Alessandra POV

The silence in my head was the first mercy I had felt in months. Sitting on the rotting wood of my grandmother's porch, I stared into the dense treeline, the night air cooling the feverish heat radiating from my burnt arm. I had severed the Mind-Link. Just snapped it shut. For an Omega to block her Alpha was unheard of; for a mate to do it was a declaration of war.

But I didn't care. The image of him carrying Isadora—holding her like she was the most precious thing in the world—had cauterized the part of me that used to bleed for him.

A twig snapped. The shadows at the edge of the clearing shifted, coalescing into a towering figure that seemed to suck the light from the moon.

Demetri.

He didn't approach with the grace of a lover. He stalked toward the porch like a predator cornering prey. The air grew heavy, thick with the scent of ozone and suppressed violence. His Alpha aura slammed into me, demanding submission, but I was too hollow to bow.

"You blocked me," Demetri snarled, stopping at the foot of the stairs. His eyes were two chips of obsidian, devoid of warmth. "I have been calling for hours. Do you have a death wish, Alessandra?"

I didn't stand. I didn't tremble. I just looked at him, feeling a strange, detached exhaustion. "I needed some quiet."

His jaw ticked. "Quiet? You are the Luna of this Pack—in title, if not in competence. You do not shut me out. Ever."

"Luna," I repeated, the word tasting like ash. "Is that what I am? Or am I just the placeholder you tolerate until you figure out how to install her?"

Demetri mounted the steps, the wood groaning under his weight. He loomed over me, blocking out the stars. "Do not test my patience tonight. Get up. We are going back to the Pack House."

"No."

The word hung in the air, fragile but absolute. Demetri froze, looking at me as if the floorboards had spoken.

I stood up then, my legs shaking not from fear, but from the sickness rattling in my chest. I took a breath, the night air searing my lungs, and looked him dead in the eye.

"I'm done, Demetri. I can't be your punching bag anymore. I can't watch you love her while I rot in your shadow." My voice gained strength, fueled by the broken shards of my heart. "I, Alessandra Moon, want to reject you as my mate."

The silence that followed was terrifying. The forest seemed to hold its breath.

Demetri's face didn't crumble. It hardened into stone. A cruel, cold smile twisted his lips, terrifying in its lack of humor. He stepped into my personal space, forcing me to tilt my head back.

"You think you have a choice?" His voice was a low rumble, vibrating through my chest. "You think this is a fairy tale where you get to walk away? Your father sold your freedom for the safety of this Pack. You are my mate. You will do your duty until I say otherwise."

"My duty?" I whispered, tears pricking my eyes despite my resolve. "To be humiliated?"

"To be obedient!" he roared, his control slipping. "Is this about that pathetic scene with Chrissy? I dealt with her. Stop acting like a petulant child."

He reached out, his hand clamping around my uninjured upper arm. The moment his skin touched mine, the spark—that cursed, electric jolt of the Mate Bond—arced between us. But instead of pleasure, it felt like a brand.

Demetri frowned, his grip tightening not in anger, but in confusion. He pulled me closer, his eyes narrowing as he scanned my face. "You're burning up."

I tried to pull away, dizziness swaying the world. "Let me go."

"You have a fever," he stated, his tone shifting from accuser to Alpha commander. He ignored my resistance, his hand moving to my forehead. "You're shaking. Why didn't you say you were sick?"

"It doesn't matter," I rasped, panic beginning to claw at my throat. "Leave me alone."

"We are going to the clinic," Demetri decided, his voice leaving no room for argument. "Adan needs to look at that burn and this fever."

The Clinic. Adan.

Ice flooded my veins, instantly overpowering the fever. Adan was the best Healer in the territory. If he examined me, if he ran even a basic scan of my vitals, he would hear the second heartbeat. He would find the pup.

And if Demetri knew... if he knew I was carrying his heir while he pined for Isadora... he would take the baby. He would lock me away or, worse, hand my child to Isadora to raise.

