving the acrid taste of blood and rain in her mouth. Ethan lunged again, and this time, Enid didn’t just block. She moved.

Her body remembered the lesson of that day. Wednesday’s love wasn’t a weakness. It wasn’t a soft, coddling thing. It was a stark, unflinching acceptance. It was being seen in all your messy, noisy, colorful imperfection and being declared a “worthy exception.” It was a strength offered in the language of insults and pastries.

She ducked under his swing, the movement fueled by a new, crystalline clarity. The pain in her back was just data. Ethan’s hateful words were just noise.

Another memory surfaced, a shield against the present horror.

It was late. The new wall in their dorm was still stark and unfamiliar. Enid was trying to stitch the head back on a decapitated rainbow axolotl, her hands shaking. Every time she closed her eyes, she saw Tyler’s monstrous form, felt her bones breaking and reknitting.

She jumped as Wednesday’s voice cut through the silence. “Your technique is abysmal.”

Enid looked up. Wednesday was standing over her, holding a small, black leather case. “You’re using a blanket stitch. For a wound of this severity, a simple interrupted suture is required for maximum tensile strength.”

“It’s a stuffie, Wednesday” Enid mumbled, her voice thick with unshed tears. “It doesn’t have tensile strength.”

“Everything has tensile strength” Wednesday countered, kneeling beside her. She opened the case to reveal a terrifying array of needles, sutures, and a small, cruel-looking hook. “Move over.”

Bewildered, Enid shuffled aside. Wednesday took the mutilated axolotl and the needle from her hands. Her movements were swift, precise, and utterly mesmerizing. She didn’t speak. The only sound was the gentle pull of thread through plush fabric.

Enid watched her, the focused intensity on Wednesday’s pale face, the absolute competence in her slender fingers. She wasn’t just fixing a toy. She was imposing order on chaos. She was repairing a piece of Enid’s shattered world.

“There” Wednesday said finally, tying off the thread with a surgeon’s knot. She handed the axolotl back. The seam was nearly invisible. “It will hold.”

Enid took it, her throat tight. “Thanks, Wends.”

Wednesday didn’t get up. She stayed kneeling, her dark eyes searching Enid’s face. “The transformation… it resides in your musculature. A cellular memory of violence.” It wasn’t a question.

Enid nodded, unable to speak.

Wednesday’s gaze dropped to Enid’s hands, still trembling in her lap. Slowly, deliberately, she reached out and took them in her own. Her hands were cool and steady.

“The memory is data” Wednesday stated, her voice low and hypnotic. “It cannot harm you unless you grant it agency. You must reclassify it. Not as trauma. But as power.”

She began to trace the lines on Enid’s palms with her thumbs, a slow, methodical pressure. “This is not the hand of a victim. It is the hand that carved open a Hyde. This tremor is not fear. It is potential energy. Waiting to be redirected.”

Enid’s breathing slowed. The frantic pounding of her heart began to settle into a steady, strong rhythm. Wednesday’s touch wasn’t comforting in a traditional sense. It was… recalibrating. She was rewriting Enid’s pain with the cool, undeniable logic of her touch.

“You are not what was done to you” Wednesday whispered, her voice the only anchor in the storm of Enid’s fear. “You are what you chose to do with it. You chose to fight. You chose to protect. You chose to…” She hesitated, a rare stumble. “…to be here. With me.”

In that moment, Enid understood. Wednesday’s love wasn’t whispered sweet nothings. It was sutures in the dark. It was the re-framing of terror into strength. It was a choice, made every day, to stay in the colorful, chaotic light of someone she claimed to find irritating.

It was the most profound declaration she had ever received.

Ethan’s fist connected with her jaw. Stars exploded behind her eyes. She tasted blood. She staggered but didn’t fall. The memory of Wednesday’s hands on hers, steadying her, lending her strength, was a fire in her veins.

“You’re nothing without her!” Ethan roared, pressing his advantage. “A lone wolf is a dead wolf! You need the pack!”

You are not what was done to you. You are what you chose to do with it.

Enid spat blood onto the muddy ground. A low, steady growl built in her chest, different from before. It wasn’t a snarl of blind rage. It was a sound of absolute, unwavering certainty.

“You’re wrong” she said, her voice a gravelly promise. “I’m not alone.”

She remembered the final piece. The moment the word “mate” had ceased to be a werewolf concept and had become their truth.

