Colt played the devoted Alpha for three days straight.
He walked me to the healer wing for my second prenatal appointment. His hand rested on the small of my back—light, performative, exactly the gesture an attentive mate would make. Pack members we passed in the corridors smiled and nodded. A few offered quiet congratulations. Colt's voice was warm when he thanked them.
Through the bond, I felt his wolf's attention drift the moment we turned the corner toward Ava's recovery room.
Miriam examined me in silence. She checked the pup's heartbeat, adjusted my supplement dosage, and made notes in her records with careful, deliberate strokes. When she finished, she looked at Colt instead of me.
"Everything is progressing normally, Alpha," she said. "Luna Sophia is healthy. The pup is strong."
Colt smiled. He squeezed my hand. "That's wonderful news."
I felt nothing through the bond except the faint hum of obligation fulfilled.
We walked back through the corridors. His hand stayed on my back until we reached the main hall, where Dara Holt and two other pack elders were gathered near the hearth. Then his touch became firmer, more visible. He guided me to a chair, fetched me water, stood beside me with his posture open and proud.
Dara smiled at us both. "The Moon Goddess has blessed Nightveil," she said warmly.
"She has," Colt agreed.
I drank the water and said nothing.
That night, he came to bed just before dawn. I was awake. I had been awake for hours.
He slid under the covers without touching me. His scent carried the healer wing's antiseptic and something floral underneath—Ava's scent, faint but unmistakable.
I lay still with my hand on my abdomen. Through the bond, I felt the low, satisfied hum of his wolf. Not contentment with me. Contentment with proximity to her.
I waited until his breathing evened into sleep. Then I rose, crossed to the desk, and opened the journal.
I wrote the date. The time he returned. The scent profile. The bond's transmission: *satisfaction, proximity-based, directed elsewhere*.
I did not write how it felt. I wrote what happened.
The numbers were evidence. The feelings were not.
---
On the fourth day, I submitted a formal request to Miriam for an audit of the healer wing's medical supply logs.
I framed it as routine Luna health-management oversight—entirely within my authority as the pack's wellness coordinator. I'd implemented the inoculation program. I'd overseen the wolfsbane-resistance treatments for three years. Reviewing supply logs was something I did quarterly.
Miriam received the request in her office. I watched her face as she read it.
She looked up. Her expression was carefully neutral. "Of course, Luna. I'll need a few days to compile the records. Would next week work?"
"That's fine," I said.
She nodded. Her hands folded the request twice, unnecessarily.
I left without comment and added her reaction to the journal that night.
Then I pulled my own records—three years of inoculation logs, dosage calculations, and wolfsbane compound inventory that I'd maintained independently. I cross-referenced them against the healer wing's official treatment records for Ava Evans.
The numbers didn't align.
Ava's diagnosis claimed chronic environmental wolfsbane poisoning—the kind that builds slowly over months, requiring aggressive detoxification protocols and continuous monitoring. But the quantities of compound logged as administered didn't match the severity. The dosages were too small. The intervals were too irregular.
It looked like maintenance, not treatment.
It looked like someone taking just enough to produce symptoms without causing real damage.
I wrote the discrepancies in the journal. I circled the dates where the pattern broke. I did not write my conclusion. I wrote the evidence and let the evidence speak.
---
Dara Holt came to visit on the fifth evening.
She arrived with a tray of herbal tea and a smile that didn't reach her eyes. She set the tray on the small table near the window and poured two cups with practiced grace.
"I wanted to check on you, Luna," she said. "Pregnancy can be such a vulnerable time."
"I'm well," I said. "Thank you."
She handed me a cup. Sat across from me. Her posture was open, her tone gentle.
"The pack is concerned," she said after a moment. "About the... situation."
I sipped the tea. Waited.
"Ava's presence has created tension," Dara continued carefully. "Some of the elders believe a graceful transition might serve pack stability. For the good of Nightveil. For the pup."
She didn't say *step down*. She didn't need to.
I set the cup down. Looked at her.
"The pack's stability has been maintained by my inoculation program for three years," I said quietly. "Tell the elders to review their warriors' wolfsbane-sensitivity records before they advise me on graceful transitions."
Dara's smile thinned. She picked up her own cup, drank, and set it down with a soft click.
"Of course, Luna," she said. "I'll relay your message."
She left.
I sat at the window for a long time after she was gone. I reached up and touched the Luna pendant at my throat—the silver crescent moon Colt had given me the night he marked me.
I held it between my fingers. Felt its weight.
Then I let it fall back against my collarbone and turned toward the desk.
I opened the journal. I wrote Dara's visit. I wrote her exact words. I wrote the elders' message, decoded.
Then I turned to the page where I'd drafted the letter to the Lycan Court's Office of Sacred Law.
I read it again. All three questions. All three clarifications I needed before I could move forward.
I still didn't send it.
Not yet.
I pressed my fingers to the mark on my neck. Still cold. Measurably colder than it had been a week ago.
I added that to the page.
Then I closed the journal, turned out the lamp, and went to bed alone.