"No!" The scream tore from my throat, primal and terrified.

Demetri moved to scoop me up, but I exploded into motion. I wasn't fighting as Alessandra the weak Omega; I was fighting as a mother. I clawed at his chest, my nails digging into his expensive shirt. I kicked out, my heel connecting with his shin.

"Put me down!" I shrieked, thrashing in his arms like a wild animal. "I'm not going to the clinic! I won't go!"

"Stop this madness!" Demetri grunted, tightening his hold to keep me from falling. He looked genuinely shocked by my violence. "You are ill, Alessandra! Stop fighting me!"

Alessandra POV

"I said no!" I shrieked, my fist connecting with Demetri's shoulder. It was like hitting a wall of granite.

Demetri swore, the sound vibrating against my chest. He stopped wrestling me toward the Bentley and instead slammed me against the side of the car, pinning me with his hips. His eyes were swirling pools of obsidian fury.

"You are hysterical," he snarled, his breath hot on my face. "If you think I am going to drag a screaming, thrashing Luna into the Pack Clinic for everyone to see, you are mistaken. I will not have you embarrass me."

"Then let me go," I gasped, my heart hammering a frantic rhythm against my ribs—a rhythm that hid the tiny, fluttering second heartbeat within me. He can't take me to Adan. He can't know.

"Change of plans," Demetri growled. He yanked the car door open, but instead of shoving me in, he leaned in and grabbed his keys, then slammed it shut. Before I could react, he scooped me up into his arms again, turning toward the Pack House. "We are going to my suite. I will deal with your fever myself."

My stomach dropped. The Alpha's Suite. His territory. His cage. But at least it wasn't the clinic. At least my secret was safe for one more hour.

The elevator ride was suffocating. Demetri didn't speak; he just radiated waves of anger and ozone. When the doors slid open to the penthouse, he marched into the master bedroom—a cavernous space of black silk and dark wood that smelled overwhelmingly of him—and dumped me onto the massive bed.

I bounced on the mattress, dizziness spinning the room. My burnt arm throbbed, but the fever was making my skin feel like it was on fire.

Demetri stood at the foot of the bed, staring at me. Then, with a sharp, impatient movement, he began to unbutton his dress shirt.

Panic, cold and sharp, pierced through my fever. I scrambled backward, pressing my spine against the headboard. "What... what are you doing?"

The scream tore from my throat. I curled into a ball, shielding my stomach. "No! Don't touch me! Not after her! Stay away!"

Demetri froze. His hands hovered over his belt, his expression shifting from annoyance to shock, and then to a dark, offended scowl.

"Do you think I am some rogue animal?" he spat, his voice dripping with disdain. "I am not going to force myself on a sick, delirious woman, Alessandra. Look at you. You are burning up."

He turned his back on me, walking toward the ensuite bathroom. "I am drawing you a cold bath. Get in. Now."

I blinked, the adrenaline crashing, leaving me trembling. He wasn't... he didn't want me. Of course. He had Isadora.

I stumbled into the bathroom. The tub was already filling. I gripped the marble counter, swaying. Demetri was there instantly, his hands gripping my waist to steady me.

The moment his skin touched mine, the spark arced between us—violent and undeniable. I gasped, and his pupils dilated, his wolf responding to the mate bond despite his anger.

"Let me help you," he murmured, his voice dropping an octave, rough with suppressed instinct. His fingers grazed the hem of my shirt.

"No." I shoved his hands away, clutching my collar. The electricity felt like a betrayal. "Get out. I can do it myself."

"Alessandra—"

"I said get out!" I cried, tears stinging my eyes. "Leave me some dignity, Demetri."

He stared at me for a long moment, his jaw working. The air crackled with his dominance, warring with something else—regret? No, that was impossible. Finally, he gave a curt nod and backed out, closing the door.

When I emerged twenty minutes later, wrapped in a thick towel, the fever had receded slightly, but the exhaustion was bone-deep.