It was after the Poe Cup. The adrenaline was fading, leaving behind a deep, humming exhaustion. They were in their room, the silence between them comfortable for once. Wednesday was at her desk, meticulously cleaning her throwing stars. Enid was on her bed, idly scrolling through her phone.

She’d come across a post from one of her cousins. A photo of a handsome beta from a good bloodline. The caption read: ‘Future Alpha material! So strong! So traditional! #packgoals’

A familiar, cold knot of inadequacy tightened in her stomach. She would never be that. She would never have that. Her mother’s voice echoed in her head. ‘A passing fancy.’ ‘A mistake.’

She must have made a sound, a small, defeated sigh, because Wednesday’s movements stilled.

“What is the source of your dysphoria?” Wednesday asked, not looking up from her work.

“It’s nothing” Enid mumbled, putting her phone face down.

“Your pheromones indicate it is not ‘nothing.’ They have spiked with a signature of social anxiety and self-recrimination. Is it the inferior stitching on your garish footwear?”

Enid managed a weak smile. “No. It’s just… pack stuff. My mom. The whole… ‘finding a strong mate’ thing.”

Wednesday was silent for a moment. Then she placed the throwing star down with a definitive click. She swiveled in her chair to face Enid. Her expression was unreadable.

“The concept of a ‘strong mate’ is predicated on a flawed, simplistic understanding of strength,” she stated. “Physical dominance is a fleeting advantage. True strength is strategic. Intellectual. Unwavering.”

She stood up and crossed the room, stopping before Enid’s bed. She looked down at her, her dark eyes intense. “Your mother’s definition is deficient. She values a show of force. I value a formidable alliance.”

Enid’s breath caught in her throat. “An alliance?”

“A partnership,” Wednesday clarified, her voice dropping, becoming impossibly serious. “A union of complementary strengths. Your… vibrant resilience. My… calculated precision. Together, we are not simply stronger. We are an entirely new, unpredictable variable. We are a paradox that should not exist, and therefore, we are unstoppable.”

She reached out and cupped Enid’s cheek, her touch cool and grounding. “They see a human and a werewolf. A mistake. I see the only person who has ever managed to be both an irritant and a necessity. My irritant. My necessity.”

Her thumb stroked Enid’s cheekbone. “Let them have their ‘strong’ mates. Their traditional futures. They will spend their lives upholding a stagnant world. You…” She leaned closer, her voice a whisper that seemed to seep into Enid’s very soul. “…you have built a new one with me. That is not a failure, Enid Sinclair. That is a revolution. And I… I wish to be your fellow revolutionary.”

It was then that Enid saw it. The truth that had been there all along, hidden behind words like ‘alliance’ and ‘asset’ and ‘irritant’. It was in the unwavering focus of her gaze, the possessive curl of her fingers, the sheer, terrifying vulnerability of offering a new world to someone.

Wednesday Addams was in love with her.

And in that moment, Enid knew the word for what they were. It wasn’t ‘girlfriends’. It wasn’t ‘allies’. It was something older, deeper, more primal.

“Mate,” Enid breathed, the word feeling right and true and terrifying all at once.

Wednesday’s eyes widened a fraction. The word hung in the air between them, a challenge and an acceptance. Then, she gave a single, slow nod. “Yes,” she said, the word a vow. “That is the most efficient term.”

She didn’t kiss her. She simply rested her forehead against Enid’s, a gesture of such profound intimacy that it felt more binding than any kiss ever could. They stood there, in the quiet of their room, a wolf and a raven, revolutionaries bound by a choice that defied every law of nature and pack.

The memory was a supernova, flooding her with light and power. Ethan was right. She wasn’t a lone wolf.

She was one half of a revolution.

With a roar that shook the very leaves from the trees, Enid Sinclair stopped defending. She attacked.

She moved with a speed and precision that stunned Ethan. She was no longer just fighting for Wednesday’s life. She was fighting for their past. For the coffee shop and the sutured axolotl and the revolutionary vow in the dark. For every second of their improbable, perfect, world-defying love.

She was a golden fury, a whirlwind of teeth and claws and pure, unadulterated purpose. She was not just Enid Sinclair, Alpha.

She was Enid Addams. Mate. Revolutionary.

And she would not let their world end tonight.

