I was becoming a ghost, haunted by what was and what grew within. The woman who had entered her heat at a ceremonial ball felt like a stranger. That Rhea had hope. That Rhea believed in mate bonds and destiny and the power of connection. This one just had survival. And two lives depending on her ability to endure what her body demanded while her heart learned to stop wanting impossible things.
The shower ran lukewarm at best, another casualty of Millbrook’s aging infrastructure. I stood under the weak spray, washing away evidence of my self-betrayal. The water circled the drain, carrying away his phantom touch, leaving only the reality of my swollen breasts, my rounding belly, my scarred throat. I was a collection of abandoned parts, a body repurposed for growing the next generation while the current one rotted from want.
Some chains are forged in flesh and bone, not steel.
The thought followed me back to bed, where I lay counting heartbeats, mine and theirs, until dawn crept through windows that needed better curtains. The threadbare fabric did little to block the streetlight outside, casting everything in sickly orange. Another night barely survived. Another day ahead of pretending my body didn’t ache for the man who’d thrown me away. Another twenty-four hours of carrying his children while he built his kingdom on the lie of my guilt.
I closed my eyes and tried not to dream. But even in the space between sleep and wake, I could feel him. A phantom presence that lived in my blood, in my bones, in the children who grew stronger while I grew weaker.
19
— • —
Rhea
Sleep wouldn’t return after what I’d done to myself. I lay in bed for another hour, watching the clock tick from 3:17 to 4:23, my body still humming with hormones and shame. Every time I closed my eyes, I saw his face again, felt phantom touches that made my skin prickle with renewed want.
By 4:30, I gave up on sleep entirely. My wolf stirred beneath my skin, restless and demanding. She’d been caged too long in this human form, in this cramped apartment, in this life that denied every instinct. The pregnancy had made her more insistent, some primal need to run, to hunt, to prepare territory for young that would never have proper pack lands.
I peeled myself from the bed and pulled on clothes, jeans that barely buttoned over my growing belly, a hoodie that smelled like the thrift store’s mothball-and-desperation scent. The sameclothes I’d worn home from work yesterday, wrinkled from being tossed on the floor. Everything else was in the laundry basket, waiting for quarters I didn’t have.
The building’s back entrance beckoned through my window. The woods behind Millbrook called to my wolf, promising a space to run without human complications. Just an hour, I told myself. Just enough to quiet the restlessness, to burn off the hormones still flooding my system. The metal door scraped against its frame, the sound too loud in the pre-dawn quiet. I froze, waiting to see if any windows lit up, if any neighbors noticed my escape. But Millbrook slept on, exhausted by its own mundane struggles.
These weren’t the manicured forests of pack lands, with their marked trails and territorial boundaries. These were scrub woods, forgotten patches between development and farmland where nature reclaimed what humans abandoned. Empty beer cans caught moonlight beside deer paths. Plastic bags hung from branches like toxic fruit.
I stripped behind a dumpster, folding clothes carefully; I couldn’t afford to lose them. My only pair of jeans without holes, the sweater that still mostly fit over my growing belly, underwear I’d hand-washed in the sink because the laundromat cost too much. Each piece represented hours of work at Wayne’s office, dollars scraped together for survival. I tucked them behind the dumpster’s wheel, praying no one would find them before I returned.
The shift came harder now, my body protecting the twins with ferocity that worked against my own needs. The change used to flow like water, one form melting into another in seconds. Now it was all grinding resistance, bones reluctant to reshape,muscles cramping as they tried to accommodate passengers that shouldn’t exist during transformation. I gritted human teeth that wanted to become fangs, pushing through pain that would have stopped me if I’d had any other choice.
Just run. Don’t think. Just run.
Finally, fur replaced skin in a rush that left me panting on frozen ground. My wolf form showed the pregnancy more obviously, swollen sides that threw off my balance, careful gait that favored protection over speed, the unmistakable scent of carrying pups. Even in my primal form, I couldn’t escape what I was. The twins were there in every step, every breath, every movement adjusted for their presence.