Demetri was waiting. He had changed into sweatpants, his chest bare. Without a word, he pointed to the vanity stool. "Sit."

I was too tired to fight. I sat. He picked up a hairdryer, his large hands surprisingly gentle as he began to dry my damp hair. The domesticity of it was terrifying. It was a lie.

When he finished, he set the dryer down and gripped my chin, forcing me to look at our reflection in the mirror. He looked at my flushed face, my wet lashes, and a low growl rumbled in his chest.

"Don't you ever look at another male with those eyes," he whispered, his gaze locking onto mine in the glass. "You are mine, Alessandra. Do you understand? My mark is on your soul."

He leaned down, pressing a cold, hard kiss to my forehead. It wasn't affection; it was a brand. A warning.

Suddenly, Demetri stiffened. His eyes glazed over, the amber iris swallowed by the distant fog of a Mind-Link.

I watched his face change. The possessive Alpha vanished, replaced by worry. Pure, unadulterated concern.

"I'm coming," he said aloud, his voice soft.

He pulled away from me as if I were on fire. He grabbed a fresh shirt, not even buttoning it fully before heading for the door.

"It's her, isn't it?" I whispered to the empty room. "Isadora."

He paused at the door, not looking back. "She needs me."

Then he was gone.

The silence he left behind was louder than his shouting. He had held me, claimed me as his, and then ran to her the second she called.

I walked over to my discarded bag. My hands shaking, I pulled out the envelope I had stolen from the grandmother's house—the copy of my medical file. The proof.

Pregnancy Confirmed. 6 Weeks.

I looked at the door he had just walked out of. He would never choose us. He would take my baby and give it to her.

With a sob that felt like my heart ripping in two, I tore the paper. Once. Twice. Until it was nothing but confetti on the black carpet.

"You will never know," I vowed to the shadows. "You don't deserve to know."

Demetri POV

The Pack Clinic

Demetri burst into the private room, his chest heaving. Isadora lay on the narrow bed, wrapped in a deep purple silk robe that slipped off one shoulder. She looked pale, fragile—a stark contrast to the woman who had fought him in the penthouse.

"Demetri," she whimpered, tears spilling from her wide eyes. "I... I felt a pain. I was so scared."

"I'm here," Demetri said, stepping closer, guilt gnawing at him.

Isadora sat up and wrapped her arms around his waist, burying her face in his bare chest. She inhaled his scent, masking the lingering smell of Alessandra with her own cloying perfume.

"Please, Demetri," she begged, looking up at him with trembling lips. "Don't leave me alone tonight. I can't bear it. Stay with me?"

Demetri looked down at her, then back toward the door, toward the Pack House where his mate sat alone. But Isadora was trembling in his arms.

He closed his eyes, the bond with Alessandra aching in his chest, but his duty—and his heart's confusion—anchored him here.

"Okay," he whispered. "I'll stay."

Alessandra POV

The dawn light that bled through the heavy curtains of the Alpha's suite was gray and lifeless, matching the hollow cavity in my chest. I lay still, my breathing shallow and measured, feigning sleep when the door clicked open.

Demetri entered. The air in the room shifted, but not in the way that usually made my soul sing. Typically, his scent—rainstorm and deep pine—would wrap around me like a protective blanket. Today, it choked me.

Clinging to him, woven into the very fabric of his clothes, was her.

Isadora.

It was a sickly, floral perfume, cloying and heavy, like flowers left too long on a grave. It screamed of intimacy. It screamed of long hours spent holding her, comforting her, letting her mark him with her synthetic stench while I lay here, burning with fever and carrying his heir.

He didn't look at me. I watched through the screen of my lashes as he stripped off his shirt, tossing it carelessly onto the floor. His movements were stiff, his jaw set in a hard line. He walked straight into the bathroom, and moments later, the shower turned on.

He was washing her off. Or maybe he was washing me off, preparing to go back to her fresh.

