After My Mate Let Our Pup Die

I pressed my palm against my stomach as I drove, feeling the tiny flutter of life inside me. My wolf was singing. Actually singing. After seven years of waiting, of watching Kendrick delay the marking ceremony with excuses that grew thinner each time, I finally had proof that the Moon Goddess had not made a mistake. Our pup. His pup. The sacred milestone every fated pair dreamed of.

The mountain road curved ahead, dark pines pressing close on either side. I'd driven this route a thousand times. Tonight it felt different. Everything felt different. I rehearsed the words in my head: Kendrick, I'm pregnant. Simple. Direct. Then I'd watch his face change, watch his Alpha aura flare with protective instinct, and finally — finally — he would set the date for our marking ceremony. No more delays. No more waiting.

My phone buzzed. Holly's name lit the screen. I smiled and ignored it. I'd tell her tomorrow, after Kendrick knew. Best friends shared everything, but this moment belonged to him first.

Headlights blazed in my rearview mirror.

I squinted against the sudden glare. The vehicle behind me was too close, high beams flooding my car with white light. I tapped my brakes gently, a signal to back off. The lights stayed locked on my bumper.

My wolf stirred uneasily.

I pressed the gas, taking the next curve faster than I should have. The headlights stayed with me. Closer now. My hands tightened on the wheel. This wasn't road rage. This was deliberate.

The impact came without warning.

Metal screamed. My car lurched forward, tires skidding on asphalt. I yanked the wheel right, trying to correct, but the vehicle behind me hit again — harder this time, a calculated shove that sent me spinning toward the guardrail. Trees blurred past. My wolf howled inside me, clawing for control, but there was no time to shift, no time to—

The guardrail crumpled like paper.

I remember the moment of weightlessness. The stomach-drop sensation of falling. Then the world inverted and everything was noise and breaking glass and pain that bloomed white-hot across my abdomen. The car hit something solid. Stopped. Silence rushed in, thick and terrible.

I couldn't breathe.

Something warm and wet spread across my thighs. I looked down. Blood. Too much blood. My wolf was screaming now, a sound only I could hear, and I understood with a clarity that cut deeper than any physical wound: the pup was gone.

No.

I pressed both hands against my stomach, as if pressure alone could hold together what was already broken. My vision swam. Voices shouted in the distance. Patrol wolves. Someone was running toward the wreckage. I tried to call out, but my throat wouldn't work.

Hands pulled me from the car. I recognized Marcus, one of Kendrick's Deltas, his face white with shock. "Luna — oh goddess, Luna, stay with me—"

I wasn't Luna. Kendrick had never marked me. But I didn't have the breath to correct him.

The medical wing smelled like antiseptic and fear. Fluorescent lights burned overhead as they wheeled me down the corridor on a gurney. I kept my hands pressed to my stomach, feeling the life inside me slip away with every heartbeat. The Healer appeared beside me, her face professionally calm, already reaching for my wrist to check my pulse.

"The pup," I whispered. "Please—"

"We'll do everything we can," she said.

Then Kendrick's voice cut through the chaos like a blade.

"Where is she? Holly — where's Holly?"

I turned my head. He was striding down the corridor, his Alpha aura blazing so bright it made the Deltas flanking him flinch. But he wasn't looking at me. His eyes were locked on the room at the end of the hall, where Holly sat on a pristine bed, one hand clutched dramatically to her stomach, her face pale and frightened.

He walked past my gurney.

Didn't stop.

Didn't even glance down.

I watched him drop to his knees beside Holly's bed, his hand covering hers, his voice rough with an emotion I had waited seven years to hear directed at me: "Is the pup okay? Tell me the pup is okay."

The Healer beside me hesitated. I felt her gaze flicker between Kendrick and me. Then she stepped away from my gurney.

"Alpha," she said quietly, moving toward Holly's room.

I lay there bleeding. Alone. My wolf had stopped screaming. The silence inside me was worse.

No one came.

I waited — I don't know how long — until a young nurse finally approached with a clipboard, her eyes avoiding mine. "We need consent for surgery," she said softly. "Your Alpha—"

"Give it to me."

She blinked. "What?"

"The form." My voice came out flat. Steady. "I'll sign it myself."

She handed it over, her hands shaking slightly. I took the pen. My signature looked surprisingly normal on the line marked PATIENT CONSENT. Like I'd signed a hundred permission slips instead of authorizing them to try to save what Kendrick had already abandoned.

I set the clipboard aside and closed my eyes.

Something inside me — something that had waited seven years, that had loved him through every delay and doubt and disappointment — went perfectly, permanently still.

When I opened my eyes again, I knew exactly what I was going to do.