Chapter Text

The world was a red haze of pain and purpose. Enid moved as if possessed, every swipe of her claws, every snarling lunge a testament to the memories fueling her. She was the girl in the coffee shop, the one who had been seen. She was the warrior with sutured hands, learning to reframe her pain as power. She was the revolutionary, fighting for the world she had built with her mate.

Ethan, for the first time, began to falter. His attacks, once fueled by fanatical certainty, now met an immovable object. Enid was no longer just defending; she was erasing. She was a force of nature, a golden avenger whose strength was drawn from the very love he had mocked as weakness.

A powerful blow to his jaw sent him stumbling backward, blood spraying from his mouth. He shook his head, his golden eyes wide with a dawning, furious disbelief. “You… you can’t…!”

“I can” Enid growled, her voice a low, thunderous rumble that was more beast than girl. “I will. For her.”

Inside the cottage, the scene was one of stark, terrifying contrast. The warm, cluttered living room had been transformed into a battlefield triage station. Wednesday lay on a nest of blankets and towels hastily arranged on the floor, her body arched in a silent scream as another contraction seized her. The pain was beyond sound now, a silent, terrifying agony that contorted her features.

Morticia Addams, her beautiful face a mask of grim resolve, knelt between her daughter’s legs. Isadora Capri, her own side bleeding from Tyler’s attack, worked with frantic efficiency, her hands steady despite the chaos. She had retrieved her medical bag and was laying out instruments on a sterilized cloth, a scalpel that gleamed in the lamplight, clamps, sutures. The air smelled of blood, herbs, and the sharp, clean scent of antiseptic.

“We are out of time” Isadora said, her voice clipped, professional, a lifeline of calm in the storm. “The pup’s heartbeat is faltering. We have to something. Now.”

Wednesday’s head thrashed from side to side, her nails digging into the rug beneath her. Her eyes, black pools of agony, found her mother’s. For a fleeting second, the unflappable Wednesday Addams looked truly, utterly terrified.

Morticia leaned down, her voice a hypnotic, soothing murmur that belied the deadly seriousness in her eyes. “You are an Addams, my little storm cloud. You were forged in darkness and tempered in pain. This is but another crucible. You will not break. We will not allow it.” She placed a cool hand on Wednesday’s fevered brow. “Now, you must be still. For your child.”

Outside, the battle reached a fever pitch. Enid’s renewed fury had turned the tide, but Tyler Galpin, the Hyde, was a creature of pure, adaptive malice. Seeing Ethan falter, he disengaged from his skirmish with a still-dazed Gomez, who had been trying to flank him. With a guttural roar, he charged the cottage door.

“THE DOOR!” Enid screamed, Trying to move past Ethan to intercept him. She slammed into his side, but the Hyde was a battering ram of muscle and rage. He shrugged her off throwing her back into Ethan, his focus entirely on the fragile barrier separating him from his prey.

Gomez, his mustache quivering with a fury that eclipsed his pain, raised his sword cane. “You will not touch my granddaughter!” he bellowed, and lunged.

It was a glorious, suicidal move. The sword glanced off the Hyde’s thick hide, but it was enough to draw its attention. Tyler backhanded Gomez, sending him crashing into the wall of the cottage with a sickening thud. He then turned back to the door, raised a monstrous fist, and brought it down.

Wood splintered. The doorframe shuddered.

Inside, Isadora didn’t flinch. Her hand, holding the scalpel, was steady. “Morticia, now. Hold her.”

Morticia placed her hands firmly on Wednesday’s shoulders, holding her down with a strength that seemed impossible for her slender frame. “Be strong, my little viper” she whispered. putting a piece of black cloth in Wednesday's mouth.

It was in that exact moment of supreme, horrifying vulnerability as the scalpel hovered over Wednesday’s skin and the Hyde’s fist slammed into the door again, that a new sound cut through the night.

It wasn’t a howl. It wasn’t a roar.

It was a scream.

Yoko had just lunched herself into the Hyde with a battle cry that sounded remarkably like 'Your ass is mine Murderous marionette', the vampire and Hyde vanished into the woods as they rolled in a deadly flurry of fangs and claws.

Bianca and Davina took this moment of distraction to run towards the cottage, they couldn't help with the fight but they could help Wednesday, as they entered inside the house, the image was one of desperation. Wednesday was screaming with a cloth to her mouth and a very sharp knife cutting her lower abdomen.

