The basement room they assigned me smelled of wet earth and abandonment, a fitting grave for the life I used to know. I had spent the last hour dragging heavy cardboard boxes down the narrow servant’s staircase, my muscles trembling from exertion and the lingering shock of the Alpha command Wyatt had used on me the night before.

My hands were raw as I trudged back up to the main hall for the final item: my mother’s upright piano. It was an antique, the wood scarred and the keys slightly yellowed, but it was the only piece of her soul I had left. When I played it, I could almost feel her hand resting on my shoulder, humming along.

When I reached the landing, my blood ran cold.

Nina stood by the instrument, running a manicured red fingernail along the fallboard. Two burly Delta wolves stood behind her, holding heavy sledgehammers that looked obscenely large in the refined hallway.

"It really is an eyesore, isn't it?" Nina mused aloud as I froze in the doorway. She didn't look at me, but I knew she sensed my presence. Her lips curled into a smirk. "It takes up so much space. And the acoustics in here... it just creates clutter."

"Don't touch it," I whispered, my voice hoarse. I stepped forward, panic rising in my chest. "Please, Nina. It was my mother's. I'll move it to the basement. I'll keep it out of sight."

Nina turned then, her eyes gleaming with malicious delight. " The basement is for storage of useful things, Arabella. Not trash."

"It's not trash!" I cried out, rushing to shield the piano with my body. "Wyatt! Wyatt, please!"

I looked up toward the mezzanine balcony. Wyatt was there. He leaned against the railing, a mug of coffee in his hand, watching the scene below with an expression of bored indifference. His amber eyes, once so full of warmth for me, were now barren wastelands.

"Wyatt," I begged, tears spilling over. "You know what this means to me. You used to sit and listen to me play. Please, don't let her do this."

Wyatt took a slow sip of his coffee. "Nina is right," he said, his voice flat and carrying easily across the distance. "It’s clutter. And I am tired of looking at reminders of a traitor's bloodline."

He nodded to the Deltas.

"No!" I screamed.

One of the Deltas grabbed me by the waist, effortlessly hauling me back as I kicked and clawed at the air. The other stepped forward, raising the sledgehammer high above his head.

"Don't look away," Nina whispered, leaning close to my ear as the hammer came down.

*CRACK.*

The sound was sickening—the splintering of aged wood and the discordant, agonizing scream of snapping piano wires. It sounded like a living thing dying. I sobbed, my legs giving out, but the guard held me upright, forcing me to watch.

Again and again, the hammer fell. Keys flew across the marble floor like shattered teeth. The beautiful mahogany frame turned into splinters. Within minutes, the only voice I had left in this pack was reduced to a pile of scrap wood and tangled wire.

Wyatt didn't stay to watch the cleanup. He turned his back and walked into his office, closing the door on my grief.

***

Weeks bled into a grey haze of servitude.

I was no longer Arabella, the Luna. I was just 'the girl,' or 'traitor,' or simply ignored. My silk dresses were replaced by a rough, grey uniform that scratched my skin. My days started before dawn, scrubbing floors until my knuckles bled, and ended long after midnight in the damp cold of the basement.

But the worst torture wasn't the labor. It was the meals.

I was forced to serve them. Every morning and every evening, I had to stand by the table, pouring wine and fetching platters while Wyatt and Nina sat in the seats that should have been mine. I watched Nina touch his arm, heard her giggle at his jokes, saw the way he looked at her—not with love, perhaps, but with a terrifying acceptance that shattered my heart anew every single day.

"Coffee, Arabella," Nina snapped, snapping her fingers. "And try not to spill it this time."

I moved toward the table, the silver pot heavy in my trembling hand. The air in the dining room was thick with the scent of fried bacon and heavy cologne, and suddenly, it was too much.

A wave of nausea rolled over me, violent and sudden. My vision blurred at the edges, the room tilting on its axis. The smell of the food turned rancid in my nose. I swayed, clutching the edge of the table to keep from collapsing.

"Whoa there," Beta Marcus muttered, pulling his plate back as the coffee pot wavered dangerously close to his lap.

I squeezed my eyes shut, fighting the bile rising in my throat. My wolf was silent, curled into a tight ball of misery deep within me, offering no strength. I felt unusually exhausted lately, a bone-deep fatigue that sleep couldn't cure, accompanied by these dizzy spells that left me breathless.

"I... I'm sorry," I gasped, steadying myself with shaking hands. "I just felt dizzy."

"Oh, for Goddess's sake," Nina sighed, rolling her eyes. "She's doing it for attention, Wyatt. Look at her, dramatic as always."

I looked at Wyatt, hoping for a flicker of concern. Just a crumb. I was his mate. Even if he hated me, his wolf should sense my distress.

Wyatt lowered his fork, his jaw tightening. He looked at my pale face, at the sweat beading on my forehead, and his expression hardened into pure disgust.

"Stop acting like a martyr, Arabella," he growled, his voice cold enough to freeze the blood in my veins. "If you are too weak to pour coffee, then get out of my sight. I have a pack to run, and I don't have time for your pathetic attempts at sympathy."

