My Alpha Let Rogues Murder All My Unborn Children

The hospital room felt like a cage. Every beep of the heart monitor was a reminder of the heart that wasn’t beating inside me anymore. Roland had left an hour ago, citing "Alpha business," but his internal monologue had been screaming about damage control with the elders.

I lay still, staring at the sterile white ceiling, testing the limits of my new curse. It was like tuning a radio. If I concentrated hard enough, I could push past the static of the hospital staff’s mundane thoughts—*lunch breaks, tired feet, annoying patients*—and find specific frequencies.

I focused on Dr. Elena Carter. She was down the hall in her office. I could hear the scratch of a pen on paper, and then the heavy thud of a door closing.

"Is it done?" The voice was unmistakable. Sweet, like poisoned honey. Lola.

"Keep your voice down," Dr. Carter hissed.

I closed my eyes, visualizing the room, pushing my hearing through the walls.

"Don't tell me to hush," Lola snapped. "Roland said you took care of the... complication while she was under. Did the procedure hold?"

There was a pause, heavy with hesitation.

*God, forgive me,* Dr. Carter’s wolf whimpered in my mind, a sound of pure guilt. Aloud, she said, "Yes. While I was repairing the internal trauma from the rogue attack, I performed the tubal ligation as requested. I severed the fallopian tubes. She won’t conceive again."

My breath hitched in my throat. The air in the room suddenly felt too thin.

"Good," Lola purred. "Her body was useless anyway. Always dropping litters before they could take a breath. It’s a mercy, really. Now Roland won't be distracted by her weeping over another dead thing."

*He just stood there,* Dr. Carter’s mind raced. *The Alpha stood right there and nodded while I sterilized his mate. He didn't even look at her face.*

I gripped the bedsheets until my knuckles turned white. It wasn't the attack. It wasn't my "weak wolf." They had cut me open while I was helpless and stolen my future. Roland had let them. He had watched them carve out my ability to be a mother just to keep Lola happy.

A tear slid down my temple, hot and angry. I didn't wipe it away. I let it burn.

***

Two days later, I demanded to be discharged. Roland tried to fuss over me, his hands hovering nervously as I dressed, but I flinched every time he got too close. He smelled like lies and mint.

"Scarlet, baby, you should rest at home," he said, his eyes full of that practiced concern. "The cemetery... it's going to be too hard on you."

"I need to see him," I said, my voice raspy but firm. "I need to see where you put our son."

He sighed, running a hand through his hair—a gesture I used to find endearing. Now, I just saw a coward. *She’s going to make a scene,* his wolf grumbled. *Just get it over with so we can go back to the pack house and pretend everything is fine.*

We drove in silence. The pack cemetery was a somber place, rows of grey stones under the weeping willows. The Alpha and Luna plot was set apart, surrounded by an iron fence.

Roland led me to a small patch of disturbed earth. There was no stone yet, just a small wooden marker.

"Here," he whispered, squeezing my shoulder. "He's with the ancestors now."

I dropped to my knees in the dirt. The soil was fresh, dark and damp. I placed my hand on the mound, expecting to feel that pull, that spiritual connection a mother has to her child, even in death.

Nothing.

I frowned. My senses were heightened now, sharper than any normal wolf's. I leaned closer, inhaling deeply. I should smell my own blood, the scent of my pup, the lingering tragedy.

Instead, I smelled... lavender?

It was faint, masked by the damp earth, but it was there. Artificial lavender. Dog shampoo.

A gardener was working a few rows over, trimming the hedges. I tuned into him, desperate for an answer.

*Sad business,* the gardener thought, glancing my way. *Making the Luna cry over a patch of dirt. Shame they made me bury Lola’s dead poodle in the royal plot. That little yappy thing died of old age three days ago. Where did they put the baby? Probably the incinerator...*

The scream that ripped out of me wasn't human. It was a guttural, animalistic roar of pure agony.

"Scarlet!" Roland tried to grab me. "Scarlet, calm down!"

I shoved him away, scrambling backward in the dirt. My hands were covered in mud, the same mud covering a dead dog they told me was my son.

"Don't touch me!" I shrieked. "Don't you dare touch me!"

*She's lost it,* Roland’s wolf snarled internally. *Great. Now everyone is staring.*

I looked at him, really looked at him. The handsome face I had adored for five years was just a mask. Behind it was a monster who would let me mourn a dog while my baby was burned like trash.

***

That night, the bedroom felt suffocating. Roland came out of the bathroom with a towel around his waist, water dripping down his chest. He looked at me with a softness that made my stomach churn.

"Scar, come here," he murmured, sitting on the edge of the bed. He reached for my hand. "I know today was hard. Let me help you forget. Let me comfort you."

He leaned in, his lips brushing my neck, right over the mating mark. His hand slid up my thigh.

Revulsion crashed over me like a wave. I gagged, violently slapping his hand away.

"I... I'm sick," I gasped, scrambling off the bed. "My stomach..."

"Scarlet?" He looked offended, his ego bruised.

I didn't wait. I ran into the bathroom and locked the door, sliding down against the cold tiles. My heart was hammering against my ribs like a trapped bird. I couldn't stay here. If I stayed, I would kill him, or I would die.

My trembling hands went to the pocket of my robe. I pulled out a small, rough wooden carving. A wolf.

Matthias.

I hadn't seen the Lycan King in years. Not since he found me starving in the rogue lands, a terrified girl with no name. He had protected me. He had looked at me with a fierce, quiet respect that Roland never had.

I didn't know if this would work. I didn't know if he would even care. But I had no one else.

I closed my eyes, gripping the wood so tight the sharp edges bit into my palm. I poured everything into the mental link—the pain of the empty grave, the horror of the sterilization, the betrayal of the mate bond. I didn't form words. I just screamed with my soul.

*Matthias... help me.*

I waited in the silence of the bathroom, clutching the wooden wolf to my chest, praying that somewhere in the dark, a king was listening.