Bianca moved to Wednesday's side as soon as she was inside the room, she didn't hesitate for a second in holding the screaming girls hand offering whatever comfort she could.

It started low, a single, pure note that seemed to emanate from the very trees themselves. Then a second voice joined it, weaving a complex, haunting harmony. It was the sound of the deep ocean, of ancient tides and forgotten shipwrecks. It was the sound of moonlight on still water, of irresistible, gentle command.

Bianca Barclay and Davina stood beside Wednesday, their eyes closed, their heads thrown back as they sang.

On the outside of the cottage Weems and Ajax were helping Enid, Ajax in his full Gorgon form, stood protectively beside the headmaster, his stone-cold gaze fixed on the battle, his serpent hair hissing a silent counterpoint to the siren’s melody. Behind them, several other Nevermore staff members and older students fanned out, a wall of outcasts answering the desperate call.

The song did not attack. It did not disorient the combatants. Instead, it did something far more precise, far more miraculous.

It flowed thru Wednesday like a gentle wave.

To Wednesday, whose world had narrowed to a white-hot point of agony, the song was a cool balm. It didn’t erase the pain, that would be too crude, too blunt an instrument for a siren’s art. Instead, it… reshaped it. The song wrapped around the sharp, tearing edges of the sensation, softening them, translating the scream of nerve endings into a bearable, almost distant thrum. It was a psychic epidural, a melody of merciful numbness. Her body, which had been a taut bowstring ready to snap, went limp against the blankets, her breathing easing from a ragged gasp to a shallow, controlled pant. Her eyes, wide with shock, found her mother’s.

“Isadora she is bleeding out” Morticia said, her voice filled with a new, desperate edge.

Outside, the song had a different effect on Enid. Her rage, her fear, her desperation, the song didn’t quell them. It orchestrated them. It was a conductor, taking the chaotic symphony of her emotions and forging them into a single, focused chord of pure, protective power. Her movements became even more fluid, her strikes more precise. She was a weapon perfectly tuned.

For Tyler and Ethan, however, the song was an assault. It was a dissonant screech in their minds, a constant, grating static that disrupted their focus, their fury, their connection to the lunar madness that fueled them. Ethan clutched his head, howling in frustration.

Tyler, broke back into the clearing, a limp Yoko in his left hand, he threw the girl like a rag doll against the side of the house, she tried to get up but couldn't. The Hyde them moved towards the house, his fist raised for another blow against the door, staggered as if struck, the melody scraping against his bestial mind.

It was the opening they needed.

The shattered door finally burst inward. Tyler Galpin, a monster of shadow and rage, filled the doorway, his eyes burning with the single-minded intent to destroy.

His gaze fell on the scene inside: Wednesday on the floor, Isadora and Morticia bent over her, their hands covered in blood.

He took a step into the cottage.

And was met by a mother’s wrath.

Morticia Addams rose from her daughter’s side. She did not snarl. But she did brandish a weapon. She simply stood, rapier in hand, her black dress seeming to drink the light in the room, her eyes two pits of absolute, primordial darkness. In that moment, she was not a society matron. She was Lilith, Hecate, every goddess of vengeance and dark magic that had ever been worshipped.

“You” she said, her voice so low it was almost a vibration, “will go no further.”

Tyler hesitated, the animal instinct within him recognizing a predator far more cold and terrible than itself.

It was all the distraction Isadora needed. With a final, decisive movement, she worked her magic. There was a soft, wet sound, a gasp from Bianca, and then…

Silence.

A heartbeat of pure, unbearable tension.

And then, a sound. A tiny, thin, furious wail.

It was the most beautiful, most terrifying sound Enid had ever heard. It cut through the song, through the snarls of battle, through the very fabric of the night.

Her child. Their child. Alive.

The effect was instantaneous and electric.

Inside the cottage, Morticia’s fierce expression shattered into one of tearful, radiant awe. Isadora, with hands that were now gentle, lifted a tiny, squirming, blood-smeared form. “It’s a girl” she announced, her voice thick with emotion. “A strong, loud, and very displeased girl.”

Wednesday’s head fell back against the pillows, a single, black tear tracing a path through the sweat on her temple. Her hand, trembling, reached out. “Let me… see her.”

Outside, Enid heard the cry. It was a sound that bypassed her ears and went straight to her soul, a primal chord that resonated in the deepest part of her being. Her wolf howled in triumph, in joy, in a love so vast it felt like it would crack her ribs.

