The Defiant Ex-Luna's Hidden Royal Pup

Ember POV The Blackwood Pack's Trauma Center smelled of sterile bleach and raw iron. I had just finished hooking an IV to a young Warrior dehydrated from overtraining when the heavy double doors violently swung open. The scent hit me before the sight did. Crisp cedar and impending storm—my husband, Alpha Damien Blackwood. But today, his intoxicating scent was suffocated by a cloying, cheap synthetic floral perfume that made my stomach churn. He strode in, carrying a woman wrapped entirely in his oversized trench coat. "*Clear the room!*" His command echoed off the seamless vinyl floors, a dominant roar that made lesser wolves flinch and scramble backward. But the order lacked the crushing, knee-bending force of a true Alpha's Command—not yet. That weapon would come later, reserved for the moment he truly wished to break me. Still, the threat of it hummed beneath every syllable, a blade he kept half-drawn. As a wolfless Luna, I felt the pressure like a vice around my temples, but without an inner wolf to force me to my knees, I remained standing. A weak whimper slipped from beneath the coat. That sickly-sweet scent confirmed it. Allena Thorne. The She-wolf who had made no secret of coveting my title. Duty overrode the sudden, sharp ache in my chest. I stepped forward, reaching for the blood-stained hem of the coat to assess the trauma. "Alpha, I need to see—" Damien’s hand shot out, shoving me backward with brutal force. My body flew back, my ribs slamming hard against the metal edge of the nurse's station. Pain flared through my chest, stealing my breath. His eyes flashed pitch-black—his inner wolf, Tyrant, taking control. A possessive, guttural growl ripped from his throat. "*Don't touch her. Prep a trauma bay, now!*" Minutes later, the sterile hum of the ultrasound machine filled Trauma Bay 1. I stood in the corner, a ghost in my own hospital, gripping my official medical slate. The Pack's lead doctor stared at the monitor, his brow furrowed. "It's a ruptured corpus luteum," the doctor said carefully. He glanced between Damien and the sobbing Allena. "Alpha... has she engaged in any strenuous physical activity in the last few hours?" In our world, that was the clinical euphemism for mating. Allena buried her face into Damien’s chest, weeping louder. Damien’s usually stoic face turned ashen. The silence stretched, thick and suffocating, until he finally forced out a single, damning word. "Yes." His jaw tightened the instant the word escaped. I saw it clearly—the flash of regret, the frantic recalculation behind those darkening eyes. The lead doctor had cornered him with a direct medical question, the monitors screaming behind them, Allena still hemorrhaging. Lying would have required a creative explanation he didn't have time to fabricate under the fluorescent lights of a trauma bay. But now, with that single syllable hanging in the sterile air like a guillotine blade, I could see him already scrambling to contain the fallout. His gaze darted to the medical slate in my hands, and I knew: the second he walked out of this room, he would come for my records. The tip of my ballpoint pen snapped, piercing straight through the thick paper on my medical slate. The sharp sound made Damien flinch. Whatever fragile, foolish hope I had harbored for our marriage shattered into dust, leaving behind a wasteland of absolute ice. Frustration and shame radiated off Damien. He lashed out, kicking a red biohazard bin across the room. It clattered loudly against the tiles, spilling its empty contents. I didn't blink. I walked over, calmly righted the bin, and pulled a critical care consent form from my slate. I stepped into his personal space, my face a mask of pure, clinical indifference. "Sign," I demanded, my voice devoid of any warmth. Damien stared at me, his jaw clenching as he searched my eyes for tears, for anger—for anything. Finding only a void, he snatched the pen and angrily scrawled his name. I took the slate back, turned on my heel, and walked out of the trauma bay without a backward glance. The heavy sliding door hissed shut behind me, cutting off Allena's whimpers. Standing alone in the stark white hallway, I pulled my phone from my scrub pocket. The screen lit up, displaying a calendar reminder that had been counting down for seven years. *Pack Alliance Contract: Expiration in 3 days.*