When My Mate Murdered Our Unborn Pup

Five years. It had been five years since Alpha Gunner Mitchell claimed me, the broken, wolfless girl from the Silver Moon Pack, as his mate. Five years of sleeping beside him, breathing in his scent of pine and rain, and five years of ignoring the whispers that followed me like a shadow.

“The Black Widow,” they called me. The cursed girl. The one whose lack of a wolf brought death to her parents and would surely bring ruin to the Blood River Pack.

Tonight, however, the whispers were drowned out by the swell of violins. The Grand Hall was draped in crimson and gold to celebrate the fifth anniversary of Gunner’s Alpha ceremony. I stood by his side, my hand trembling slightly in the crook of his arm. I wore a gown of midnight blue, chosen by Gunner to match the night sky, but I felt like an imposter wrapped in silk.

“Chin up, Camila,” Gunner murmured, his voice a low rumble that vibrated against my ribs. He leaned down, brushing his lips against my temple. “You are their Luna. Let them see you.”

I looked up at him. His jaw was set, his blue eyes storming with a fierce protectiveness that made my heart ache. He knew. He always knew how the Council looked at me.

Across the room, Head Elder Marcus Reynolds raised a glass in a toast that felt more like a threat. His eyes lingered on my neck, bare of the Luna mark Gunner had placed there years ago—a mark that couldn't fully form because my wolf was dormant. A murmur rippled through the gathered crowd, a wave of sneers and averted gazes.

Gunner stiffened. The air in the room suddenly grew heavy, charged with the static of his Alpha aura. The music faltered.

“My mate,” Gunner’s voice boomed, not a shout, but a command that silenced the room instantly. He pulled me flush against his chest, his hand splayed possessively over my lower back. “Is the heart of this pack. Disrespect her, and you challenge your Alpha.”

He released a pulse of pure dominance. It hit the room like a physical blow. Around us, knees buckled. Warriors, Deltas, even the arrogant Elder Marcus, were forced to bow their heads, their necks bared in submission. It was a terrifying display of power, a shield forged from his own authority to protect me.

“I love you,” I whispered, burying my face in his chest to hide the tears burning my eyes.

“Always,” he breathed back.

But the moment of triumph was shattered by the frantic arrival of Gamma Silas. He burst through the double doors, his face pale and slick with sweat. He didn't bow; he rushed straight to Gunner, whispering urgently into his ear.

I felt the change instantly through our bond. Gunner’s calm dominance fractured, replaced by a spike of cold, sharp dread. He pulled away from me, his warmth vanishing.

“Stay here, Cam,” he ordered, his tone leaving no room for argument. “Entertain the guests.”

He strode out with Silas, leaving me alone in the center of the bowing crowd. But I couldn't stay. The dread leaking through the bond was too potent. It tasted like ash.

Ignoring the glares of the guests as they straightened up, I slipped out the side door, following Gunner’s trail toward the pack borders.

The night air was thick, unusually stagnant. When I reached the northern perimeter, I saw them. Gunner stood near the tree line, staring at the ground. Dozens of dead birds littered the grass, their bodies twisted as if they had fallen mid-flight. Beyond them, the shimmering air of the border wards—the magical barrier that kept Rogues out—was flickering.

“It’s dissolving, Alpha,” Silas said, his voice trembling. “Just… melting away. We’re losing power.”

Gunner swayed. I gasped, feeling a sudden drain on my own energy, a sympathetic echo of the sap on his strength. He was the battery of the pack; if the wards were dying, it was draining him dry.

“Gunner!” I cried out, stepping forward.

Before he could answer, a figure emerged from the shadows of the neutral territory beyond the failing ward.

A woman. She was tall, draped in white robes that seemed to glow in the moonlight. She didn't look like a Rogue; she looked regal, her dark hair cascading down her back like a river of ink. But as the wind shifted, her scent hit me. It was sweet—cloyingly sweet, like lilies left too long on a grave.

“Who goes there?” Gunner snarled, his claws extending.

“Peace, Alpha Mitchell,” the woman said. Her voice was melodic, carrying a strange resonance. “I am Mavis Torres. A daughter of the Lycan bloodline, and a servant of the Moon.”

Just then, a sentry who had been patrolling the breach collapsed, convulsing, foam gathering at his mouth. The dark energy seeping through the broken ward had hit him.

Mavis didn't hesitate. She stepped through the flickering barrier as if it weren't there. She knelt beside the convulsing wolf and placed a hand on his chest. A blinding flash of white light erupted from her palm. When the light faded, the wolf lay still, breathing peacefully. The foam was gone.

Gunner stared, his desperation warring with his instincts. I saw his eyes flash gold—Titan, his wolf, was surfacing, growling low in his throat. Titan didn't like her.

“The rot is deep in your lands, Alpha,” Mavis said, standing up and brushing dirt from her pristine robes. She looked at Gunner with eyes that seemed too old, too knowing. “The Goddess has sent me to purge it. But I cannot help you if you do not invite me in.”

Gunner looked at the dead birds. He looked at the healed sentry. Then, he looked at me, standing in the shadows. I shook my head slightly, a silent plea. *Something is wrong.*

But Gunner was an Alpha watching his kingdom crumble. Fear for the pack eclipsed the warning of his wolf.

“You saved my man,” Gunner said, his voice rough. He forced his claws to retract. “If you can save my pack… you are welcome here, Mavis.”

Mavis smiled. It didn't reach her eyes.

As she stepped fully onto pack lands, a chill raced down my spine, colder than any winter night. The bond between Gunner and me gave a violent shudder, as if something sharp had just been driven between us.