Ethan heard it too. The sound of the baby’s cry, the proof of the life, the future, the love he had tried to extinguish, was a physical blow. His fanatical rage broke, replaced by a horrified, gut-wrenching realization of what he had almost done. He stared at the cottage, his face a mask of stunned despair. “No… it’s not… it can’t be…”

He was defenseless. Broken.

Enid saw her opening. Every instinct screamed for her to finish it, to tear his throat out for the threat he posed to her family. She lunged, her claws aimed for the killing strike.

But a voice, Weems’s voice, sharp and commanding, cut through the night. “ENID! NO!”

Enid froze, her claws inches from Ethan’s throat. She was panting, her body trembling with the urge to complete the blow.

“He is beaten!” Weems commanded, her Gorgon form imposing. “We are not murderers. We are protectors. Stand down.”

The title, the command, from Weems, the one who had become an ally, cut through the red mist. Enid’s arm dropped. She took a staggering step back, the fight draining out of her, leaving only a bone-deep exhaustion and a roaring, overwhelming need to be with her mate and her child.

Tyler, however, was not beaten. The sound of the baby’s cry had enraged him, refocusing his chaotic hatred. With a roar that was pure, undiluted Hyde, he threw himself past Morticia, his target the tiny, crying life in Wednesday’s arms.

He never reached them.

Isadora Capri turned from the baby she had just delivered. Her eyes, usually so cool and clinical, now burned with a feral, red light. The scent of her own blood, the sight of this monster threatening the life she had just fought to save, shattered the last of her control.

A sound ripped from her throat that was neither human nor wolf, but something far different. Her body contorted, not with the graceful shift of a werewolf, but with a violent, brutal expansion of muscle and bone. Her clothes tore. Fur, thick and grizzled, a mottled grey and brown, exploded over her skin. Her face elongated into a powerful, tooth-filled muzzle, and her hands became massive, claw-tipped paws. She was larger than Enid, broader, a creature of pure, primal fury, a hybrid Wolf-Hyde.

She met Tyler’s charge with the force of a freight train.

The impact shook the cottage. It was no longer a fight between a skilled fighter and a monster; it was a raw, brutal clash of titans. Claws ripped into hide. Snarls and roars filled the air. Furniture splintered. Isadora fought with a wolf ferocity and a Hyde's rage, her sole purpose to put herself between Tyler and the vulnerable ones behind her.

Yoko, recovered but bleeding, zipped in, using her vampire speed to attack Tyler, slashing at his legs, drawing his attention. Bianca and Davina, their song now shifting to a sharper, more disruptive frequency, targeted the Hyde directly, their melody becoming a weapon that sawed at his concentration.

Morticia, seeing the battle joined, turning her attention back to her daughter and granddaughter, she put herself in front of them protecting them as best as she could. the baby was screaming in Wednesday's arm's.

Wednesday’s arms, trembling with exhaustion, closed around the tiny form. Her dark eyes, blurred with pain and blood loss, she looked down at the squirming, crying infant. Her skin was pale like hers, dotted with blood and vernix. A shock of dark blond, wet hair covered her head. Her features were scrunched and furious, her mouth open in a continuous, indignant wail.

A sound escaped Wednesday’s lips. It wasn’t a laugh. It wasn’t a sob. It was a soft, breathy exhalation of pure, unadulterated wonder. “She’s… perfect” she whispered, her voice raw. “So… vocally expressive.”

Enid finally staggered through the ruined doorway. She was bleeding, bruised, and covered in mud and Ethan’s blood. Her eyes swept the scene: the epic battle between Isadora and Hyde, Yoko and the sirens providing support, Gomez struggling to his feet, and in the center of the maelstrom, her family.

Enid thew herself in the fight, Isadora, with a final, mighty roar, sank her teeth into the Hyde’s shoulder and flung him with all her Hyde-like strength. He crashed through the remains of the front wall, landing in a heap outside. Wounded, enraged, but seeing the gathered force, the Gorgon, the vampires, the sirens, the risen Gomez now holding a bomb-launcher, the terrifying hybrid, his survival instinct finally overrode his bloodlust. With a final, hate-filled snarl, he turned and fled, disappearing into the dark woods.

Silence descended, broken only by the baby’s diminishing cries and the heavy panting of the exhausted defenders.

It was over.

