Sleep is a joke my body's forgotten the punchline to.

I stare at the ceiling of my quarters—not our quarters, never our quarters, just mine—and count the cracks in the plaster. Forty-three. Same as last night. Same as every night for the past six years.

The ginger tea sits cold on my nightstand, a condemned prisoner's last meal that my stomach rejected anyway.

My hand drifts to my lower abdomen, still flat, still showing no sign of the impossible thing growing inside me. The thing that shouldn't exist. The thing that will destroy whatever pathetic remnants of my life remain when Declan finally makes his choice official.

When, not if.

I learned that distinction the hard way.

The moonlight streaming through my window is waning, just past full. Nothing like the Blood Moon two months ago, that massive crimson orb that had hung in the sky like an omen. Like a promise.

Like a fucking lie.

But I can't stop my mind from going back there, replaying that night frame by frame, torturing myself with the memory of his hands on my skin, his voice in my ear, the way he'd looked at me like I was—

Don't. Don't go there.

Too late.

---

Two months ago. Blood Moon Festival.

The territorial dispute with the Northridge pack had been brutal. I'd watched from the pack house as Declan and his warriors returned just after sunset, blood-spattered and grim-faced. Not their blood, thankfully, but close enough to rattle everyone.

I'd done what I always did—made myself useful. Coordinated with the healers, organized the kitchen to prepare food for the warriors, ensured the sentries were properly rotated. The perfect little Luna, managing everything except the one thing that mattered.

Her husband's attention.

The Blood Moon rose fat and red, and the pack gathered for the traditional festival. Bonfires. Drums. The kind of primal celebration that made wolves restless, made the bond between mates sing with need.

I'd stood at the edge of the festivities, watching Declan drink. And drink. And drink.

He never drank like that.

But he'd killed tonight. Defended our territory. Nearly lost two warriors in the process. The adrenaline and violence were still coursing through him, and whiskey was apparently his method of coming down.

I should have approached him. Should have offered comfort, support, anything a mate was supposed to provide.

But we both knew I wasn't really his mate. Not in any way that counted.

So I'd retreated to my quarters like the coward I was, stripped off the ceremonial dress I'd worn for appearances, and pulled on the oversized shirt I slept in. The one that smelled like the lavender soap I used because my own scent had never been enough to mark anything as mine.

I was brushing out my hair when my door opened.

No knock. No warning.

Just Declan, filling my doorway like a storm given flesh.

"Maya." His voice was rougher than usual, gravelly with whiskey and whatever darkness he'd faced at the border.

I froze, hairbrush suspended mid-stroke. "You're in the wrong room."

His quarters were in the opposite wing. We'd maintained separate spaces from day one, a physical manifestation of the emotional distance he'd perfected.

"Am I?" He stepped inside, and the scent of him—cedar and winter rain, sharp with alcohol and smoke and something wild—crashed over me like a wave.

My wolf stirred for the first time in months.

"Declan, you're drunk."

"Not that drunk." He closed the door behind him. Locked it.

The snick of the bolt sliding home sent my heart rate into overdrive.

"You should rest. It was a hard fight—"

"I'm tired of fighting." He crossed the room in three strides, and suddenly he was right there, close enough that I could see the gold flecks in his storm-gray eyes. Close enough to count the new scars on his knuckles. "Tired of pretending."

My breath caught. "Pretending what?"

"That this doesn't matter." His hand came up, fingers threading through my unbound hair. "That you don't matter."

Oh fuck. Oh fuck, this was cruel.

"You're drunk," I repeated, but my voice came out breathy, unconvincing. "You don't mean—"

"I killed three wolves tonight." His thumb traced my jawline, and I shuddered. "Ripped out their throats for daring to challenge what's mine. And all I could think about while I did it was coming home to you."

This wasn't real. Couldn't be real.

But his touch was real. The heat of his body was real. The way he was looking at me—like he was seeing me for the first time—felt so fucking real it hurt.

"Declan—"

He kissed me.

Not the chaste, performative kiss he'd given me at our wedding ceremony. Not the careful, distant touches he'd allowed on the rare occasions pack politics demanded we appear united.

This was possession. Claiming. Six years of denial combusting into desperate need.

I should have pushed him away. Should have remembered that tomorrow he'd regret this, that the whiskey was talking, that nothing good could come from wanting something this badly.

Instead, I kissed him back.

My hands fisted in his shirt, pulling him closer, and he growled—actually growled—against my mouth. The sound vibrated through my chest, waking parts of me I'd thought permanently dormant.

"Maya." He said my name like a prayer, like a curse, like it meant something. His hands were everywhere—my waist, my hips, sliding under the hem of my sleep shirt. "Tell me to stop."

"Don't stop." The words escaped before I could think better of them. "Please don't stop."

Something in him snapped.

He lifted me like I weighed nothing, and I wrapped my legs around his waist on instinct. The bed was only a few steps away, but we didn't make it that far. My back hit the wall, and his mouth was on my throat, teeth grazing the pulse point where a mate's mark should have been.

Would have been, if he'd ever wanted me enough to complete the bond.

