My Alpha Bought Me to Bear His Heir

I stumbled into the nearest restroom, my hands gripping the marble sink so hard my knuckles went white. The face staring back at me in the mirror looked like a stranger—pale, hollow-eyed, broken.

Three years. Three years of guilt. Three years of believing I owed him everything.

My breath came in short, sharp gasps. The room spun. I pressed my forehead against the cool mirror, trying to ground myself, but all I could hear was Christian's voice echoing in my head.

*She was so pathetic.*

*A burden I'm glad to be rid of.*

The amber bottle was in my pocket. I pulled it out with shaking hands, staring at the two capsules I was supposed to take this morning. Vitamins. Beta Morris had given them to me the day I'd signed the blood oath, his expression so solemn, so concerned.

"To keep you healthy for the Alpha's heir."

But Christian had been there too. Standing in the shadows. Watching.

My stomach twisted. The mental fog I'd lived in for three years—the exhaustion, the weakness, the constant feeling that I was barely holding myself together—it wasn't just grief. It wasn't just the weight of my sacrifice.

It was poison.

I threw the bottle into the trash with enough force that it cracked against the metal bin. The sound echoed in the empty restroom, final and absolute.

No more.

The sickness hit almost immediately. My hands started trembling, sweat breaking out across my forehead. My body knew what I'd just done, knew I'd broken the routine it had come to depend on. But underneath the nausea, underneath the shaking, something else stirred.

Anger.

It burned in my chest, small but fierce, like a ember that had been smothered for too long finally catching flame.

I splashed cold water on my face and forced myself to stand upright. I had to get back. Had to serve. Had to pretend everything was fine.

But nothing was fine.

I made it halfway down the service corridor before my legs gave out. The world tilted sideways, and I hit the floor hard, my vision going dark at the edges. The nausea was different now—deeper, more insistent. Not just withdrawal.

Something else.

"Naomi!" Footsteps rushed toward me. Hands—gentle, professional—turned me onto my side. "Don't move. Just breathe."

Dr. Elena Hartwell. I recognized her voice even through the haze. She was Wylder's pack healer, one of the few people who'd ever looked at me with something other than contempt or pity.

"I'm fine," I managed, but even I didn't believe it.

"You're not." Her fingers pressed against my wrist, checking my pulse. "When did you last eat?"

"This morning."

"Your vitamins?"

I hesitated. "I... I stopped taking them."

Her hand stilled. When I forced my eyes open, she was staring at me with an expression I couldn't read. "How long ago?"

"An hour. Maybe two."

She muttered something under her breath and helped me sit up, supporting my weight. "We need to get you somewhere private. Can you walk?"

I nodded, though I wasn't sure it was true. She half-carried me to a small storage room off the main corridor and locked the door behind us. The space was cramped, filled with linens and cleaning supplies, but it was quiet. Private.

Elena pulled a small medical kit from her bag and began examining me with quick, efficient movements. She checked my eyes, my pulse, pressed her fingers against my abdomen.

Then she went very still.

"Naomi," she said slowly. "When was your last cycle?"

The question didn't make sense. "I... I don't know. Six weeks? Seven?"

"And you didn't think that was unusual?"

"My cycles have never been regular. The stress, the—" I stopped. Looked at her face. "Why?"

She sat back on her heels, her expression carefully neutral. "You're pregnant."

The words didn't land at first. They just hung in the air between us, impossible and surreal.

"That's not—I can't be—"

"You are." Her voice was gentle but firm. "I'd estimate about six weeks along. Maybe seven."

Wylder's child. I was carrying Wylder's child.

The room spun again, but this time it wasn't from the withdrawal. This time it was from the weight of what that meant. A child. A pup. Growing inside me.

A pup that would be raised in the Obsidian Pack. Under Wylder's control. In a world where Christian existed, where Beta Morris could manipulate and lie, where I was nothing but a transaction.

No.

The word formed in my mind with absolute clarity.

No.

"I need to leave," I whispered.

Elena's eyes widened. "Naomi—"

"I can't stay here. I can't—" My voice cracked. "I can't let my child grow up like this."

She was quiet for a long moment. Then she reached into her bag and pulled out a small vial. "Scent-masking oil. It's stronger than what you're wearing now. If you're serious about this, you'll need it."

I stared at her. "Why are you helping me?"

"Because I've watched you suffer for three years, and I'm tired of pretending I don't see it." She pressed the vial into my hand. "The pack run is tomorrow night. Every Alpha will shift and run the perimeter. It's tradition. If you're going to move, that's your window."

Tomorrow night. Less than twenty-four hours.

I could do this. I had to do this.

I spent the rest of the day moving through the Summit like a ghost, my mind racing. The hotel kitchen was massive, industrial, and understaffed during the evening events. I slipped in during a shift change and found what I needed—wolfsbane root, carefully stored in a locked cabinet. Dried mugwort. Sage. Ingredients that would amplify Elena's scent-masking oil into something powerful enough to hide me from even an Alpha's nose.

I worked in the shadows of my assigned quarters, grinding herbs with a mortar I'd stolen from the kitchen, mixing them with the oil Elena had given me. My hands were steady now. Purposeful.

Through the window, I could see the Alphas gathering on the lawn below, their voices carrying on the night air. Wylder stood among them, his posture rigid, his expression unreadable. He was deep in conversation with two other Alphas, their body language tense.

A high-stakes negotiation. Marcus had mentioned it earlier. Something about territory disputes that could take hours to resolve.

Perfect.

I finished the poultice and sealed it in a small jar, then packed my duffel bag with the few things I owned. The silver locket went into my pocket. Everything else—the gray uniforms, the cycle tracking app, the life I'd lived for three years—I left behind.

Tomorrow night, during the pack run, I would disappear.

And I would never look back.