Enid fell to her knees beside Wednesday, her breath catching in her throat. She reached out a trembling, bloodstained hand, not daring to touch, only to hover over the tiny, crying baby. “Our pup” she breathed, the words a prayer.

Wednesday’s eyes, filled with a tenderness Enid had only ever seen in stolen, private moments, met hers. “She finds her accommodations substandard” she said weakly. “I cannot say I blame her.”

A wet, hysterical laugh-sob burst from Enid. She leaned forward, resting her forehead against Wednesday’s, their tears mingling. The tiny, furious baby between them was the only thing that mattered.

Inside, Isadora slowly shifted back, collapsing naked and exhausted against a wall, her body covered in deep, bleeding gashes. Yoko was immediately at her side, applying pressure to the worst wounds.

Bianca and Davina let their song fade, the final notes hanging in the air like a blessing. Bianca’s eyes found Enid’s, and she offered a small, exhausted, but triumphant nod before she collapsed beside her mates, she was exhausted but unharmed, which was more than you could say for the majority of their friends.

Weems, Entered the cottage, phone in hand as she called for a ambulance, she began directing the cleanup and triage with her usual formidable efficiency.

Ethan Whitefang lay broken and defeated in the mud, surrounded by Nevermore staff who quickly moved to restrain him. The threat was neutralized, the elders of the pack would be notified in the morning.

But for Enid, Wednesday and Bianca, the world had shrunk to the space between them. Enid finally dared to touch her daughter, stroking her cheek with a finger. Her crying hiccupped, then stopped. Her eyes, a startlingly dark blue, blinked open, seeming to focus on her face.

“She has your eyes” Wednesday murmured, her own eyes fluttering shut as exhaustion claimed her.

“And your hair” Enid whispered back, her heart so full she thought it might burst. She looked at her mate, pale and bleeding but alive, and at her son, perfect and furious and here.

They had been tested in fire and blood. Their walls had been breached, their bodies broken. But they had held. The wolf, the raven, and the siren’s song had woven a new harmony, a symphony of survival.

And its most beautiful note was the first cry of their revolution.

Chapter Text

Fifteen years.

The number felt both impossibly vast and startlingly small. It felt like a lifetime and the blink of an eye. For Wednesday Addams-Barclay, standing on the precipice of the Nevermore Academy courtyard, it felt like precisely the amount of time it had taken for her life to become a sprawling, chaotic, and reluctantly cherished masterpiece.

The black car, a hearse, a wedding gift from her parents that was both practical and deeply sentimental, was silent. Inside, the air was thick with unspoken words and the lingering scent of her daughter’s anxiety.

Agnes Yoko Addams-Barclay, so named after their vampire best-friend and their third mate (Enid didn't want their child to have anything to do with the Sinclair family) sat rigidly in the backseat, a perfect fusion of her parents. She had inherited Wednesday’s porcelain skin, severe dark blond hair, which she wore in one long, intricate braid. But her eyes were Enid’s, a startling, dark blue that could flash with wolf-gold when her temper flared. Today, they were fixed on the milling students outside, wide with a terror she would never admit to.

She was dressed in a black pleated skirt, a grey sweater, and a tie the color of a blood orange, a reluctant concession to Nevermore’s new, slightly more relaxed dress code, fought for tooth and nail by a certain werewolf alumna on the board of directors.

“The statistical probability of you perishing on your first day is marginally lower than it was for me,” Wednesday stated, her voice as flat and cool as ever, though a trained ear might have detected the faintest undercurrent of something else. “The faculty has been thoroughly vetted for homicidal tendencies, though Professor Petropolis lessons on transformative physiology are still considered… unnecessarily graphic.”

“Wends” Enid chided softly from the driver’s seat. She reached back, her hand, still adorned with a multitude of silver rings, though now joined by two simple, matching platinum bands, squeezing Agnes’s knee. “She’s trying to say ‘you’ll be fine, we love you, and we’re so proud of you.’ It just gets lost in translation on the way out.”

Wednesday’s lip twitched. “I said no such thing. I stated a fact. Sentiment is inefficient.”

But her hand, resting on the console, found Enid’s and laced their fingers together. It was a gesture that had become as natural as breathing over the last decade and a half. Bianca from the back seat with their daughter smiled at them.

The path to this moment had been neither straight nor simple, but it had been theirs.

