IVY'S POV
The dry heave hit before my feet even touched the hardwood floor.
I barely made it to the bathroom of my new studio apartment, gripping the porcelain bowl as my stomach emptied itself into nothing. Sweat gathered at my temples, cold and sharp.
For the past three weeks, every Alpha who walked into the Apex Sports Rehabilitation Center made my stomach turn. A patient would come in with a torn hamstring, smelling of standard cedar or musk, and I’d have to step into the hallway just to keep from throwing up.
Worse than the nausea was the restlessness.
Every night, I tossed and turned in pure agony until I reached into my closet, pulled out the heavy tactical jacket I had grabbed during my escape from the arena, and buried my face in the collar. The dark scent of winter pine and crushed slate settled my racing pulse instantly. The moment I held Ronan Blackwood’s jacket against my chest, my body relaxed, and I slept like dead weight.
I knew what it looked like, but I had refused to admit it until I sat on the examination table in the private clinic after hours.
"Take a look," Dr. Sarah Evans said, pointing the ultrasound wand at the small monitor.
A tiny, pulsing flutter showed up on the gray screen, steady and impossibly strong.
"You’re eleven weeks along," Sarah said, wiping the gel off my stomach. "The pup's heartbeat is already measuring at Alpha-tier resonance."
I stared at the screen, my throat tight. "Eleven weeks."
"Which puts conception right around the Founders Cup final," she said gently, pulling her gloves off with a snap. "Ivy, standard one-night encounters resulting in a pregnancy aren't rare among wolves. But the severe scent dependency you described? The fact that you can't sleep without his clothing?"
"My hormones are unbalanced from leaving Ironfang," I said, pulling my shirt down.
"That's not hormonal imbalance," Sarah countered, leaning against the counter. "That kind of biological dependence only happens when two wolves have an extraordinary bond compatibility. Ninety-nine percent or higher. You're carrying a true mate's child. If you don't get his scent directly from him soon, your body is going to exhaust itself trying to sustain the pup."
"I don't need him," I said, sitting up.
"Ivy, being stubborn won't stop the biological strain."
"I spent three years letting an Alpha dictate my career and my future," I said, looking her dead in the eye. "Jace treated me like a pawn he could trade away the second a better offer showed up. I am not trading one Alpha's cage for another. This baby is mine. My choice. My responsibility. I'm not chasing down Ronan Blackwood to beg for handouts."
Sarah studied my face for a long second, then sighed. "Fine. But you need to take it easy. No heavy lifting, no high-impact trauma calls."
"Understood," I said.
That promise lasted exactly five days.
On Friday night, Apex was contracted to provide emergency medical support for the inter-district playoff match between Ironfang and Blackridge. With two senior medics out with the flu, Sarah called me into the mobile arena unit.
I stood in the tunnel behind the glass partition, the roar of the arena washing over me in waves of hostile energy. Even through the heavy industrial air filters, the scent of fifty wolves on ice was suffocating.
On the rink, the game had turned into a bloodbath.
Ironfang was down by two goals in the third period. Jace was playing reckless, his movements slightly off-balance—proof that his shoulder and knee hadn't received the specialized care I used to give him every night. His eyes were wild with frustration.
Across from him, Ronan Blackwood moved like a predator on open ground. He dominated the neutral zone, his massive frame shielding the puck with effortless authority.
Jace saw his opening.
As Ronan pivoted near the boards to clear the puck, Jace launched himself forward, leading with his elbow and driving his full weight directly into Ronan's left flank—the exact spot where the claw wounds had barely finished healing three months ago.
The collision sounded like a gunshot against the Plexiglas.
Ronan hit the boards hard, his skates flying out from under him as his body slammed onto the ice. He didn't bounce back up. He stayed flat on his back, one arm clutching his ribs as the referee blew the whistle frantically.
My medical instincts moved before my brain could stop them.
I grabbed the trauma pack from the bench, shoved open the side gate, and stepped onto the slick ice. The cold air bit at my cheeks as I hurried across the red line and dropped to my knees beside him.
"Commander, stay down," I ordered, setting my kit on the ice. "Do not rotate your torso."
I reached out, pressing my fingers against the side of his neck to check his carotid pulse.
Ronan's eyelids snapped open.
His molten amber eyes locked onto mine. For a fraction of a second, his pupils expanded until the gold was nearly swallowed whole. He inhaled sharply through his nose, drawing in the sweet lavender scent that my blockers could no longer fully suppress.
Recognition flared across his hard features.
Then, his gaze dropped to my throat, down to my chest, and lower. His nostrils flared again as his inner wolf caught the distinct, undeniable second layer of scent radiating from my core.
His own Alpha aura, blooming inside another life.
"You," Ronan rumbled, his voice rough as gravel.
Before he could say another word, the ice behind us erupted in chaos.
A Blackridge defenseman had tackled Jace for the dirty hit, and the entire neutral zone devolved into a brawl. Players threw gloves, slamming against the boards. A towering Ironfang winger lost his footing in the scuffle and was shoved backward at full speed, tumbling directly toward where I was kneeling on the ice.
Ronan moved with terrifying speed.
Ignoring the pain in his flank, he caught my waist with an iron grip and yanked me off the ice, pulling me hard into his chest. He spun his body around, taking the full impact of the falling player against his back as he hauled me over the boards and straight into the Blackridge bench.
The impact rattled the wood, but he kept his arms locked around me like steel bands, shielding me completely from the swinging sticks and flying bodies.
My hands flew up, instantly pressing against my lower abdomen to protect my stomach.
Sarah, running behind the glass with the trauma stretcher, yelled in pure terror: "Watch it! Careful! She's pregnant!"
The entire tunnel seemed to fall dead silent.
The fighting on the ice stopped. Gloves hit the ice as players separated, looking over at the bench in shock.
Jace stood twenty feet away, his helmet torn off, chest heaving. He froze, his face turning pale as his eyes locked onto my hands protecting my stomach, and then shifted to Ronan’s massive frame wrapped tightly around me.
Ronan didn't let go.
He stayed leaned over me, his face inches from mine, his dark head ducked low. His amber eyes burned with absolute certainty as his gaze shifted from my face down to my belly, feeling the resonance of his own bloodline pulsing against his chest.
"Eleven weeks?" Ronan asked, the question vibrating low and heavy against my skin.
I pressed my lips together, refusing to answer.
Out on the ice, Jace took two unsteady steps toward the bench, his eyes wide as the timeline clicked into place. His voice cracked through the silence of the arena.
"That was the night she left me."
