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The nausea hit before the alarm. I barely made it to the bathroom. My knees cracked against the cold tile as I hunched over the toilet, heaving until my ribs ached. The Luna suite had marble floors and gold fixtures and a walk-in closet full of clothes Desmond never noticed me wear. But at six in the morning, all that mattered was the toilet bowl. When it passed, I sat back on my heels and pressed my forehead against the cool porcelain. My wolf, Maren, stirred inside me. She'd been restless for days. *Something is different,* she whispered. I wiped my mouth with the back of my hand. "It's probably the salmon from last night." *It's not the salmon.* I ignored her. I stood up, rinsed my face, and looked in the mirror. Pale skin. Dark circles. My chestnut hair was tangled from a rough sleep. I looked like I hadn't rested in weeks. Honestly, I hadn't. Three years of sleeping next to a man who treated you like furniture could do that. Three years. That's how long I'd been Luna of the Silverfang Pack. Not because Desmond chose me. Not because the Moon Goddess paired us in some beautiful, romantic revelation under the stars. No. I became Luna because my sister Seraphina ran. She was supposed to be the one standing at the altar. She was the one my father, Arthur Gilbert, had groomed and polished and presented to Alpha Desmond Spencer like a gift wrapped in silk. The alliance between our family and Silverfang was everything to my father. He was a lower-ranking wolf with big ambitions, and marrying his daughter to an Alpha was his golden ticket. But three days before the ceremony, Seraphina vanished. Left a note on her pillow that said she "needed to find herself" and caught a flight to some pack in Europe. My father nearly had a stroke. The alliance was crumbling. Desmond's pride was shattered. And someone had to fix it. So they looked at me. "Harper, you'll step in," my father had said. Not a question. Not a request. A command, delivered without eye contact, while my mother nodded beside him like a bobblehead. I was twenty years old. I said yes because I thought it was the right thing to do. Because I thought maybe, once Desmond smelled me—really smelled me—he'd feel the bond. And he did smell me. Warm cedar and honey. That's what I was to him. His wolf recognized it. I saw it in his eyes that first night, the way his pupils blew wide and his nostrils flared. But Desmond was stubborn. Proud. Furious that his chosen bride had humiliated him. And I was just the replacement. The backup plan. He marked me because the pack needed a Luna, not because he wanted one. The bite on my neck was a formality, not a promise. For three years, I cooked his meals—every single one carefully prepared without wolfsbane, because even trace amounts could send him into anaphylactic shock. I managed the pack house. I mediated disputes between wolves. I attended every ceremony, every meeting, every event, standing one step behind him with a smile that never quite reached my eyes. And for three years, Desmond barely looked at me. I turned away from the mirror. No point staring at a ghost. But the nausea came back an hour later. And again after breakfast. By mid-morning, Maren was practically howling inside my skull. *Go to the healer. Now.* So I went. The pack's healing ward was on the east side of the compound, a clean white building that smelled like antiseptic and dried sage. I slipped in through the side door, hoping to avoid attention. The last thing I needed was pack gossip about the Luna looking sickly. Old Dr. Whitfield was in his office, reading something on his tablet. He was a gray-haired wolf in his sixties with kind eyes and steady hands. He'd been Silverfang's healer for decades. "Luna Harper." He stood when he saw me. "What brings you in?" "Just some nausea," I said, sitting on the exam table. "Probably a stomach bug." He studied me for a moment. Then he pulled out a small kit and drew blood without a word. I watched him work, my fingers gripping the edge of the table. Maren was pacing inside me, back and forth, back and forth. Ten minutes later, Dr. Whitfield came back. He wasn't smiling, but his eyes were soft. "Luna," he said gently. "You're pregnant. About six weeks along." The room tilted. I opened my mouth, but nothing came out. My hand moved to my stomach on its own, pressing flat against the fabric of my shirt. Pregnant. A pup. Desmond's pup. Maren surged forward with a warmth I hadn't felt from her in months. *Our pup. Ours.* Tears burned behind my eyes. I blinked them back fast. "You're sure?" "Positive." Dr. Whitfield handed me a tissue I didn't ask for. "Bloodwork confirms it. You're healthy. The pup is healthy." I pressed my palm harder against my belly. A tiny life. Growing inside me. Half mine, half Desmond's. Something real. Something that couldn't be ignored or dismissed or replaced. For the first time in three years, hope cracked through the wall I'd built around my heart. Maybe this would change things. Maybe when Desmond found out he was going to be a father, something in him would shift. His wolf already recognized our bond—I knew it did, even if Desmond refused to admit it. A pup was sacred. A pup was proof. He couldn't look at his own child and still call me a substitute. Could he? I walked back to the Luna suite with my hand on my stomach the entire way. I was already planning how to tell him. Maybe tonight, after dinner. I'd make his favorite—herb-crusted venison with roasted root vegetables, no wolfsbane seasoning anywhere near the kitchen. I'd set the table properly. Light candles. And then I'd tell him, and I'd watch his face, and maybe—just maybe—I'd finally see something other than indifference. I was halfway through choosing a dress when the mind-link crackled open. Desmond's voice filled my head. Cold. Flat. The way he always sounded when he spoke to me through the bond. *Come to the great hall. Now.* No explanation. No context. Just a command. Maren bristled. *Why the great hall? That's for formal pack business.* I smoothed down my dress—a simple navy blue one—and checked my reflection. I looked better than this morning. The color had returned to my cheeks. There was even a small glow about me that hadn't been there before. The pregnancy, maybe. I touched my stomach one more time. "It's okay," I murmured. "Maybe he already knows. Maybe Dr. Whitfield told him, and he wants to talk." *In the great hall?* Maren's doubt was sharp. I pushed it aside. I'd spent three years reading Desmond's moods, anticipating his needs, adjusting myself to fit whatever version of Luna he required that day. If he wanted to meet in the great hall, fine. Maybe he wanted witnesses when he acknowledged the pregnancy. Maybe this was his way of making it official. I held onto that thought like a lifeline as I walked down the corridor. The great hall was at the center of the pack house. Tall ceilings, dark wood paneling, the Silverfang crest carved into the wall behind the Alpha's chair. It was where Desmond held formal meetings, where disputes were settled, where pack law was spoken aloud so everyone could hear. I pushed open the heavy double doors. Desmond sat in his chair at the head of the long table. His jaw was set. His dark eyes locked onto me the moment I entered, and there was nothing warm in them. Nothing soft. Just stone. But he wasn't alone. Beta Julian Hayes stood to his right, arms crossed, his expression carefully blank—the way it got when he was trying very hard not to show what he was feeling. Gamma Torres was on the left, stiff as a board. And behind them, seated along the table like a jury, were six pack elders. My steps slowed. This wasn't a private conversation. This wasn't a celebration. This was a tribunal. Maren's hackles rose inside me, a low growl vibrating through my chest that only I could hear. *Harper. Something is very wrong.* Desmond's gaze didn't waver. He didn't stand. He didn't greet me. He just watched me walk toward him with the same expression he might give a stranger. And my hand, still resting on my stomach, began to tremble.