After the fight with Ethan and Tyler, and Willa's long recovery. They had graduated Nevermore, of course. The ceremony had been a bizarre affair. Wednesday, valedictorian, had delivered a speech on the statistical correlation between academic pressure and creative murder methods that had received a standing ovation. Enid, beaming in a rainbow-tasseled mortarboard, had cheered the loudest, Bianca was more subdued but she still smirked all the way thru the speech, Wends was a weird murder psycho but she was her weird murder psycho.

Their dating phase had been a thing of fascinated gossip. “Proper” dates consisted of crime scene tours, knife-throwing competitions, and one memorable weekend spent cataloging the venom potency of a newly discovered species of Brazilian wandering spider. Enid and Bianca had insisted on adding “normal” dates to the roster: movies (Wednesday critiqued the forensics), dinners (Wednesday critiqued the food poisoning risks), and a single, disastrous attempt at mini-golf that ended with the windmill mechanism “mysteriously” short-circuiting or the deep diving incident where Enid almost drowned as she watched both her mates wear a bikini.

Through it all, Bianca had been their constant. A fixed point in their expanding universe. The “conflicting feelings” Enid had once confessed to have, as Wednesday had predicted, solidified into an unshakeable bond. It was Bianca who mediated their arguments with icy logic. Bianca who used her siren connections to source obscure toxins for Wednesday’s experiments. Bianca who patiently taught a fiercely reluctant Enid how to apply a tourniquet without passing out.

Their wedding, five years after the battle at Rotwood Cottage, was a legendary event. It was held in the Addams family mausoleum. Morticia wept black tears of joy. Gomez offered his sword as a ceremonial cake cutter. Enid wore a gown that was a masterpiece of stark white silk slashed with vibrant, colorful embroidery depicting scenes from their battles. Wednesday wore a tailored black tuxedo, a dried scorpion pinned to her lapel. Bianca stood between them looking like a siren made human, which she was but details, Their vows a masterpiece of dry wit and unwavering loyalty that somehow managed to roast and honor them in equal measure.

And then there was Agnes.

Her arrival had been the crucible that forged their triad into its final, unbreakable form. Raising her had been their greatest, most terrifying adventure. Wednesday applied scientific method to parenting, charting feeding schedules and analyzing the psychological impact of various lullabies (German industrial music was deemed most effective for sleep). Enid was the warmth, the comfort, the defender of colorful clothing and stuffed animals with too many eyes. Bianca was the strategist, the diplomat who negotiated peace treaties over toy disputes and taught a toddler how to deliver a devastatingly effective verbal evisceration.

Their lives were not a perfect, seamless whole. There were arguments. Wednesday’s obsessive tendencies could be stifling. Enid’s need for vibrant social interaction could be exhausting. Bianca’s ingrained emotional detachment could feel like a wall. But they had learned. They had built a language of their own, a system of checks and balances. A raised eyebrow from Bianca could halt a brewing fight. A specific, three-note hum from Enid could soothe Wednesday’s darkest moods. A single, precise fact from Wednesday could ground them all.

Ten years after Agnes’s birth, on a quiet evening, Bianca had looked up from her book. “I’ve been thinking” she’d said, as if announcing a shift in weather patterns.

Enid, who was braiding Agnes’s hair, had paused. Wednesday had looked up from sharpening a set of throwing stars.

“Our little pack has been stable for many years now” Bianca continued. “Agnes’s development is proceeding at an accelerated and optimal rate. And she has started to question about the possibility of siblings.” She’d taken a slow breath, a rare sign of nerves. “I believe that the logical next step would be for us to expand our family.”

It had taken Enid a full minute to understand. Wednesday had understood instantly.

“You wish for another pup, my promise to never allow Enid to touch me without protection ever again, is still in effect” Wednesday had stated.

Bianca had nodded, her Barclay mask firmly in place, though her knuckles were white where she gripped her book. “Yes, about that I was thinking that maybe I could be the one carrying this time. Isadora said that it's easier for a siren to be pregnant with a wolf pup than it is for a human, so it wouldn't be as bad as it was for you Wends.”

Enid who had being silent up until this moment, she never questioned or begrudged Wednesday decision of never having another baby after Agnes, but deep down she always wanted a big family; had launched herself across the room, tears already streaming down her face, and engulfed Bianca in a crushing hug. “Yes! We are going to have another pup!”

