After My Alpha Banished Me While Pregnant

The medical archives were locked when I arrived.

Not metaphorically locked. Actually locked, with two Silver Moon enforcers standing guard in front of the heavy oak doors like I was some kind of security threat. The younger one—barely twenty, with that aggressive posture young wolves get when they're trying to prove something—crossed his arms when he saw me approaching.

"Archives are closed for inventory," he said.

I stopped three feet away, my leather satchel heavy with healer credentials and research requests. "I have clearance from Emissary Voss. The Lycan King's office specifically requested access to the historical healing records."

"Don't care." The older enforcer spat on the ground near my feet. "We don't let wolfless bitches rifle through pack property."

The words landed like a physical blow. My wolf stirred, angry and confined. I pressed my thumb against the inside of my wrist.

"I'm a certified regional healer with—"

"You're a liar who spread her legs for some rogue and came crawling back when the bastard wouldn't claim you." The younger one smiled, ugly and mean. "Everyone knows what you are, Dr. Crawford. We remember what Alpha Calvin said six years ago."

My hand tightened on my satchel strap. The corridor felt too narrow, too hot. I could walk away. File a formal complaint. Go through proper channels.

Or I could stand here and fight for access to records that were legally mine to review.

Before I could decide, footsteps echoed down the corridor behind me.

Dorian's presence registered before I saw him—that steady, unhurried energy that seemed to fill space without demanding it. He came to stand beside me, not in front of me, his hands loose at his sides.

"Gentlemen," he said quietly.

The enforcers' expressions shifted. The older one straightened slightly, his aggressive posture faltering.

"This is pack business, Beta Powell," he said, but his voice had lost its edge. "Silver Moon territory."

"Dr. Crawford is here on Lycan King's authority." Dorian's tone didn't change—still calm, still unhurried. "Are you refusing a direct request from Emissary Voss?"

The younger enforcer's jaw worked. "We have orders from Beta Hess—"

"Beta Hess," Dorian interrupted gently, "does not outrank the Lycan King."

The air pressure changed.

It wasn't dramatic. Dorian didn't raise his voice or shift his stance. But something heavy and immovable rolled out from him—a Beta aura so solid and controlled it felt like gravity itself had intensified in the corridor. The enforcers stumbled backward, their wolves instinctively submitting to a dominance that wasn't aggressive, just utterly certain.

The older enforcer's knees actually buckled. He caught himself against the wall, his face flushed with humiliation.

"Dr. Crawford," Dorian said, his voice still perfectly level, "has published three peer-reviewed papers on wolf-bond trauma recovery. She's consulted for four regional packs and developed the accelerated bone-knitting protocol currently saving lives in our northern territories. She holds more medical credentials than anyone currently employed by Silver Moon Pack."

He looked at the enforcers. They looked at the floor.

"Open the door," Dorian said.

They opened the door.

I walked past them into the archives, my heart hammering against my ribs. Dorian followed, pulling the door closed behind us. The moment it clicked shut, his aura retracted—not slowly, just gone, like he'd flipped a switch.

He turned to me. "Are you alright?"

I stared at him. At this Beta from Moonveil Pack who'd just humiliated two Silver Moon enforcers without breaking a sweat, who'd recited my professional accomplishments like he'd memorized them, who was looking at me now with nothing but quiet concern.

"You didn't have to do that," I said.

Something flickered in his expression—not hurt, exactly. More like careful assessment. "I know," he said. "But they were wrong. And you shouldn't have to fight that fight alone."

My throat felt tight. I pressed my thumb against my wrist.

"Thank you," I managed.

Dorian nodded once, then moved toward the filing cabinets, giving me space to breathe. "What are we looking for?"

I pulled out my research list, grateful for something concrete to focus on. "Historical records on mate-bond rejection trauma. Specifically cases where—"

My tablet buzzed. Then buzzed again. Then started vibrating continuously.

I pulled it out. The screen was filled with incoming mind-link requests, all from the same source.

Bryce.

I sighed and accepted the connection.

My son's voice filled my head, formal and unnervingly adult: *Mr. Powell. I need to speak with you. Now.*

Dorian's eyebrows rose slightly. He must have received the same request.

