Pregnant Luna Rejects Her Alpha

I pressed my palm against the swell of my belly, feeling our pup kick as I stood at the pack house entrance. Three months. Ninety-two days since I'd last seen Easton's face, felt his arms around me, heard his voice in my mind instead of through a phone screen plagued by bad Northern Territory reception.

The black SUV rolled up the circular drive, and my heart hammered against my ribs. My wolf stirred, eager and restless, already reaching out through our bond to—

Nothing.

I frowned, trying again. The mind-link should have snapped open the moment he crossed into pack territory. We'd been connected since the day we'd recognized each other as mates, a constant warm presence in the back of my consciousness. Even during his trip, I'd felt the faint thread of him, stretched thin by distance but never severed.

The car door opened. Easton stepped out, and my breath caught. He looked tired—shadows under his eyes, his dark hair slightly longer than he usually kept it. But he was here. He was home.

"Easton!" I moved forward as quickly as my pregnant body would allow, arms already lifting for the embrace I'd been dreaming about.

He met me halfway, but something was wrong. His hug was brief, almost perfunctory—one arm around my shoulders, the other barely touching my waist. No deep inhale of my scent at the curve of my neck. No possessive nuzzle. No scent-marking.

He pulled back before I could properly hold him.

"Hey," he said, his smile not quite reaching his eyes. "Long trip. I'm exhausted."

"I can imagine." I reached for his hand, trying to ignore the way he'd stiffened at my touch. "But you're home now. We missed you so much. The pup's been so active—I think she knows her daddy's back."

"She?" A flicker of something—interest? guilt?—crossed his face.

"Just a feeling." I tried to smile, tried to push down the unease creeping up my spine. "Come inside. I had the kitchen prepare your favorite—"

"I need a shower first." He was already moving toward the entrance, leaving me standing on the drive. "Really need to wash off the travel grime."

I followed him inside, my wolf whining softly in my mind. Something's wrong, she whispered. Something's different.

I reached out through our bond again, a gentle mental touch. Easton? Welcome home, my love.

The wall slammed up so fast it made me stumble. Solid. Impenetrable. Cold.

He'd blocked me. Completely.

My Alpha mate had shut me out of his mind.

***

The shower ran for forty-five minutes.

I knew because I sat on our bed, staring at his luggage, counting every minute on the antique clock on the nightstand. The sound of water beating against tile felt accusatory, each second stretching longer than the last.

To distract myself, I reached for his suitcase. Easton was notoriously messy—clothes usually came home in a jumbled ball of wrinkled fabric that I'd tease him about while sorting through the laundry. It was one of his endearing flaws, the way someone so commanding and organized in pack matters became completely chaotic with personal belongings.

I unzipped the main compartment and froze.

Every item was folded with military precision. Shirts creased at perfect right angles. Pants aligned with mathematical accuracy. Socks rolled into tight balls and arranged by color.

This wasn't Easton's packing.

My hands trembled as I lifted out a shirt—one of his favorites, the dark blue one that made his eyes look almost black. As I unfolded it, a scent hit me like a physical blow.

Wild jasmine. Sickly sweet. Cloying.

My stomach lurched. The pup kicked hard, as if she could sense my distress. My wolf snarled, the sound reverberating through my bones.

Not our mate's scent. Not ours. WRONG.

I pressed the shirt to my face despite my wolf's protests, breathing deep, trying to identify what lay beneath the jasmine. Something feminine. Something that didn't belong anywhere near my mate's clothes.

The bathroom door opened, releasing a cloud of steam. Easton emerged, skin scrubbed pink, hair dripping. The chemical smell of soap was overwhelming—he'd used the harsh antibacterial kind, the stuff that stripped away scent markers.

He froze when he saw me holding his shirt.

"Clara—"

"Who folds your clothes like this?" My voice came out steadier than I felt. "You can barely fold a towel."

"The hotel staff." Too quick. Too rehearsed. "They offered a packing service."

I stood slowly, the shirt still clutched in my hands. Beneath the soap, beneath the steam, I could still smell it. That faint, lingering sweetness that made my wolf bare her teeth.

"Your mind-link," I said quietly. "Why are you blocking me?"

Something flickered across his face—guilt, defensiveness, I couldn't tell. "I'm not—it's just been a long trip. I need some space to decompress."

Space. From his pregnant mate. From the bond the Moon Goddess herself had forged between us.

I looked down at the shirt in my hands, at the precise creases that spoke of someone else's careful touch. At the scent that didn't belong.

"What happened in the Northern Territories, Easton?"

He turned away, reaching for a towel. "Nothing that concerns you. Pack business."

The wall in our mind-link remained solid. Unyielding.

And I knew, with a certainty that made my blood run cold, that my mate was lying to me.