Dessie POV
Silence hung heavy in my apartment, turning it into a tomb.
Every corner was haunted by the ghosts of a future that would never happen.
I grabbed a heavy-duty trash bag from the kitchen and marched to the bedroom. I opened the drawer where I kept the "treasures."
The dried flower from our first walk in the woods, crumbling at the edges. The ticket stubs from the movies where we sat in the back row, ignoring the screen. The silver locket he gave me for my birthday last year.
*Silver.*
I held the locket. It was cool against my palm. Wolves usually avoided silver—it burned us if the concentration was high enough—but this was a low-grade alloy. He had sworn it was safe. It was supposed to symbolize that our love could overcome our weaknesses.
Now, it just looked like cheap metal.
I threw it into the bag. Then the photos. Then his spare hoodie that still smelled like rain and cedar.
My chest heaved. I wasn't crying. I refused to cry. I was purging.
*Ding-dong.*
I froze. My wolf bristled, sensing him a split second before I did.
I walked to the door and opened it.
Craig stood there. He was holding a bouquet of white roses—my favorite. He was smiling, that charming, crooked smile that used to make my knees weak.
"Hey, Dessie," he said, his voice smooth as velvet. Like he hadn't just ripped my heart out in front of the pack council four hours ago.
I gripped the doorframe, my knuckles turning white. A wave of nausea rolled through my stomach. It was physical. My body was revolting against his very presence.
"What do you want, Alpha?" I asked. My voice was brittle.
He stepped inside without invitation, forcing me to step back. "Don't be like that. I know today was... abrupt."
He tried to pull me into a hug.
I flinched, scrambling backward. My skin crawled. "Don't touch me."
Craig sighed, looking at me like I was a petulant child refusing to eat her vegetables. "Dessie, look at the big picture. The Murphy alliance secures the pack for generations. It’s my duty."
"And us?" I asked, staring at the roses. "What about the bond? The *Mine*?"
He laughed softly, a dismissive sound. "We can still be close. You’re my best strategist. My right hand."
He reached into his jacket pocket and pulled out a slip of paper. A check.
"I know you’ve worked hard," he said, placing it on the table. It was blank. Signed by him. "Fill in whatever number makes you happy. Buy yourself a new car. Take a vacation. You deserve it."
I looked at the check. He was buying me off. He was paying for my silence and my submission with pack funds.
"You think this fixes it?" I whispered.
"It’s not about fixing," he said, checking his watch. "It’s about being practical. Chanel understands the burden of leadership. She’s... suitable."
*Suitable.*
His phone buzzed. He glanced at the screen, and his eyes lit up. A look of hunger and excitement crossed his face—a look he used to give me.
"I have to go," he said, straightening his tie. "Pack emergency at the border."
I caught the reflection of his screen in the hall mirror. It wasn't a border report. It was a text from Chanel. *Table for two at Le Monde. 8 PM.*
"Right," I said. "Emergency."
He didn't even hear the sarcasm. He turned his back on me. "Get some rest, Dessie. You look pale."
He walked out, leaving the door open.
The scent of his cologne lingered, mixing with the cloying sweetness of the roses. The nausea returned, violent and sudden.
I ran to the bathroom and fell to my knees in front of the toilet. My body convulsed, emptying itself until there was nothing left but bile.
I sat back against the cold tile, panting.
This wasn't just stress.
My cycle. It was late. Three weeks late. I had been so busy with the defense grid I hadn't noticed. The fatigue. The sensitivity to smells.
My hand went to my flat stomach.
*No.*
Fear, cold and sharp, pierced through the anger.
A pup. An Alpha’s pup.
If Craig knew, he would take the baby. He would raise it with Chanel. I would be nothing but the surrogate, cast aside once the heir was born.
I dragged myself up and found the emergency kit under the sink. I had a test. Just in case.
Five minutes later, I sat on the edge of the tub, staring at the plastic stick.
Two distinct pink lines.
The world tilted on its axis. I was pregnant. Pregnant by the man who just offered me a blank check to forget I was his mate.
I walked back into the living room. The white roses mocked me. The blank check sat on the table like an insult.
I grabbed the trash bag filled with our memories. I threw the roses in. I crumbled the check and threw it in.
I carried the bag down to the pack’s incinerator block.
The heat from the furnace hit my face, drying the cold sweat on my forehead.
I opened the hatch and tossed the bag in. The flames roared, consuming the fabric, the photos, the lies.
"Burn," I whispered.
I watched until there was nothing left but ash.
