The nursery was supposed to be a secret. It was a tiny room at the end of the hall that used to be a storage closet, far away from Mavis’s prying eyes and the heavy, suffocating scent of her incense. I had scrubbed the floors on my hands and knees until my skin was raw, desperate to create one clean, safe place for the life growing inside me.

I was folding a tiny yellow blanket—yellow, because we didn't know if it was a boy or a girl yet—when the door slammed open. The wood splintered against the wall, the sound like a gunshot in the quiet room.

Gunner stood there. His chest was heaving, his shirt soaked with sweat, and his eyes... his eyes were unrecognizable. The warm blue ocean I used to drown in was gone, replaced by a turbulent, stormy gray that screamed murder.

"Gunner?" I whispered, clutching the blanket to my chest. "What's wrong? Is it the rogues?"

He didn't answer. He stalked into the room, his heavy boots leaving mud on the pristine floor I had worked so hard to clean. He looked around at the humble preparations—the second-hand crib I'd dragged in from the attic, the mobile made of dried wildflowers.

"You built a nest for it," he snarled, his voice vibrating with a low, dangerous growl. "For the parasite."

"Don't call our baby that," I said, my voice trembling but firm. I took a step toward him, reaching for the bond that still faintly hummed between us. It was weak, frayed by Mavis’s dark magic, but it was there. I pushed my own aura toward him—my healer's calm, the soft, white light that used to soothe his nightmares.

"Stop!" he roared, flinching as if I had thrown acid at him. He slammed his hands over his ears. "Get out of my head! Mavis warned me about this. She said you'd try to lure me. A siren's song to make me forget my duty!"

"It's not a lure, Gunner! It's love!" I cried, tears spilling over. "I am your mate!"

"You are a vessel for our destruction!"

With a roar of pure rage, Gunner swept his arm across the changing table. Powder, lotions, and the stack of tiny, folded clothes went flying, crashing against the far wall. The sound of shattering glass filled the small room.

I screamed, throwing myself in front of the crib as he turned toward it. "No! Gunner, please! It's just wood! It's just a bed!"

He grabbed the crib rail, his knuckles white. With a sickening crunch, he ripped the side off and hurled it across the room. "There will be no bed! There will be no nursery! Because there will be no monster!"

He turned on me, looming over my trembling form. "You will terminate it, Camila. Tonight. Mavis has prepared the tonic. You will drink it, and we will flush this curse out of our pack before it kills us all."

"I would rather die," I hissed, backing away until my spine hit the cold wall. My hands covered my stomach protectively. "You'll have to kill me first."

Gunner looked at me, and for a second, I saw a flicker of the man he used to be—the man who defied the Council for me. But then, the shadows in his eyes deepened, swirling like black smoke.

"If that is what it takes to save my pack," he whispered, his voice dead, "then so be it."

***

The next morning, the sun didn't rise. The sky was a bruised purple, heavy with unshed rain.

Two warriors dragged me out of the Pack House. I didn't walk; I couldn't. My legs had given out hours ago from fear. They hauled me to the gathering circle, the sacred ground where Gunner had once claimed me in front of everyone. Now, the dirt was hard and unforgiving.

The entire pack was there. Hundreds of them. They formed a tight circle, their faces hard masks of hatred. Mavis stood on the raised dais, wearing a robe of crimson silk that looked like fresh blood. She was smiling.

Gunner stood next to her. He looked hollowed out, a shell of an Alpha, but his power was still terrifying. It rolled off him in suffocating waves, forcing the wolves in the front row to their knees.

"Kneel," Gunner commanded.

The warriors released me, and I collapsed into the dirt. I tried to lift my head, to look him in the eye, to find one last shred of mercy.

"Please," I croaked, my throat raw. "Gunner... look at me. It's Cam."

He didn't look. He stared over my head, at the horizon where the storm clouds were gathering. He took a deep breath, and the air around us crackled with ozone and magic. The Alpha Tone—the voice that could compel any wolf to obey or die—began to build in his chest.

"I, Alpha Gunner Mitchell of the Blood River Pack," he boomed. The sound hit me physically, like a hammer to the chest. I gasped, clutching the dirt.

"No!" I screamed, but the sound was swallowed by the wind.

"Do hereby reject you, Camila Rogers," he continued, his voice devoid of emotion, robotic and cold. "As my mate, as my Luna, and as a member of this pack."

The pain hit instantly. It wasn't like a physical wound; it was the tearing of my soul. I felt the golden thread that connected our hearts snap with a violent, agonizing recoil. It felt like my chest was being ripped open from the inside out.

But he wasn't finished.

His eyes finally snapped down to mine, glowing with a terrible, unnatural light. "And I reject your cursed offspring. I deny it my blood. I deny it my name. I deny it life."

The world turned white.

A scream tore from my throat that didn't sound human. It was the sound of a mother's heart shattering. The rejection of the pup—the Alpha's direct command denying his own blood—was a magical death sentence.

I doubled over, clutching my belly as a cramp, sharper than any knife, twisted inside me.

"No, no, no!" I sobbed, curling into a ball in the dirt. "Stay with me, little one. Stay with me!"

But the bond was severed. The lifeline that tethered the baby to its father's strength was gone. I felt a wet warmth spreading between my legs, soaking through my thin dress. The scent of copper and tragedy filled the air.

The pack watched in silence. No one moved. No one helped.

