The second pregnancy was far more difficult than the first. Maybe because of the exhaustion, maybe because this time, besides your own body, you also had to keep up with your five-year-old son and the everyday life of the estate. The nausea stubbornly remained until the very end, draining your appetite and energy, and mornings more and more often ended with rest instead of plans. Your private doctor regularly visited the residence, monitoring the baby’s development and making sure everything was progressing properly. Elijah did not trust chance. Nor medicine left without supervision.

That afternoon you were resting on the couch beneath a light blanket. The estate was quiet, almost too quiet, and you were trying to enjoy the rare moment without nausea or dizziness.

The peace did not last long.

The doors opened more abruptly than usual.

Elijah entered the living room with a face unnaturally calm — the kind of calm that meant only anger. One hand held your son firmly by the shoulder, guiding him more sternly than harshly. The boy was not crying, but his gaze remained lowered, his shoulders tense, and fresh blood stained his chin and the corner of his mouth.

Your heart tightened immediately.

Apparently he had hunted.

Too early.

Far too early.

Elijah stopped him in front of the couch and looked down at him with that heavy, reprimanding gaze of his — the kind that made even adults lose confidence.

The boy looked ashamed more than frightened. Regret mixed across his face with childish guilt and an attempt to understand why what he had done was wrong.

Elijah exhaled quietly, still not releasing his shoulder.

“Hunting is not amusement nor impulse,” he said coldly, though without raising his voice. “It is responsibility. Control. And today, my son… you allowed hunger to think for you.”

His gaze briefly settled on the blood staining the child’s face.

“And that is precisely why you are not yet prepared to do this alone,” he hissed "The Mikaelsons need to control themselves and not let hunger take over."