The Wolfless Maid's Royal Pups

Lyra dug her freezing fingers into the snow and dragged herself forward. A thick red smear painted the white drifts behind her.

She clamped her free hand over her lower abdomen. The grinding pain flared again, forcing a choked gasp from her throat.

"Just a little further," she whispered to the empty night.

The dim yellow glow of the medical cabin flickered twenty yards ahead. She pushed off her good knee, her soaked dress freezing to her skin. The howling wind fought to push her back, but she anchored her elbows in the ice and pulled.

She reached the wooden steps. Her arms gave out. She slammed her fist against the door base, her knuckles splitting open against the rough wood.

"Help," she rasped.

The door yanked inward. Warm air rushed over her face, smelling of dried sage and burning pine.

Thorne stared down at her, his wrinkled face pulling tight. "By the Moon. Get inside before the patrols see you."

He grabbed her under the arms and hauled her across the threshold, kicking the door shut with his foot.

"Put pressure on it," Thorne ordered. He dropped her onto a narrow wooden cot and turned to his mortar.

Lyra pressed her palms against her stomach. "Is it the poison? Did it stay in my blood?"

"Keep your voice down," Thorne scolded. He grabbed a stone pestle and crushed a handful of dried leaves with heavy strikes. "Lift your soaked skirt."

She obeyed, her hands trembling violently. The coarse linen stuck to her thighs.

He scooped a thick green paste from the bowl and pressed it directly onto her lower abdomen. The icy burn of the herbs sliced through the blinding pain.

"It is not poison," Thorne murmured. He wiped a damp cloth over her hip, then paused. He pressed two fingers against the pulse point near her pelvic bone.

His gray eyes widened.

"What is it?" Lyra demanded.

Thorne leaned in, his voice dropping to a harsh whisper. "You carry life, Omega. Two heartbeats. Both radiating an overwhelming Alpha aura."

Lyra stopped breathing.

Two heartbeats.

"That is impossible," she whispered.

"The pulse does not lie," Thorne replied firmly. "They are fighting the cold. They are strong. Extremely strong. But your body is starving. You lost too much blood out there."

"Will they survive?"

"If you survive," Thorne answered bluntly. "An Omega is not built to carry Alpha pups. They will drain your energy, your marrow, your very life force to sustain themselves."

A strange, fierce heat ignited in Lyra's chest. The agonizing betrayal in the great hall faded to background noise. She was not empty. She had an anchor now. Two of them.

"Let them take it," Lyra said, grabbing Thorne's wrist. Her nails dug into his skin. "Let them take whatever they need. Just save them. Please."

"I am trying," the old healer replied, tossing a bloody rag into a tin basin of hot water. "Drink this."

He shoved a wooden cup against her lips. Bitter tea coated her tongue. She swallowed it in three large gulps, welcoming the scalding heat.

"You must stay quiet," Thorne warned, taking the cup away. "If the council finds an unregistered Omega carrying Alpha blood, they will rip them from your womb. They view it as a threat to the pureblood lines."

"I won't let them touch my pups," Lyra swore, her jaw tightening. "They belong to me."

"They belong to the Alpha who sired them," Thorne said quietly. "Do you know who the father is?"

Lyra stared at the flickering lantern on the table. "He doesn't remember me."

Thorne exhaled heavily. "Then you must hide. I will bind your scent once you stabilize. We need to get you out of the territory before your stomach swells."

Heavy leather soles crunched against the snow outside the cabin window.

"Check the outbuildings!" a harsh voice barked. "The Alpha wants every unregistered stray hauled to the labor camps tonight."

Lyra flinched. "Labor camps?"

"Kaelen ordered a purge," Thorne whispered, moving quickly to pull a thick wool blanket over her shivering frame. "He claims rogues infiltrated the lower ranks to poison him."

"I am registered," Lyra argued, her voice shaking.

"As a scullery maid," Thorne corrected. "But you have no pack mark. To the enforcers, you are a rogue."

A fist pounded on the heavy wooden door. The hinges rattled.

"Elder Thorne! Open up!"

Thorne pointed a stern finger at Lyra. "Do not make a sound. Do not move."

He wiped his hands on his apron, grabbed a clean towel, and unlatched the door.

Cold wind whipped into the room, scattering dried herbs across the floorboards.

"What is the meaning of this?" Thorne demanded, blocking the frame with his broad shoulders.

"Alpha's orders," a guard replied, stepping onto the threshold. "We are searching for the rogue who slipped poison into his cup. No one is exempt."

"I am the pack healer. There are no rogues here. Only sick wolves."

"Move aside, Elder." The guard shoved a hand against Thorne's chest. "We search every room. If you hide a traitor, you share the noose."

"You will not disrupt my clinic. I have patients in critical condition. Their blood is on your hands if they die from the cold you are letting in."

"I don't care about your patients," the guard sneered. "Then you won't mind if I look."

That voice did not belong to a guard.

Selene pushed past the enforcer, stepping into the dim cabin. She brushed a snowflake from her emerald gown, her nose wrinkling in disgust. "It smells like dirt."

"Lady Selene," Thorne said stiffly. "This is a sterile environment."

She strolled past him. Her sharp gaze swept the room—supply cabinets, examination tables—and finally landed on the cot in the corner.

Lyra lay perfectly still under the heavy wool blanket, her eyes half-closed, her chest rising and falling in a slow, deliberate rhythm.

Selene stopped at the foot of the bed. A slow, cruel smile touched the corners of her mouth.

"The little Omega from the hall," she observed. "Still leaving messes."

"She is recovering from severe frostbite," Thorne intervened, stepping between Selene and the cot. "I must ask you to leave so I can treat my patient."

Selene ignored him. She sidestepped, her gaze dropping to the floor. The tin basin sat near the cot. The water inside was a dark, murky red.

"Frostbite?" Selene asked. She tilted her head, her eyes shifting back to Lyra's sweat-drenched face. "Frostbite does not bleed like a slaughtered pig."

Lyra tightened her grip on the blanket beneath the covers. Her heart hammered. She pressed her thighs together, praying the bleeding had stopped.

"She fell on the ice and tore her leg," Thorne lied smoothly. "It required stitches."

"Did it?" Selene's fingers trailed over the stone mortar on the wooden workbench. She picked up a handful of crushed green residue from Thorne's mixture, rolling the sticky paste between her manicured fingers. She brought it close to her nose.

"Blood-clotting root," Selene said, her voice dropping to a dangerous whisper. "And wolfsbane extract. Highly restricted materials." She dropped the herbs back onto the table, her eyes flashing with malicious triumph, and turned her head toward the open doorway.

"Alpha," Selene called out, her voice carrying crisp and clear into the freezing night, "I found a thief stealing supplies."