Chapter 4

The single, high-pitched tone of the monitor was the only sound in the room, a shrill testament to my body giving up. But Dr. Evans's words pierced through the encroaching darkness, a lifeline thrown into a void. *Carrying your heir.* The phrase echoed in the silent spaces of my mind, a concept so impossible, so earth-shattering, that it momentarily halted my descent.

A jolt, fierce and electric, shot through my chest as Dr. Evans pressed the defibrillator paddles to my skin. My back arched off the bed. The world came rushing back in a gasp of pain and confusion. The flatline on the monitor broke, stuttering back into a weak, erratic rhythm.

I was alive. And I was not alone.

My eyes fluttered open, finding Mark. He stood frozen by my bedside, the Alpha mask he wore so well finally cracking. His face was pale, his stormy eyes wide with a dawning, horrified disbelief. The word 'heir' had done what my near-death had not; it had reached him.

"What?" he breathed, the single word rough with shock.

Dr. Evans didn't look at him. His focus was entirely on me, his hands working with desperate speed, administering a stabilizing agent into my IV. "The magical backlash of the rejection triggered a cascade failure, but her body is fighting back with a ferocity I've never seen. It's protecting the fetus. She's pregnant, Alpha. Approximately six weeks."

Six weeks. My mind reeled. Before the distance had become a chasm, before the scent of Isabella was a permanent fixture in our home, there had been one last time. A night fueled by a desperate, foolish hope on my part and, I now realized, a moment of careless, physical need on his. A child. A tiny, secret life had taken root inside me, a product of a love that was already dead.

I placed a trembling hand on my stomach. There was nothing to feel, of course, but everything had changed. This wasn't just my life anymore. A fierce, primal wave of protectiveness washed over me, so potent it eclipsed the pain of the rejection. I had something to live for. Someone to protect.

Mark stared at my hand, then at my face, his expression a maelstrom of confusion, suspicion, and something else... something I couldn't name. "A trick," he finally snarled, recovering a fraction of his composure. "This is a trick. A desperate, pathetic attempt to hold onto me."

The accusation was so vile, so deeply insulting, that it burned away my tears and left cold, hard rage in their place. "A trick?" I rasped, my voice raw. "You think I would do this? You think I would invent a child to trap a man who just left me to die?"

The truth of my words hung in the air between us, undeniable and ugly. He had no response. He simply stared, his mind clearly struggling to process the new reality. An heir. The one thing he, as an Alpha, was duty-bound to produce. And he had just rejected, nearly killed, and tried to cast aside the mother of his only child.

His jaw worked, the muscle clenching and unclenching. I saw the political calculations firing behind his eyes. An heir complicated everything. It tied him to me in a way that even the mate bond had not. It gave me a status, a claim, that he could not easily dismiss.

"This changes nothing," he said finally, his voice low and dangerous. But it was a lie. I could hear it. The certainty was gone, replaced by a thread of panic. "The rejection stands. The child... the pack will provide for it. You will have no further claim on me."

He saw our child as a pack asset. A political tool. Not a person. Not our baby.

That was the moment my heart, already shattered, turned to stone. I looked at the man I had loved for five years, the man who was the father of my unborn child, and I felt nothing but a profound, chilling emptiness. The love was gone, scoured away by betrayal and cruelty.

He turned and strode out of the room without another word, leaving me in the echoing silence. I was alone, broken, rejected, and carrying the heir of the man who despised me.

***

Sophie arrived an hour later, a whirlwind of righteous fury and fierce loyalty. She must have run all the way from her cottage, her blonde hair escaping its braid, her cheeks flushed. She took one look at my face, at the deadened expression in my eyes, and her own filled with tears.

"He told me," she choked out, rushing to my side and carefully taking my hand. Her touch was warm, a stark contrast to the ice in my veins. "The rejection. Clara, I am so, so sorry."

I just shook my head, unable to speak past the lump in my throat.

"And Dr. Evans told me the rest," she continued, her voice dropping to a fierce whisper. "The baby. Oh, Clara." She squeezed my hand, her grip a lifeline. "What are you going to do?"

"I have to leave," I said, the words finding a sudden, startling clarity in my mind. "I can't stay here, Sophie. I can't raise a child in his shadow, to be treated as a political pawn. He'll try to take the baby from me. I know he will."

The fear was a cold serpent coiling in my gut. An Alpha's heir belonged to the pack. Mark would let me carry the child, and then he would cast me aside and raise his heir with Isabella as its mother. The thought was so monstrous, so unbearable, that it solidified my resolve.

"I'm going to the Conclave," I said, my voice gaining strength. "It's on neutral ground. He has no authority there. It's my only chance."

Sophie's eyes widened, but then a slow, determined smile spread across her face. "Good," she said, her voice firm. "Good. You will not stay here and be his victim. We'll get you out. Tonight."

The plan was desperate, hatched in hushed whispers in the sterile infirmary room. Sophie would gather my essentials-my grimoires, my components from the workshop, a bag of clothes. She would disable the enchanted wards on my infirmary window for precisely five minutes at 3 a.m. She would have a car waiting on the old service road at the edge of the pack lands.

It was a risk. If we were caught, Mark's punishment would be severe for us both. But the alternative-staying, waiting for him to steal my child-was unthinkable.

For the rest of the day, I lay in that bed, gathering my strength. I ate the bland food the nurses brought, focusing on the tiny life inside me. *I will protect you,* I vowed silently, my hand resting on my stomach. *I will get you away from him. I will give you a life of freedom and love, not duty and cruelty.*

As night fell, the infirmary grew quiet. The rhythmic beeping of the monitor was a steady companion. Every creak in the hallway made my heart leap into my throat. But Mark did not return.

At five minutes to three, I began the agonizing process of moving. Pushing past the searing pain in my ribs and back, I swung my legs over the side of the bed. My injured leg screamed in protest. I bit my lip to keep from crying out, sweat beading on my forehead. I pulled on the simple clothes Sophie had smuggled in, my movements slow and clumsy.

At precisely 3 a.m., I heard a soft click from the window. The ward was down.

My heart hammered against my ribs as I limped towards it, using the wall for support. The cool night air that drifted through the open window was the sweetest thing I had ever smelled. It was the scent of freedom.

I looked back once at the cold, empty room, a prison I was leaving behind. Then, with a deep breath and a prayer to the Goddess, I climbed out into the darkness, leaving my old life behind forever.