But the freedom of four legs and night wind temporarily erased human worries. My paws found purchase on frost-brittle leaves, carrying me deeper into the woods. I ran the deer paths worn by generations of wildlife, following scents of rabbit and raccoon, pretending for precious minutes that I was just a wolf. Not a banished omega, not an unwed mother, not a woman growing her executioner’s children.
My wolf’s instincts sang simpler songs.Hunt. Protect. Survive.The basics that had kept our species alive before politics and mate bonds complicated everything. Out here, I didn’t need to worry about rent or vitamins or the way my body still reached for a man who’d carved me out of his life. I just needed to run, to feel earth beneath my paws, to remember I was more than a walking incubator.
The creeks were frozen at the edges but ran swiftly in the center. I splashed through, the shocking cold water, a relief against paw pads that had grown soft from too much human form. My wolfwanted to hunt, to chase down one of the rabbits whose fear-scent painted trails through the underbrush. But hunting while pregnant was foolish. A kick from prey, a bad fall, and the twins would pay for my wildness. So I settled for the run itself, for the stretch of muscles too long dormant, for the night air filling lungs that actually felt large enough.
The scent hit my nostrils too late, rogue wolves, at least three, marking territory that wasn’t claimed last week. The acrid stench of wrongness, of wolves without pack bonds, of creatures who’d crossed lines that got them exiled from civilization. I froze mid-stride, recognizing my mistake. Pregnant omegas shouldn’t run alone, every maternal guide would scream that truth. But I had no pack for protection now. No alpha to patrol boundaries. No safe territory to run within.
The first rogue appeared from the shadows, massive, scarred, the kind of wolf who gets exiled for violence even packs won’t tolerate. His yellow eyes fixed on my swollen sides with disturbing interest. Gray fur matted with old blood and dirt, ears torn from past fights, everything about him screamed danger. He was twice my size, muscle and malice wrapped in a form that had forgotten how to be human.
Two more emerged, flanking my retreat path with practiced ease. These weren’t newly rogue wolves, confused and desperate. These were old rogues, comfortable in their exile, who’d learned to hunt together despite lacking pack bonds. They communicated in wolf-language, body posture, small sounds, scent markers that made my fur stand on end. The second was leaner, russet-colored with a limp that didn’t slow him down. The third kept to the shadows, but I could smell his excitement, the anticipation of easy prey.
I read their intent clearly: pregnant omega, no pack scent, perfect victim. The leader, his scent signature carrying traces of old alpha blood gone sour, stepped closer. His approach was casual, confident, the swagger of a predator who’d done this before. The russet one circled left while the unnamed third blocked right. Classic hunting formation. They’d worked together before, probably on other lone wolves who’d made the mistake of running these woods alone.
Should have stayed in the apartment. Stupid, stupid.
My options narrowed to nothing good, fight while pregnant, risking the twins in combat I couldn’t win, or shift to my human form and be even more vulnerable. Human form meant naked, slow, soft skin against claws and fangs. Wolf form at least gave me teeth, even if my swollen sides made fighting nearly impossible.
It was not impossible to communicate with each other in wolf forms. Most of us had the strain in our DNA that connected us even with our fur.
The leader’s wolf spoke in the growling undertones our kind used, his mental voice sliding against my mind like oil. “Well, well. What’s a pretty omega doing alone? No alpha to protect you?”
The russet wolf added his own observation, circling closer. “Smells like alpha offspring. High-born. Someone important knocked this one up.”
They could smell him on me, in me. Damon’s bloodline was marking the twins even though he’d never know they existed. The rogues recognized power in that scent, offspring that wouldbe worth something to the right buyer. Black market pup trading was real, especially for powerful bloodlines. My stomach turned at the thought, maternal instincts flaring hot enough to burn through fear.
