Chapter 3

The bathroom tiles were ice-cold against my knees as I knelt before the toilet and retched again. My stomach was empty, but the nausea kept churning. This was the fifth time this week.

The maid knocked on the door: "Miss Holloway, are you alright?"

I wiped my mouth and stood. The mirror reflected a pale face with dark circles under my eyes. "Call the doctor."

An hour later, the doctor confirmed what I already knew.

"Congratulations, Miss Holloway," he said carefully, "you're ten weeks pregnant."

Ten weeks. I calculated the timing. It happened during the first month after Kieran stopped the contraceptives—his efficiency was always impressive. I touched my still-flat abdomen, feeling nothing but emptiness.

That afternoon, Kieran's mother arrived.

Moira sat in the lavish reception room, teacup in hand, looking every inch the elegant Luna. But I knew how dangerous this she-wolf was—she'd clawed her way from slave to Luna, and her methods were anything but gentle.

"Sit," she gestured to the chair across from her, "drink some tea. It's good for pregnant she-wolves."

I sat and accepted the cup. The tea was scalding, burning my fingertips, but I didn't set it down.

"I hear you're pregnant," Moira said, her voice betraying no happiness. "Good. Kieran needs an heir."

I nodded, waiting for her real purpose.

"Alaric is dead," she announced suddenly, as casually as commenting on the weather. "Celeste is returning to Seattle."

The teacup nearly slipped from my grasp. I tightened my grip, tea splashing onto my hand, burning the skin.

"When?" I heard myself ask.

"Three days," Moira studied me with calculating eyes. "There will be a welcome banquet. You're expected to attend."

So my replacement is coming back, I thought. The original was returning—what would happen to the substitute?

I barely slept the next three days. Kieran didn't visit once. I knew he was busy preparing for Celeste's arrival, while I remained an awkward presence, a mistake he didn't know how to handle.

On the night of the banquet, maids dressed me in a red maternity gown. How ironic.

The ballroom was more magnificent than I'd imagined. All the Northern Alliance's high-ranking wolves were present.

I stood in a corner, one hand resting on my slightly swollen belly. The surrounding Alphas gave me peculiar looks—curious, contemptuous, even gleeful. They were all waiting for the show.

Then she arrived.

When the doors opened, everyone fell silent. Celeste wore a white gown with a train that flowed behind her like fresh snow. Her chestnut hair was elegantly styled, amber eyes gentle yet sorrowful.

I stared at her like looking into a distorted mirror. We did resemble each other, yet were completely different. She was Northern, taller than me, with a fuller figure. Her beauty was noble and untouchable, while mine—if it could still be called beauty—was caged and broken.

Kieran rose to greet her. He approached, extending his hand. Celeste placed hers in his palm, and they stood there like a perfect painting.

I suddenly felt sick. Not pregnancy nausea, but disgust—disgust at this entire charade.

The banquet began. I was seated somewhere inconspicuous, far from the main table. Celeste sat at Kieran's right, Moira at his left. I could barely see their faces.

Course after course arrived, but I touched nothing. I just watched the main table, observed Kieran and Celeste talking quietly. He smiled—a warm, genuine smile I'd never seen before.

"Sage," Moira suddenly stood, her voice carrying across the hall, "why don't you dance for our entertainment?"

I froze. Making a pregnant she-wolf dance? This was public humiliation. Everyone turned to stare; some snickered, others feigned sympathy.

I stood, about to walk toward the center, when Celeste suddenly paled and swayed.

"Celeste!" Kieran immediately steadied her, naked concern in his voice.

Then he turned to me, eyes cold: "Stand down."

Two words, like two slaps across my face. The Alphas' expressions shifted from anticipation to outright mockery. I heard laughter, whispers: "Look, even her Alpha can't stand her."

I turned and left the ballroom. I didn't run, didn't cry, just walked step by step down that long corridor, back to my prison.

The next day, Celeste came.

"Leave us," Celeste told the maids. "I want to speak with Sage alone."

After they withdrew, only we remained. She stood by the window while I sat on the sofa. Sunlight bathed her, making her look angelic.

"You do look like me," she began, voice gentle. "But I'm back now, so you can go."

I looked at her without speaking.

"I know what you're thinking," she continued. "You're carrying Kieran's pup, believing it secures your position. But you're wrong. In Northern pack law, an heir's status depends on the mother's bloodline. A child born to a defeated slave will never be recognized."

Each word was a knife, precisely stabbing my heart. But I contained it all—the rage, the humiliation.

"Then why are your pups still in Alaska, too afraid to bring them here?" I heard myself ask.

Her expression cracked, that elegant mask slipping. "You—"

"Alaric is dead," I continued. "Kieran's political enemies would use them. That's why you don't dare bring them, isn't it?"

Silence stretched between us. Finally, Celeste took a deep breath, recomposing herself.

"Sage, I don't want to harm you," she said, tone becoming sincere. "Leave while Kieran hasn't completely tired of you. I can arrange for you to return South, or go to Canada, with money and a new identity."

"I'm not going anywhere," I said.

She studied me, gaze turning icy: "Then you'll die here."

After she left, I sat alone for a long time. A maid asked if I wanted lunch, but I shook my head. I thought about Celeste's words, Kieran's expression, this child destined to be unrecognized.

Then I remembered old Evander, the archivist. He was Southern, captured and now working in the Northern Alliance's archives. He'd once hinted that the basement contained the true records of the war from ten years ago.

I needed to know the truth. Before making any decisions, I needed to know who had really destroyed my family.

That night, after everyone slept, I snuck into the archives.

The basement was dark, filled with dust and mildew. I navigated through rows of filing cabinets until I found the one labeled "Border Conflict, Year 2013."

The files were thick, mostly military reports and casualty statistics. After searching for what felt like hours, I finally found a document marked "Classified."

The paper had yellowed, but the writing remained clear. It was an operation plan detailing how to plant false intelligence at the Southern-Northern border, making the South believe the Silverton family was colluding with the North.

The plan was simple but effective: bury counterfeit communication devices at the border bearing the Silverton family's mark, then anonymously report it to Southern intelligence. The rest would be handled by the South's paranoid Alpha.

At the bottom was a signature.

K. Ashford, Age 19

I stared at that signature, my hands beginning to shake. It was him. Kieran. The same wolf I'd slept with for three years, whose pup now grew inside me.

He had orchestrated Dante's demise. He had plotted against my father, mother, sister. He had engineered the deaths of 3,600 innocent Southern wolves. And I'd been sharing a bed with the mastermind behind all this tragedy all along.

I photographed the document, returned it to its place, and slowly left the archives. Outside, moonlight was bright, shining on me, but I felt no warmth.

Back in my room, I sat on the bed's edge, touching my belly. The pup inside was tiny, not yet moving.

"I'm sorry," I whispered to my belly. "I'm so sorry you have to be born into this."

Then I cried—truly cried for the first time in ten years—tears flowing like they'd never stop.