When My Mate Murdered Our Unborn Pup

The mud was cold against my cheek, but the warmth spreading between my legs was hotter than fire. It was the heat of life leaving me. My baby. My little yellow blanket. Gone.

The silence of the pack was suffocating. Hundreds of eyes watched me bleed into the earth, their faces twisted with a mixture of relief and disgust. They thought the curse was finally being purged. They thought my pain was their salvation.

Mavis stood above me, her crimson robe pristine against the gray sky. For a split second, as lightning flashed overhead, her face rippled. The beautiful, concerned mask slipped, revealing rotting, black teeth and eyes that looked like empty sockets. She smirked at me—a private, horrific victory just for my dying eyes.

"Finish it," a warrior shouted from the crowd. "Kill the leech!"

The chant began, low and rhythmic. "Kill. Kill. Kill."

Gunner stood frozen, his hand over his heart, looking at the blood staining my dress. He looked like a man waking up from a nightmare only to realize he was the monster.

Suddenly, a howl shattered the air. It wasn't a normal wolf's cry; it was a sound that vibrated in the marrow of my bones, ancient and terrifying. The wind stopped. The rain hung suspended in the air.

A voice boomed, not from a throat, but from the sky itself.

*"Enough."*

The pack fell to their knees, whining in submission. Even Gunner stumbled back, his Alpha aura crushed by something far older and stronger.

*"The blood debt to the Rogers line is paid,"* the voice thundered. It was the Lycan Lord, the ancient recluse who owed my father a life debt. I had never met him, never called upon him, but he was watching. *"She leaves this territory alive. Touch her, and your bloodline ends tonight."*

The pressure lifted as quickly as it had come. The pack remained kneeling, terrified.

Gunner looked at me, his eyes wide and wet. "Camila..."

I didn't answer. I couldn't. Darkness swallowed me whole.

***

I woke up in the infirmary, the smell of antiseptic burning my nose. My body felt hollow. Light. Wrong. I reached for my stomach, but it was flat, the life that had fluttered there just yesterday extinguished like a candle in a storm.

A sob tore from my throat, raw and jagged. I curled into a ball, screaming into the thin pillow until my voice gave out. They took everything. My mate. My home. My child.

My hand brushed against my neck. The skin there was raised and hot—the Luna mark. Gunner’s claim.

It pulsed, a sick, rhythmic throb that connected me to him. Even after the rejection, the physical mark remained, a brand of ownership from the man who had murdered our child with his words.

I couldn't breathe. It felt like a collar. A chain.

My eyes landed on a tray of medical instruments left by a careless nurse. A silver scalpel glinted under the fluorescent light.

I didn't think. I sat up, my head spinning, and grabbed the handle. The silver burned my skin upon contact, but the pain was grounding. It was real. Unlike the love Gunner had promised me.

I walked to the mirror. I looked like a ghost—pale, bloodshot eyes, hair matted with mud. On the side of my neck, the intricate mark of the Blood River Pack mocked me.

"I reject you," I whispered to the reflection. My voice was broken, but my hand was steady.

I pressed the silver blade to my skin.

The pain was blinding. It was white-hot agony that seared through my nerves, making my vision spotty. I didn't stop. I dragged the blade down, slicing through the claim, carving the symbol of his ownership off my body. Blood poured down my shoulder, mixing with the tears on my chest.

"I am not yours," I gritted out through clenched teeth. *Slash.* "I am not cursed." *Slash.* "I am free."

The door burst open.

"Luna! No!" a guard shouted, rushing forward.

Before he could reach me, a canister rolled across the floor, hissing. Thick, gray smoke exploded into the room, blinding and choking. The guard coughed, collapsing as the gas hit him.

A shadow moved through the smoke. Strong arms wrapped around my waist, lifting me effortlessly. The scent of pine needles and wild earth filled my nose—not Gunner’s scent. This was wilder. Freer.

"I've got you, Cam," a rough voice whispered in my ear. "I've got you."

"Eli?" I wheezed, the scalpel dropping from my bloody hand.

"Sleep now," he commanded gently, kicking the door shut behind us and sprinting down the hallway. "We're leaving this hellhole."

We moved fast. Eli was a blur of motion, taking back exits and servant corridors I didn't even know existed. He moved with the predatory grace of a Rogue who had survived entirely on instinct for years. We burst out into the cool night air, the rain washing the blood from my neck.

We reached the river that marked the edge of the territory. The water was black and rushing, angry with the storm.

A howl ripped through the night behind us.

*Titan.* Gunner’s wolf.

It was a sound of pure, unadulterated agony. It was the sound of a wolf realizing its mate was gone. I felt a phantom pull in my chest, Gunner trying to use the command, trying to force me to stop.

*Stop. Come back. Mine.* The words echoed in my head, faint and desperate.

I looked back one last time. High up on the balcony of the Pack House, a lone figure stood silhouetted against the lightning. Gunner.

He wasn't moving. He wasn't chasing. He was letting me go.

"Don't look back, Cam," Eli said, tightening his grip as he stepped into the icy water. "There's nothing there for you but death."

I buried my face in Eli’s chest, the water rising around us. As we crossed the boundary line, the last thread of the bond snapped. The pain in my chest finally went dull.

I was empty. I was alone. But I was alive.