When My Alpha Killed Our Baby, I Rejected Him

The basement room they assigned me smelled of wet earth and abandonment, a fitting grave for the life I used to know. I had spent the last hour dragging heavy cardboard boxes down the narrow servant’s staircase, my muscles trembling from exertion and the lingering shock of the Alpha command Wyatt had used on me the night before.

My hands were raw as I trudged back up to the main hall for the final item: my mother’s upright piano. It was an antique, the wood scarred and the keys slightly yellowed, but it was the only piece of her soul I had left. When I played it, I could almost feel her hand resting on my shoulder, humming along.

When I reached the landing, my blood ran cold.

Nina stood by the instrument, running a manicured red fingernail along the fallboard. Two burly Delta wolves stood behind her, holding heavy sledgehammers that looked obscenely large in the refined hallway.

"It really is an eyesore, isn't it?" Nina mused aloud as I froze in the doorway. She didn't look at me, but I knew she sensed my presence. Her lips curled into a smirk. "It takes up so much space. And the acoustics in here... it just creates clutter."

"Don't touch it," I whispered, my voice hoarse. I stepped forward, panic rising in my chest. "Please, Nina. It was my mother's. I'll move it to the basement. I'll keep it out of sight."

Nina turned then, her eyes gleaming with malicious delight. " The basement is for storage of useful things, Arabella. Not trash."

"It's not trash!" I cried out, rushing to shield the piano with my body. "Wyatt! Wyatt, please!"

I looked up toward the mezzanine balcony. Wyatt was there. He leaned against the railing, a mug of coffee in his hand, watching the scene below with an expression of bored indifference. His amber eyes, once so full of warmth for me, were now barren wastelands.

"Wyatt," I begged, tears spilling over. "You know what this means to me. You used to sit and listen to me play. Please, don't let her do this."

Wyatt took a slow sip of his coffee. "Nina is right," he said, his voice flat and carrying easily across the distance. "It’s clutter. And I am tired of looking at reminders of a traitor's bloodline."

He nodded to the Deltas.

"No!" I screamed.

One of the Deltas grabbed me by the waist, effortlessly hauling me back as I kicked and clawed at the air. The other stepped forward, raising the sledgehammer high above his head.

"Don't look away," Nina whispered, leaning close to my ear as the hammer came down.

*CRACK.*

The sound was sickening—the splintering of aged wood and the discordant, agonizing scream of snapping piano wires. It sounded like a living thing dying. I sobbed, my legs giving out, but the guard held me upright, forcing me to watch.

Again and again, the hammer fell. Keys flew across the marble floor like shattered teeth. The beautiful mahogany frame turned into splinters. Within minutes, the only voice I had left in this pack was reduced to a pile of scrap wood and tangled wire.

Wyatt didn't stay to watch the cleanup. He turned his back and walked into his office, closing the door on my grief.

***

Weeks bled into a grey haze of servitude.

I was no longer Arabella, the Luna. I was just 'the girl,' or 'traitor,' or simply ignored. My silk dresses were replaced by a rough, grey uniform that scratched my skin. My days started before dawn, scrubbing floors until my knuckles bled, and ended long after midnight in the damp cold of the basement.

But the worst torture wasn't the labor. It was the meals.

I was forced to serve them. Every morning and every evening, I had to stand by the table, pouring wine and fetching platters while Wyatt and Nina sat in the seats that should have been mine. I watched Nina touch his arm, heard her giggle at his jokes, saw the way he looked at her—not with love, perhaps, but with a terrifying acceptance that shattered my heart anew every single day.

"Coffee, Arabella," Nina snapped, snapping her fingers. "And try not to spill it this time."

I moved toward the table, the silver pot heavy in my trembling hand. The air in the dining room was thick with the scent of fried bacon and heavy cologne, and suddenly, it was too much.

A wave of nausea rolled over me, violent and sudden. My vision blurred at the edges, the room tilting on its axis. The smell of the food turned rancid in my nose. I swayed, clutching the edge of the table to keep from collapsing.

"Whoa there," Beta Marcus muttered, pulling his plate back as the coffee pot wavered dangerously close to his lap.

I squeezed my eyes shut, fighting the bile rising in my throat. My wolf was silent, curled into a tight ball of misery deep within me, offering no strength. I felt unusually exhausted lately, a bone-deep fatigue that sleep couldn't cure, accompanied by these dizzy spells that left me breathless.

"I... I'm sorry," I gasped, steadying myself with shaking hands. "I just felt dizzy."

"Oh, for Goddess's sake," Nina sighed, rolling her eyes. "She's doing it for attention, Wyatt. Look at her, dramatic as always."

I looked at Wyatt, hoping for a flicker of concern. Just a crumb. I was his mate. Even if he hated me, his wolf should sense my distress.

Wyatt lowered his fork, his jaw tightening. He looked at my pale face, at the sweat beading on my forehead, and his expression hardened into pure disgust.

"Stop acting like a martyr, Arabella," he growled, his voice cold enough to freeze the blood in my veins. "If you are too weak to pour coffee, then get out of my sight. I have a pack to run, and I don't have time for your pathetic attempts at sympathy."