The canvas bag dug into my shoulder, heavy with medical supplies that Nina insisted were critical for the Northern Outpost. The morning fog was thick, clinging to the trees like ghostly fingers, dampening the sound of my footsteps on the forest floor.

"No vehicles available," Nina had said, her voice dripping with faux sympathy as she shoved the bag into my arms. "The warriors are all on patrol. Unless you want our injured scouts to suffer, you'll have to walk."

I wiped sweat from my forehead, despite the chill in the air. My stomach churned again, that strange, persistent nausea that had plagued me for weeks. I paused, leaning against a rough pine tree to catch my breath. My wolf was still silent, buried deep under layers of grief and the crushing weight of Wyatt’s rejection of our bond, but my human instincts were screaming.

Something was wrong.

The woods were too quiet. No birds. No rustling of small game. Just the heavy, oppressive silence of a predator lying in wait.

Then the wind shifted, carrying a scent that made my blood freeze—sulfur, unwashed bodies, and rotting meat. Rogues.

I spun around, but it was too late. Three figures emerged from the dense undergrowth, their eyes wild and hungry. They weren't in wolf form, but their teeth were bared, yellow and sharp. Their clothes were little more than rags, stained with dirt and dried blood.

"Well, look what we have here," the largest one sneered, stepping forward. He sniffed the air loudly. "The fallen Luna. Smells like heartbreak and... something sweet."

"Stay back," I warned, though my voice trembled. I backed away, my heels sinking into the soft earth. "I am of the Dark Moon Pack. Alpha Wyatt will—"

"Alpha Wyatt threw you out like garbage," the second rogue laughed, a grating sound like gravel in a mixer. "Everyone knows. You're fair game, sweetheart. No pack, no mate, no protection."

They circled me, closing the distance. Panic, cold and sharp, pierced through my chest. But beneath the fear, something else ignited—a fierce, burning instinct I had never felt before. My hand flew instinctively to my stomach, shielding it. I didn't know why, but the thought of them touching me, hurting whatever frail spark of life remained in my body, made me snarl.

When the first rogue lunged, I didn't freeze. I swung the heavy bag of medical supplies with every ounce of strength I had, smashing it into his face. He howled, stumbling back with a bloody nose.

"Run," my mind screamed.

I bolted. Branches whipped against my face, tearing at my skin, but I didn't stop. I could hear their heavy panting behind me, the snap of twigs as they gave chase. I knew the terrain better than they did—I had played in these woods as a child.

Ahead, the ground dropped off sharply into a ravine choked with thorny blackberry bushes. It was dangerous, steep, and dark. Perfect.

Without hesitation, I threw myself over the edge. I tumbled down the slope, the thorns tearing at my grey uniform and slicing into my arms and legs. I bit my tongue to keep from screaming as I slammed into the muddy bottom, rolling into a small crevice beneath a fallen log.

I lay there for hours, shivering in the mud, listening to them prowl above. They cursed my name, kicking rocks down the slope, but the dense thorns masked my scent just enough. I curled into a ball, my hands still protectively clutching my abdomen, tears mixing with the dirt on my face.

***

By the time I limped back to the Pack House, the sun was rising, casting long, accusing shadows across the lawn. My uniform was in tatters, covered in mud and dried blood. My ankle throbbed with every step, and the rogue scent clung to my skin like a disease.

I just wanted a hot shower. I wanted to feel safe.

But as I pushed open the heavy front doors, I realized safety was a memory.

Wyatt and Nina were standing in the grand foyer. Nina was crying—fake, theatrical sobs—while Wyatt paced like a caged tiger, his aura radiating a terrifying heat.

"There she is!" Nina shrieked, pointing a manicured finger at me. "I told you, Wyatt! I told you she was sneaking out!"

Wyatt stopped pacing. He turned slowly, his eyes locking onto me. For a second, I saw relief flash in his amber gaze, but it was instantly incinerated by rage as he inhaled deeply.

He didn't smell the blood. He didn't smell the fear. He smelled *them*.

"Rogues," he growled, the word vibrating through the floorboards. He stalked toward me, his nostrils flaring. "You smell like male rogues."

"Wyatt, please," I rasped, my throat raw. "It was a trap. They ambushed me. I barely escaped..."

"A trap?" Nina scoffed, stepping up beside him. "Don't lie, Arabella. You didn't want to deliver the supplies. You wanted to meet your lovers at the border. I saw you leave with a smile on your face!"

"No!" I cried, looking desperately at Wyatt. "She sent me there! She said there were no cars! Wyatt, look at me! I'm bleeding!"

Wyatt grabbed my chin, forcing my head up. His grip was bruising. He leaned in, sniffing my neck where the rogue's scent was strongest. His face twisted in disgust, his jealousy flaring hot and irrational. He didn't see a victim; he saw property that had been touched by another.

"You reek of them," he spat, shoving me away so hard I stumbled and fell to the floor. "I thought you were just a traitor's daughter, Arabella. I didn't know you were a whore."

