When My Alpha Killed Our Baby, I Rejected Him

The canvas bag dug into my shoulder, heavy with medical supplies that Nina insisted were critical for the Northern Outpost. The morning fog was thick, clinging to the trees like ghostly fingers, dampening the sound of my footsteps on the forest floor.

"No vehicles available," Nina had said, her voice dripping with faux sympathy as she shoved the bag into my arms. "The warriors are all on patrol. Unless you want our injured scouts to suffer, you'll have to walk."

I wiped sweat from my forehead, despite the chill in the air. My stomach churned again, that strange, persistent nausea that had plagued me for weeks. I paused, leaning against a rough pine tree to catch my breath. My wolf was still silent, buried deep under layers of grief and the crushing weight of Wyatt’s rejection of our bond, but my human instincts were screaming.

Something was wrong.

The woods were too quiet. No birds. No rustling of small game. Just the heavy, oppressive silence of a predator lying in wait.

Then the wind shifted, carrying a scent that made my blood freeze—sulfur, unwashed bodies, and rotting meat. Rogues.

I spun around, but it was too late. Three figures emerged from the dense undergrowth, their eyes wild and hungry. They weren't in wolf form, but their teeth were bared, yellow and sharp. Their clothes were little more than rags, stained with dirt and dried blood.

"Well, look what we have here," the largest one sneered, stepping forward. He sniffed the air loudly. "The fallen Luna. Smells like heartbreak and... something sweet."

"Stay back," I warned, though my voice trembled. I backed away, my heels sinking into the soft earth. "I am of the Dark Moon Pack. Alpha Wyatt will—"

"Alpha Wyatt threw you out like garbage," the second rogue laughed, a grating sound like gravel in a mixer. "Everyone knows. You're fair game, sweetheart. No pack, no mate, no protection."

They circled me, closing the distance. Panic, cold and sharp, pierced through my chest. But beneath the fear, something else ignited—a fierce, burning instinct I had never felt before. My hand flew instinctively to my stomach, shielding it. I didn't know why, but the thought of them touching me, hurting whatever frail spark of life remained in my body, made me snarl.

When the first rogue lunged, I didn't freeze. I swung the heavy bag of medical supplies with every ounce of strength I had, smashing it into his face. He howled, stumbling back with a bloody nose.

"Run," my mind screamed.

I bolted. Branches whipped against my face, tearing at my skin, but I didn't stop. I could hear their heavy panting behind me, the snap of twigs as they gave chase. I knew the terrain better than they did—I had played in these woods as a child.

Ahead, the ground dropped off sharply into a ravine choked with thorny blackberry bushes. It was dangerous, steep, and dark. Perfect.

Without hesitation, I threw myself over the edge. I tumbled down the slope, the thorns tearing at my grey uniform and slicing into my arms and legs. I bit my tongue to keep from screaming as I slammed into the muddy bottom, rolling into a small crevice beneath a fallen log.

I lay there for hours, shivering in the mud, listening to them prowl above. They cursed my name, kicking rocks down the slope, but the dense thorns masked my scent just enough. I curled into a ball, my hands still protectively clutching my abdomen, tears mixing with the dirt on my face.

***

By the time I limped back to the Pack House, the sun was rising, casting long, accusing shadows across the lawn. My uniform was in tatters, covered in mud and dried blood. My ankle throbbed with every step, and the rogue scent clung to my skin like a disease.

I just wanted a hot shower. I wanted to feel safe.

But as I pushed open the heavy front doors, I realized safety was a memory.

Wyatt and Nina were standing in the grand foyer. Nina was crying—fake, theatrical sobs—while Wyatt paced like a caged tiger, his aura radiating a terrifying heat.

"There she is!" Nina shrieked, pointing a manicured finger at me. "I told you, Wyatt! I told you she was sneaking out!"

Wyatt stopped pacing. He turned slowly, his eyes locking onto me. For a second, I saw relief flash in his amber gaze, but it was instantly incinerated by rage as he inhaled deeply.

He didn't smell the blood. He didn't smell the fear. He smelled *them*.

"Rogues," he growled, the word vibrating through the floorboards. He stalked toward me, his nostrils flaring. "You smell like male rogues."

"Wyatt, please," I rasped, my throat raw. "It was a trap. They ambushed me. I barely escaped..."

"A trap?" Nina scoffed, stepping up beside him. "Don't lie, Arabella. You didn't want to deliver the supplies. You wanted to meet your lovers at the border. I saw you leave with a smile on your face!"

"No!" I cried, looking desperately at Wyatt. "She sent me there! She said there were no cars! Wyatt, look at me! I'm bleeding!"

Wyatt grabbed my chin, forcing my head up. His grip was bruising. He leaned in, sniffing my neck where the rogue's scent was strongest. His face twisted in disgust, his jealousy flaring hot and irrational. He didn't see a victim; he saw property that had been touched by another.

"You reek of them," he spat, shoving me away so hard I stumbled and fell to the floor. "I thought you were just a traitor's daughter, Arabella. I didn't know you were a whore."

"I'm not!" I sobbed, clutching my stomach as pain cramped through me. "I would never—"

"Get her out of my sight," Wyatt roared, turning his back on me. "Lock her in her room. If she tries to leave to meet her mongrels again, break her legs."