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The sterile hum of the centrifuge was the only sound in the Crescent Moon Pack’s infirmary. It was 2:00 AM, a time when the rest of the pack was sleeping or patrolling the borders, but I was wide awake, staring at a vial of crimson liquid labeled 'Priority: Code Red.' As the pack’s Head Healer and specialized Bloodline Analyst, I was used to late nights. But this sample was different. It belonged to Nylah Webb, the nineteen-year-old daughter of our Omega housekeeper, Lucille. The request form was frantic, scribbled with a claim that Nylah had been assaulted by a rogue near the northern border and was terrified she was pregnant with a feral pup. "Rogues don't usually leave survivors, Nylah," I whispered to the empty room, my fingers flying across the keyboard to initiate the DNA sequencing. "Let's see what you're really hiding." I felt a pang of sympathy. If she was carrying a rogue’s child, the Council would demand the pregnancy be terminated. Being an Omega was hard enough; being an Omega with a rogue-sired pup was a death sentence socially. My inner wolf, a quiet creature named Seraphina, paced restlessly in the back of my mind. She had been uneasy all day, a low growl vibrating in my chest that I couldn't explain. I ignored her, focusing on the screen as the progress bar hit 100%. "Analysis Complete," the computer chirped. I leaned in, adjusting my glasses, prepared to draft a compassionate report about a rogue encounter. Then I saw the markers. My breath hitched, freezing in my lungs. I blinked, certain I was hallucinating from exhaustion. I refreshed the page. The data didn't change. The paternal DNA wasn't a jagged, chaotic mess typical of a rogue. It was structured. Powerful. Familiar. It was a 99.9% match to the Dean bloodline. Specifically, Alpha Alistair Dean. My husband. My Fated Mate. The room suddenly felt too small, the air sucked out by the glowing green text on the monitor. I gripped the edge of the desk so hard my knuckles turned white. Alistair? The man who had looked me in the eye five years ago and swore a solemn pact that we would wait to have pups? He had convinced me that the pack borders were too unstable, that we needed to focus on our duties before bringing an heir into the world. *He lied,* Seraphina howled, her grief tearing through my mental barriers. *He betrayed us.* "Stop," I commanded her, my voice shaking. I forced my analytical mind to take over. I needed facts, not feelings. I checked the conception date calculated by the software. Twelve weeks ago. I did the math, counting back the days on the calendar hanging above my station. The Blood Moon Festival. A cold chill, colder than the grave, washed over me. I remembered that night vividly. Not because of the festival drums or the dancing, but because I had spent it in the ICU, hooked up to dialysis machines. A rogue assassin had hit me with a dart coated in concentrated wolf-bane. My veins had felt like they were filled with acid. I had screamed for Alistair through our mind-link, begging for his comfort, for his strength to anchor me. But the link had been dead. Silent. A wall of static. Later, he told me he had been deep in the forest, fighting off the rest of the rogue party, and the distance had severed our connection. I had believed him. I had honored him as a hero. But he wasn't fighting rogues. He was bedding the housekeeper's teenage daughter while his wife lay dying in a hospital bed. Tears threatened to spill, hot and stinging, but I refused to let them fall. I was Lauren Knight. I was the daughter of the Lycan King, though no one here knew it. I did not weep over unfaithful men. I destroyed them. "If he lied about the baby," I murmured, my voice turning icy, "what else is he lying about?" I minimized the medical window and opened a secure terminal. As the Luna—even a betrayed one—and the Head Healer, I had Class A clearance. I bypassed the standard treasury logs, which Alistair’s Beta, Connor, managed meticulously, and dug deeper into the discretionary spending accounts usually reserved for emergencies. There it was. A sub-account labeled 'Warrior Armor Upgrades.' It should have shown payments to blacksmiths or tactical gear suppliers. Instead, the transaction history was a laundry list of betrayal. *Transaction: $4,500 – The Gilded Petal Florist (Vanilla Orchids).* *Transaction: $12,000 – Tiffany & Co. (Moonstone Pendant).* *Transaction: $350,000 – Riverview Luxury Apartments (Unit 4B).* The Riverview Apartments were outside pack territory, in the human city. It was a safe house. A love nest. He wasn't just sleeping with her; he was keeping her. He was siphoning funds meant to protect our warriors—funds meant to keep our pack safe—to buy designer jewelry and a condo for his mistress. I looked at the screen, at the undeniable proof of his corruption. He had broken our vows, endangered the pack, and made a fool of me. Alistair thought I was just a dutiful Healer, a submissive Luna who would quietly accept whatever scraps of affection he threw my way. He had no idea who he had really married. I printed the documents—both the paternity test and the bank statements—and slid them into a manila folder. I didn't storm out to confront him. I didn't scream. I simply turned off the monitor, the darkness of the room reflecting the cold void that had just opened in my heart. "Enjoy your heir while you can, Alistair," I whispered into the silence. "Because you just lost your queen."

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