Wednesday had simply stood, walked over, and placed a hand on Bianca’s flat stomach with a terrifying, solemn intensity. “If this is something you truly wish, Enid and I will ensure your health and that of the baby. The environment will be rigorously controlled. I will draft the protocols immediately.”

Bianca’s pregnancy had been a marvel of efficiency and barely contained terror. Wednesday’s protocols were exhaustive, involving specific dietary supplements, controlled exposure to various sonic frequencies (including Bianca’s own singing), and daily fetal kick counts charted on a graph. Enid had been a hovering, anxious ball of excitement, reading parenting books to Bianca’s belly and building a crib that could allegedly withstand a direct mortar strike.

Nine months later, Laurel Beatrice Addams-Barclay had entered the world not with a scream, but with a low, curious warble. She had her mother’s sharp features and dark skin, a dusting of freckles across her nose from Enid, and a pair of eyes that changed color with her mood, a unique genetic blend of siren and wolf. From the moment she could vocalize, she could hum a tune that made the flowers in the garden lean toward her.

Their family was complete. A perfect, balanced triad. A wolf, a raven, and a siren.

They had been there for all the milestones of their chosen pack. They’d stood by Yoko at hers and Davina’s beautiful, sun-drenched wedding in Italy, where Davina had sung her vows and Yoko had cried (she denied it vehemently) behind her sunglasses. They’d been the first ones at the hospital when the siren had birthed twins, a boy named Luca, with Yoko’s grin, and a girl named Annie, with Davina’s stormy eyes.

They’d done the same for a bewildered, happy Ajax when he’d finally found his match in a gentle, incredibly patient D'Vinci named Marble, helping them navigate the challenges of raising a small, gorgon son who loved to paint.

All their children had grown up together, a pack of outcasts born from a pack of outcasts. Agnes, the fierce, protective older sister. Laurel, the mystical, musical heart. Luca and Sonja, the mischievous twins. Achilles, the quiet, artistic observer. Their lives were a riotous, chaotic, beautiful tapestry of birthday parties (featuring piñatas filled with rubber bats), family dinners (where debates ranged from the ethical implications of necromancy to the best brand of cereal), and summers spent between the Addams manor, the Yoko and Davina's villa in Italy, and Ajax’s sleek, modern apartment in town.

It wasn’t perfect. There were scraped knees and broken bones, teenage rebellions and slammed doors, misunderstandings and hurt feelings. But it was happy. It was theirs.

Now, the hearse was empty. Agnes had finally squared her shoulders, given her mothers a stiff nod (a perfect imitation of Wednesday), and marched into the crowd of students, her new roommate, a petite girl with green-tipped hair who could apparently communicate with animals immediately latching onto her arm.

Enid was openly crying, her head on Wednesday’s shoulder, her arm holding around Bianca. “Our baby” she sniffled.

“She is fourteen years, three months, and two days old. She is hardly a baby” Wednesday replied, her body rigid but making no move to dislodge Enid. Her dark eyes tracked Agnes until she disappeared into the main building.

“She’ll be great” Bianca said from Enid's other side, leaning forward. She placed a calming hand on Wednesday's other shoulder. “She’s the most capable person in that entire school. Including the staff.”

“The Animal communicator presents a moderate risk” Wednesday mused. “I shall have to send her a care package of anti-allergens, she is after all allergic to animals.”

Enid laughed through her tears, sitting up and wiping her eyes. “You’re both ridiculous, only your child would be a werewolf allergic to animals. But I love you.” She started the car. “Come on. Laurel said she’d make lunch, and you know what that means.”

A rare look of genuine alarm crossed Wednesday’s face. Their five-year-old was a culinary innovator, whose experiments often resulted in food that glowed, sang, or temporarily altered one’s perception of time, especially when she was in the company of her favorite aunt Tanaka. “We should stop for sustenance on the way home. For safety.”

As Enid drove them away from Nevermore, the three women fell into a comfortable silence. They passed the Weathervane, now under new management but still serving terrible coffee. They passed the turnoff for the old Gates mansion, now a park. The world had changed around them.

But they had remained. The three points of their triad, the foundation of their family. Forged in fire, tempered by time, and bound by a love that was as unique, formidable, and unbreakable as they were.

They drove toward home, toward their musical, possibly hazardous lunch, and toward the next chapter of their beautifully chaotic, perfectly imperfect life. Together.