My Ex-Mate Kidnapped Our Daughter

Donovan didn’t leave Cedarfall.

He checked into the Pine Crest Motel, a cheap, neon-lit dump on the edge of town by the highway. Lawrence’s lead warrior, Marcus, gave me the report the very next morning while Maisie finished her oatmeal at the kitchen counter.

"He’s watching the house from a rented sedan," Marcus told me, his voice low and clipped. "He has a notebook on the passenger seat. He’s writing down your routines. The preschool drop-off. The grocery runs. The five-minute gaps when my men switch perimeter posts."

I tightened the belt of my cardigan over my swollen belly. My son gave a sharp kick beneath my ribs, as if he could feel the cold prickle of danger running through my blood.

"Has he approached anyone?" I asked.

"He went to the diner yesterday afternoon," Marcus said, disgust curling his lip. "Posed as your concerned cousin. Asked the waitress if your mate ever came around, or if you were raising Maisie by yourself. When she told him she’d never seen a man stay overnight, he smiled."

Of course he did. In Donovan’s twisted head, Lawrence’s absence was proof of my ruin. He thought I was an abandoned rogue who had let some nameless, low-ranking stray knock me up before running off. His damaged wolf couldn't even recognize my Luna aura for what it was. To his cracked senses, my power just felt like an anomaly—the frantic, erratic energy of a desperate she-wolf on the brink.

Later that day, Marcus caught word from an informant near our old territory. Donovan had reached out to Harlan Voss, the ancient registrar who still kept records in the crumbling Ironveil pack house. Donovan was drafting a mating contract. He was actually printing out clauses to claim custody of Maisie and bind me to him by pack law, fully convinced that once he cornered me with legal paperwork, I would fall to my knees in gratitude.

He truly believed I had spent five years waiting for him to save me.

The arrogance of it made my stomach turn.

On Thursday afternoon, the spring sun broke through the gray clouds, warming the grass at the town park. Cedarfall’s playground sat right near the tree line, quiet and mostly empty. Maisie ran ahead of me, her red sneakers kicking up dry leaves. She stopped near the swings, bending down to pick up a smooth brown acorn.

"Look, Mama," she called out, holding it up with a proud grin. "For the baby's room."

"It's beautiful, sweetie," I smiled, keeping one hand pressed to my lower back.

I glanced toward the parking lot. It was shift change. The black sedan carrying Marcus’s relief team had just pulled out, and the next unit was due in three minutes. A tiny window. Barely enough time for a human to cross the street.

Then the wind shifted.

The sour, metallic stench of rotting wolf hit my nostrils like spoiled meat.

My inner wolf bared her fangs, snapping to full attention. I spun around, grabbing Maisie’s small shoulder and pulling her firmly behind my legs.

Donovan walked out from behind a thick cluster of weeping willows.

He wasn't wearing his jacket today. His grey shirt hung loose on his frame, showing how much muscle his dying wolf had lost over the years. But his chin was tilted up, his jaw set in that infuriating, righteous smirk I used to think was strength.

"Amara," he said, holding his hands up like a hunter trying to calm a startled deer. "Don't run. I'm not here to fight you."

"Get out of here, Donovan," I said. My voice was deadly quiet, flat as frozen glass. "I warned you once."

"We need to talk about our daughter's future," he insisted, taking two steps closer. His eyes locked onto Maisie, greedy and wild. "Look at her. She has Alpha blood running through her veins. You can't raise a child like that in the dirt, pretending she’s ordinary. Sutton is gone. I have a home. A legacy."

"She is not your daughter," I gritted out, shielding Maisie completely with my body.

"Stop lying to protect your pride!" Donovan snapped, his voice rising, thin and harsh. "You were pregnant when I cast you out. You carried my bloodline in secret because you were bitter. Look at you now—knocked up again by some coward who won't even show his face in broad daylight!"

He reached into his back pocket and pulled out a folded sheaf of papers.

"I have the contract, Amara. Harlan is waiting at the Ironveil registrar. You sign your name, you bring the girl, and we become whole again. I'll even let you keep the bastard you're carrying."

"You are sick," I spat, disgusted to my core. "Maisie doesn't belong to you. And I would rather let my wolf die than let your hands touch my life again."

I turned my back on him, taking Maisie’s hand to walk toward the main road.

"You don't walk away from me!" Donovan roared.

He lunged.

I felt the rush of displaced air, but before I could spin to throw a punch, Donovan reached straight around my hip. His fingers clamped down hard on Maisie’s thin little wrist, yanking her back.

"We're going to the healer!" he snarled, trying to drag her toward the tree line. "One drop of blood will prove she's mine!"

"Mama!" Maisie screamed.

She didn't freeze. She didn't cry.

With blinding speed that no ordinary four-year-old pup could ever possess, Maisie twisted in his grip. Her brown eyes flashed with a razor-thin ring of molten Lycan gold.

She opened her mouth and sank her sharp little teeth straight into the fleshy meat between Donovan's thumb and forefinger.

She bit down with pure, lethal instinct, grinding her jaw shut until skin tore and hot, dark blood welled out across his knuckles.

Donovan let out a high-pitched, agonized howl, staggering back as he dropped her arm.

"You little monster!" he shrieked, clutching his bleeding hand.

Maisie scrambled back behind my legs, trembling with fury, her small lips stained red.

"Mama!" she screamed again, pointing at him with pure hatred. "The bad man touched me!"