*Bryce,* I sent back, *we're working—*

*Mom, this is important.* His mental voice was absolutely serious. *I've completed my preliminary background analysis on Beta Powell's financial records, pack standing, and personal history. I have questions.*

I closed my eyes. "Bryce is... vetting you."

"I gathered that," Dorian said. There was something that might have been amusement in his voice. "Should I be concerned?"

*Beta Powell,* Bryce's voice came through again, *I've accessed your Moonveil Pack investment portfolio. Your funding of Mom's research began eight months before you met her in person. Explain your motives.*

I felt my face heat. "Bryce, you can't just hack into people's—"

*It's fine,* Dorian sent, his mental voice as calm as his speaking voice. *Bryce, I read your mother's first paper on bond-trauma recovery two years ago. The methodology was innovative. When I learned she was seeking research funding and that her exile status was blocking traditional pack channels, I approached the Moonveil investment council. We funded the work because it was excellent work. I met Dr. Crawford in person for the first time six months ago at a regional healer's conference.*

Silence on the mind-link. I could practically feel Bryce processing.

*Why didn't you identify yourself as the investor when you met her?*

*Because I wanted her to evaluate me as a person, not as a funding source,* Dorian replied. *And because the research stood on its own merit. My opinion of it shouldn't have influenced hers.*

More silence.

*What are your intentions toward my mother?*

I wanted to die. "Bryce—"

*Honest ones,* Dorian sent simply. *I'd like to know her better. I'd like to support her work. And I'd like to prove that not all wolves who care about her have ulterior motives.*

The longest silence yet.

Then: *You may continue your association with my mother. Provisionally. I'll be monitoring.*

The mind-link cut off.

I stared at the filing cabinet, my face burning. "I'm so sorry. He's—"

"Protecting you," Dorian finished quietly. "He's doing exactly what he should be doing."

I looked at him. He was already turning back to the records, his expression peaceful, like my six-year-old son hadn't just interrogated him about his financial history and romantic intentions.

"You're not angry," I said.

"Why would I be angry?" He pulled out a file, scanned it, set it aside. "He's smart, he's thorough, and he loves you. Those are all good things."

"He hacked your investment records."

"Yes." Dorian's mouth curved slightly. "Impressive work, actually. Our security isn't easy to breach."

I didn't know what to do with that. With any of this. With a Beta who defended my credentials to hostile enforcers, who answered my son's invasive questions with patience instead of offense, who treated a six-year-old's vetting process like it was perfectly reasonable.

I pressed my thumb against my wrist and went back to searching the files.

---

The next morning, I woke before dawn out of habit. My running clothes were already laid out. I'd been doing this for six years—the solitary pre-dawn run, the hour that belonged to no one but me and my wolf.

I slipped out of my quarters quietly. The packhouse was still dark, most wolves still sleeping. The air outside was cold and sharp, promising rain later.

I stretched briefly, then shifted.

My wolf shook out her fur, grateful for the freedom. We started running, following the perimeter path that circled the territory. Alone. Safe. Ours.

Except we weren't alone.

A larger wolf fell into pace behind us—not beside us, not ahead, but behind, staying carefully in our peripheral vision. Silver-gray fur, steady gait, familiar presence.

Dorian.

My wolf's first instinct was to snap at him, to defend our space. But he wasn't crowding us. Wasn't trying to lead. He was just... there. Running at the back, the position Calvin had always scorned as weak, as unbefitting an Alpha.

The position that meant he was watching our blind spot.

We ran for an hour. He never tried to overtake us, never pushed the pace, never asserted dominance. Just ran, steady and quiet, exactly three lengths behind.

When we finally circled back to the packhouse, I shifted first. Dorian shifted a moment later, his breathing barely elevated.

"You didn't have to follow me," I said.

He pulled on his shirt, unhurried. "I know. I wanted to."

"Calvin always ran at the front."

"I'm not Calvin," Dorian said quietly.

No. He wasn't.

I pressed my thumb against my wrist, feeling something crack open in my chest—something that had been sealed shut for six years, something that hurt and felt like hope at the same time.

"Same time tomorrow?" Dorian asked.

I looked at him—this patient, steady Beta who'd somehow slipped past every defense I'd built without ever demanding entry.

"Same time tomorrow," I heard myself say.