"I'm not!" I sobbed, clutching my stomach as pain cramped through me. "I would never—"

"Get her out of my sight," Wyatt roared, turning his back on me. "Lock her in her room. If she tries to leave to meet her mongrels again, break her legs."

He didn't take me to the infirmary.

That was the first realization that cut through the haze of pain radiating from my twisted ankle. Wyatt’s grip on my upper arm was iron-tight, his fingers digging into my flesh with bruising force as he dragged me past the polished oak doors of the healing wing and shoved me toward the heavy, reinforced door that led to the dungeons.

"Wyatt, please," I gasped, stumbling as my injured foot dragged uselessly against the floor. "I need a healer. My ankle..."

"You don't deserve healing," he snarled, not breaking his stride. He threw the door open, the smell of damp stone and mildew rushing up to meet us. "You deserve to rot."

He hauled me down the spiral stone staircase, the air growing colder with every step. My heart hammered against my ribs, a frantic drumbeat of terror. I had been a Luna, or at least I was supposed to be. Now, I was being dragged into the bowels of my own home like a criminal.

He stopped in front of the furthest cell, a cramped space with nothing but a cot and a bucket. He shoved me inside with enough force that I hit the opposite wall, collapsing onto the cold, unforgiving stone floor. A sharp cry tore from my throat as fresh pain exploded in my leg.

Wyatt stood on the other side of the silver bars, his chest heaving. His eyes were glowing a menacing crimson, his wolf fighting for control, but not to protect me. To destroy me.

"Tell me his name," he demanded, his voice dropping to a dangerous, guttural growl.

I pushed myself up to a sitting position, cradling my throbbing ankle. Tears streamed down my face, mixing with the dirt and dried blood from the rogue attack. "There is no one, Wyatt! I told you! It was an ambush. They were trying to hurt me!"

"Liar!" He slammed his fist against the bars, the metallic clang echoing through the empty dungeon. "You smell like him. You smell like a feral male. Did you let him touch you? Did you offer yourself to him to spite me?"

"I fought them off!" I screamed back, my voice cracking. "I fought them to survive! Why can't you smell the fear on me? Why do you only smell what you want to hate?"

He stared at me, his expression twisting into a mask of pure loathing. "You stay here, Arabella. No food. No water. You stay in the dark until you decide to give me a name."

With that, he turned on his heel and stormed out. The heavy door at the top of the stairs slammed shut, plunging me into silence.

I curled into a ball on the thin, moth-eaten mattress, shivering as the damp cold seeped into my bones. Hours ticked by in the darkness. My ankle throbbed with a dull, rhythmic ache, but as the adrenaline faded, another sensation took over.

The nausea.

It rolled over me in a sickening wave, stronger than the smell of the dungeon. I scrambled to the corner of the cell and retched into the bucket, my body convulsing. I wiped my mouth with the back of my hand, leaning my head against the cold stone wall to steady the spinning room.

It wasn't just fear. It wasn't just the smell of the cell.

My hand drifted instinctively to my lower abdomen. I did the math in my head, counting the weeks. The stress of the demotion, the grief over my father—I had blamed my missed cycle on the trauma. But the dizziness, the aversion to strong smells, the bone-deep exhaustion...

My breath hitched.

A soft scuffing sound came from the stairs. I froze, my heart leaping into my throat. Was Wyatt coming back to finish me off?

"Luna?" a tiny voice whispered.

I squinted into the gloom. A small figure crept toward the bars. It was Daisy, a young Omega who worked in the kitchens. She had always been kind to me, sneaking me extra bread when Nina wasn't looking.

"Daisy?" I whispered back, crawling toward the bars. "You shouldn't be here. If Wyatt catches you..."

"I brought you water," she murmured, sliding a plastic bottle through the bars. Her eyes were wide with fear. "And... I heard you sick. My mom, she... she gets like that when she's with child."

She hesitated, then reached into her apron pocket. "I stole this from the infirmary supply closet. I thought... maybe..."

She slid a small, white box through the bars. A pregnancy test.

My hands trembled as I took it. "Thank you," I choked out. "Now go. Please, before he hurts you."

Daisy nodded and scurried away, leaving me alone with the small plastic stick that held my fate.

I waited in the dim light, my heart pounding so hard it hurt. I prayed to the Moon Goddess, a prayer more desperate than any I had ever whispered before. If I was pregnant... if I carried his heir... he couldn't cast me out. He couldn't kill me. A pup was a blessing. A pup was the one thing that superseded all pack laws. It was a bridge. Maybe, just maybe, this baby could remind Wyatt of the love we were supposed to share.

I held the stick up to the sliver of moonlight filtering through the high, barred window.

Two pink lines.

Positive.

A sob broke from my chest, but it wasn't one of sorrow. It was hope. Fragile, terrifying, beautiful hope. I pressed my hand against my flat stomach, feeling a fierce protectiveness surge through my veins, stronger than the pain in my ankle, stronger than the cold of the dungeon.

"I'm going to protect you," I whispered into the darkness, tears hot on my cheeks. "Your father doesn't know yet, little one. But when he does... everything will change. He can't hate us. Not you."

For the first time in weeks, I didn't feel like a prisoner. I felt like a mother.