The sound of the water was a roar in the silence. I didn't cry. I had shed my last tear last night when I shredded the medical report into confetti. The pain was gone, replaced by a cold, sharp clarity.

He made his choice, my wolf whimpered, curling into a ball in the back of my mind. Now we must make ours.

I placed a hand over my flat stomach. "I won't let him break you, little one," I whispered into the gloom. "We're leaving."

By evening, the suffocating silence of the Pack House was driving me mad. When Kaia showed up at my door, demanding I join her at The Howling Oak, I didn't have the energy to fight her.

"You look like a ghost, Ali," Kaia said, dragging me toward a booth in the bustling grill. "You need grease, alcohol, and noise. In that order."

"No alcohol," I murmured, sliding into the wooden booth. "Just soda."

"Suit yourself." Kaia grinned, her eyes sparkling with a mischief I hadn't seen in months. "Besides, I have someone I want you to meet."

A man approached our table. He was tall, with sandy blonde hair and a smile that didn't quite reach his eyes. He moved with the fluid grace of a wolf, but something about him set my teeth on edge.

"Alessandra, this is Caleb Vance," Kaia introduced, beaming. "From the Ironwood Pack."

Caleb extended a hand. "The famous Alessandra. Kaia talks about you incessantly."

I took his hand, expecting a polite shake. Instead, he squeezed too hard, his thumb dragging deliberately across my palm. His nail scratched the sensitive skin—a subtle, nasty gesture of disrespect masked as a greeting.

"Charmed," he said, his voice slick.

I pulled my hand back as if burned. A wave of nausea rolled through me, violent and sudden. It wasn't just the morning sickness; it was a warning. My baby, even as a tiny spark of life, rejected him.

"Excuse me," I choked out, sliding out of the booth. "Restroom."

I rushed down the dimly lit hallway, the noise of the bar fading. I splashed cold water on my face, trying to scrub away the feeling of Caleb's skin on mine. When the nausea finally subsided, I stepped back into the corridor, only to freeze.

Voices drifted from the shadows near the emergency exit.

"...easy prey," a male voice sneered. Caleb. "The Moran girl is desperate for attention. One good marking, and I'll have her pack eating out of my hand."

My blood ran cold.

"And the other one?" another voice asked—one of his lackeys.

"The Omega?" Caleb laughed, a low, ugly sound. "She's a bonus. I've always wanted to taste what the Stonecrest Alpha keeps locked away. Maybe I'll break her in before I take over the Moran territory."

Rage, hot and blinding, flooded my veins. He wasn't just a creep; he was a predator plotting against my best friend.

I stepped out of the shadows just as Caleb turned the corner. His eyes widened slightly, then narrowed into a smirk. He didn't look ashamed. He looked hungry.

"Done throwing up, sweetheart?" He took a step toward me, blocking my path back to the main room. His gaze raked over my body, lingering on my chest. "You know, you're too pretty to be a servant. I could show you a better time than Hamilton ever could."

My hand found a half-empty glass of cranberry soda someone had left on a side table. My knuckles turned white.

"Get out of my way, Caleb," I said, my voice trembling not with fear, but with fury.

He chuckled, stepping closer, invading my personal space. The smell of cheap cologne and stale beer assaulted my nose. "Don't play hard to get. I know what you Omegas are like. You crave a real Alpha."

He reached for my waist.

Snap.

I didn't think. I swung the glass.

Ice, red syrup, and carbonated water exploded across his face.

Caleb sputtered, stumbling back, the sticky red liquid dripping from his nose and chin like blood. The bar went silent around us, or maybe that was just the rushing in my ears.

Slowly, Caleb wiped his eyes. When he opened them, the human mask was gone. His irises bled into the glowing yellow of his wolf. A low, dangerous growl ripped from his throat.

"You little bitch," he snarled, lunging forward. His hand clamped around my wrist, crushing the bone. "I'll teach you some respect!"