"Six years," he rasped against my skin. "Six fucking years I've been an idiot."

Yes. Yes, he had.

But I couldn't say that, couldn't risk breaking whatever spell had brought him to my door. So I just held on as he peeled my shirt over my head, as his hands mapped territory he'd never bothered to explore before.

"You're beautiful." His voice was reverent, awed. "How did I not see it?"

Because you never looked.

But that bitterness had no place here, not when he was touching me like I was precious, like I was his.

He carried me to the bed properly this time, laying me down with a gentleness that made my throat tight. The moonlight painted him in shades of crimson and shadow as he stripped off his own clothes, and I couldn't look away.

My husband. My mate. Finally, finally mine.

"Tell me you want this." His weight settled over me, and I could feel every inch of him, hard and ready and real. "Tell me, Maya."

"I want this." My voice broke on the words. "I want you. I've always wanted you."

The truth I'd never been allowed to speak.

His kiss was softer this time, almost tender, even as his hands positioned my hips. "Then take me."

He filled me in one slow thrust, and the sensation punched the air from my lungs. Not pain—we were mates, our bodies designed for this—but the overwhelming rightness of it. The bond humming to life between us, golden and warm and perfect.

"Fuck." He dropped his forehead to mine, breathing hard. "You feel like home."

I wanted to laugh. Wanted to cry. Wanted to ask why it had taken six years and a bottle of whiskey to find his way here.

Instead, I rolled my hips, and his control shattered.

He moved in me with the same intensity he brought to everything else—commanding, powerful, utterly focused. But there was something almost desperate in the way he held me, like he was afraid I'd disappear if he let go.

My nails raked down his back, and he groaned my name. Not "Luna." Not "my wife" in that distant, formal tone.

"Maya."

Just Maya.

Like I was a person. Like I mattered.

The pleasure built between us, the bond amplifying every sensation until I couldn't tell where I ended and he began. My wolf was howling, triumphant, finally recognized by her mate.

Finally home.

"Come for me," Declan commanded, and my body obeyed like it had been waiting six years for permission.

The orgasm shattered through me, and I felt him follow, felt the hot pulse of him filling me as he buried his face in my neck and shuddered.

For a long moment, we just breathed together.

Then he shifted, rolling to pull me against his chest, and I let myself have this. Let myself pretend that tomorrow wouldn't come, that this wasn't just alcohol and adrenaline and proximity.

"Stay," I whispered.

His arms tightened around me. "Always."

---

I wake in present-day darkness with tears on my face and a wet warmth between my thighs.

No.

No.

I stumble out of bed, flipping on the light with shaking hands, and stare at the crimson stain on my sheets.

Blood.

The baby.

Oh god, the baby.

Panic claws up my throat as I grab clothes—any clothes—and pull them on with jerking, graceless movements. The pack doctor. I need the pack doctor. I need—

The cramp hits like a knife to the gut, doubling me over.

Please. Please, not this. Not the one thing I have left from that night.

I make it to the medical wing on autopilot, muscle memory guiding me through empty corridors. It's past midnight. No one's around to see the disgraced Luna stumbling through the pack house in yesterday's yoga pants and a shirt I'm pretty sure is inside-out.

Dr. Sarah Chen looks up from her desk when I crash through the door, and her eyes widen.

"Maya? What's wrong?"

"I'm bleeding." The words come out flat, emotionless. Shock, probably. "I'm pregnant and I'm bleeding and I can't—I can't lose—"

She's already moving, guiding me to an exam room with practiced efficiency. "How far along?"

"Ten weeks. Give or take."

Her eyebrows shoot up, but she doesn't comment. Just helps me onto the table and starts her examination.

The ultrasound machine hums to life.

I can't look at the screen. Can't bear to see confirmation that the impossible thing is gone, that even this is being taken from me.

"Maya." Sarah's voice is gentle. "Look."

I force my eyes to the monitor.

And there it is. A tiny form, curled and perfect, with a heartbeat that flickers steady and strong.

"The pregnancy is viable," Sarah says. "But you're showing signs of placental stress. Have you been under unusual strain?"

I laugh. It sounds unhinged even to my own ears.

Unusual strain. Right. Just orchestrating my own replacement, hiding a pregnancy from a husband who doesn't remember sleeping with me, and preparing to abandon the only home I've known.

Totally normal Tuesday.

"You need to reduce stress immediately," Sarah continues. "This is high-risk, Maya. Any additional pressure could—" She stops. Starts again. "Does the Alpha know?"

The question hangs in the air between us.

"No," I whisper. "He can't know. No one can know."

Sarah's expression goes carefully neutral. "Maya, this is his child. He has a right—"

Footsteps echo in the corridor outside.

Heavy. Male. Familiar.

We both freeze.

The footsteps stop directly outside the medical wing door.

A knock. Firm. Authoritative.

"Dr. Chen?" Declan's voice, muffled by wood but unmistakable. "I saw lights. Is everything alright?"

Sarah looks at me, a question in her eyes.

My hand pressed protectively over my still-flat stomach, the ultrasound screen still glowing with evidence I can't explain.

The door handle starts to turn.