Through the haze of agony, I looked up. Gunner was swaying on his feet, his hand over his heart as if he, too, had been shot. But Mavis... Mavis was laughing. A soft, tinkling sound that chilled my blood even as my life drained into the mud.

The mud was cold against my cheek, but the warmth spreading between my legs was hotter than fire. It was the heat of life leaving me. My baby. My little yellow blanket. Gone.

The silence of the pack was suffocating. Hundreds of eyes watched me bleed into the earth, their faces twisted with a mixture of relief and disgust. They thought the curse was finally being purged. They thought my pain was their salvation.

Mavis stood above me, her crimson robe pristine against the gray sky. For a split second, as lightning flashed overhead, her face rippled. The beautiful, concerned mask slipped, revealing rotting, black teeth and eyes that looked like empty sockets. She smirked at me—a private, horrific victory just for my dying eyes.

"Finish it," a warrior shouted from the crowd. "Kill the leech!"

The chant began, low and rhythmic. "Kill. Kill. Kill."

Gunner stood frozen, his hand over his heart, looking at the blood staining my dress. He looked like a man waking up from a nightmare only to realize he was the monster.

Suddenly, a howl shattered the air. It wasn't a normal wolf's cry; it was a sound that vibrated in the marrow of my bones, ancient and terrifying. The wind stopped. The rain hung suspended in the air.

A voice boomed, not from a throat, but from the sky itself.

*"Enough."*

The pack fell to their knees, whining in submission. Even Gunner stumbled back, his Alpha aura crushed by something far older and stronger.

*"The blood debt to the Rogers line is paid,"* the voice thundered. It was the Lycan Lord, the ancient recluse who owed my father a life debt. I had never met him, never called upon him, but he was watching. *"She leaves this territory alive. Touch her, and your bloodline ends tonight."*

The pressure lifted as quickly as it had come. The pack remained kneeling, terrified.

Gunner looked at me, his eyes wide and wet. "Camila..."

I didn't answer. I couldn't. Darkness swallowed me whole.

***

I woke up in the infirmary, the smell of antiseptic burning my nose. My body felt hollow. Light. Wrong. I reached for my stomach, but it was flat, the life that had fluttered there just yesterday extinguished like a candle in a storm.

A sob tore from my throat, raw and jagged. I curled into a ball, screaming into the thin pillow until my voice gave out. They took everything. My mate. My home. My child.

My hand brushed against my neck. The skin there was raised and hot—the Luna mark. Gunner’s claim.

It pulsed, a sick, rhythmic throb that connected me to him. Even after the rejection, the physical mark remained, a brand of ownership from the man who had murdered our child with his words.

I couldn't breathe. It felt like a collar. A chain.

My eyes landed on a tray of medical instruments left by a careless nurse. A silver scalpel glinted under the fluorescent light.

I didn't think. I sat up, my head spinning, and grabbed the handle. The silver burned my skin upon contact, but the pain was grounding. It was real. Unlike the love Gunner had promised me.

I walked to the mirror. I looked like a ghost—pale, bloodshot eyes, hair matted with mud. On the side of my neck, the intricate mark of the Blood River Pack mocked me.

"I reject you," I whispered to the reflection. My voice was broken, but my hand was steady.

I pressed the silver blade to my skin.

The pain was blinding. It was white-hot agony that seared through my nerves, making my vision spotty. I didn't stop. I dragged the blade down, slicing through the claim, carving the symbol of his ownership off my body. Blood poured down my shoulder, mixing with the tears on my chest.

"I am not yours," I gritted out through clenched teeth. *Slash.* "I am not cursed." *Slash.* "I am free."

The door burst open.

"Luna! No!" a guard shouted, rushing forward.

Before he could reach me, a canister rolled across the floor, hissing. Thick, gray smoke exploded into the room, blinding and choking. The guard coughed, collapsing as the gas hit him.

A shadow moved through the smoke. Strong arms wrapped around my waist, lifting me effortlessly. The scent of pine needles and wild earth filled my nose—not Gunner’s scent. This was wilder. Freer.

"I've got you, Cam," a rough voice whispered in my ear. "I've got you."

"Eli?" I wheezed, the scalpel dropping from my bloody hand.

"Sleep now," he commanded gently, kicking the door shut behind us and sprinting down the hallway. "We're leaving this hellhole."

We moved fast. Eli was a blur of motion, taking back exits and servant corridors I didn't even know existed. He moved with the predatory grace of a Rogue who had survived entirely on instinct for years. We burst out into the cool night air, the rain washing the blood from my neck.

We reached the river that marked the edge of the territory. The water was black and rushing, angry with the storm.

A howl ripped through the night behind us.

*Titan.* Gunner’s wolf.

It was a sound of pure, unadulterated agony. It was the sound of a wolf realizing its mate was gone. I felt a phantom pull in my chest, Gunner trying to use the command, trying to force me to stop.

*Stop. Come back. Mine.* The words echoed in my head, faint and desperate.

I looked back one last time. High up on the balcony of the Pack House, a lone figure stood silhouetted against the lightning. Gunner.

He wasn't moving. He wasn't chasing. He was letting me go.

"Don't look back, Cam," Eli said, tightening his grip as he stepped into the icy water. "There's nothing there for you but death."

I buried my face in Eli’s chest, the water rising around us. As we crossed the boundary line, the last thread of the bond snapped. The pain in my chest finally went dull.

I was empty. I was alone. But I was alive.