The First Proof

POV: Olivia

The clinic smelled nothing like the pack infirmary.

No wolfsbane. No blood. No tang of silver scalpels. Just antiseptic and the faint lavender scent of the hand sanitizer Hana carried everywhere.

I sat on the exam table with paper crinkling under me, hands clamped tight in my lap. My stomach churned, though I couldn’t tell if it was nerves or nausea.

The room was too clean. Too human. Out in the hall, a receptionist tapped on a keyboard. Somewhere in the city, sirens wailed, echoing faint through the thin glass. For the first time in my life, there was no Alpha’s shadow pressing down on me. No pack eyes watching every breath.

And still—I couldn’t shake the feeling that someone had followed me here.

“Deep breath,” Hana said gently, snapping on gloves. Her dark hair was tied back, her expression professional, though her gaze softened when it met mine. “We’ll start simple—blood pressure, reflexes, all the boring bits.”

Aria leaned against the wall in her blazer, arms crossed, watching like a hawk. She didn’t look like the girl I remembered sneaking crusts of bread with in the laundry room. She looked sharp enough to cut, the kind of woman who never asks permission. But when my gaze flicked up, she smiled. Small. Warm. I’m here.

The cuff squeezed my arm. Hana frowned at the numbers, then smoothed her face. “A little low, but nothing unusual. You’ve been running on stress and not enough food. That changes today.”

I swallowed. “So… I am?”

Hana peeled off the gloves and tossed them in the bin. “We’ll run bloodwork to be certain. But Olivia—yes. Every sign points to pregnancy.”

The word rang like a bell.

Pregnant.

Not maybe. Not possibly. Real.

My breath hitched. Fingers curled tighter in my lap. The room tilted.

Hana’s face softened. “We’ll do an ultrasound once the labs confirm, but that might take a few weeks. For now: vitamins, proper meals, and sleep. Can you manage that?”

I nodded, though my throat had closed around a hundred questions. What if something’s wrong? What if wolves can sense them? What if he finds me?

Aria pushed off the wall and came closer, setting a hand on my shoulder. “She won’t be managing it alone.”

That undid me more than the diagnosis. My eyes stung. I looked down fast, but the paper under me blurred anyway.

Hana touched my wrist. “Hey. It’s okay to be scared.”

“I don’t know how,” I whispered. The words tore free before I could choke them back. “I don’t know how to do this. What if something’s wrong? What if I can’t—”

My voice fractured. The silence between us swelled with everything I couldn’t say: What if the pack takes them? What if they’re born like me—latent, weak? What if he finds out?

Aria crouched until we were eye to eye. Her gaze burned steady. “Liv. You survived a pack that tried to crush you. You ran when others would have folded. That strength? That’s what your child already has—because he or she has you. And me. And I swear I’ll be the best aunt or godmother they could ever ask for.”

The tears came hot and humiliating. But Aria didn’t look away. She didn’t flinch.

“This isn’t the end of your story,” she said fiercely. “It’s the beginning of a new one. And this time, you’re not writing it alone.”

A broken laugh slipped out of me. “You always did love the dramatic speeches.”

Her mouth curved. “Someone has to.”

Hana passed me tissues, pretending not to notice me fall apart. “Eat something green today. That’s doctor’s orders.”

“I hate spinach,” I muttered, voice thick.

“Then broccoli,” Hana said dryly. “But not from a can. You’re not a starving student anymore.”

Something warm flickered in my chest. Not joy. Not yet. But something close.

---

POV: Olivia (that night)

Aria insisted I stay at her apartment. It was small, books stacked in every corner, case files spread across the table—but the couch was softer than any bed I’d had since the packhouse.

She made tea. Hana brought takeout. They argued lightly about deadlines and case notes while I sat quietly, listening to the rhythm of voices that weren’t sharpened with cruelty. They didn’t treat me like fragile porcelain. They treated me like a friend.

I almost didn’t know what to do with it.

The walls smelled of paper and chamomile, not iron or smoke. The window was cracked to let in the city hum: sirens, laughter, the steady rush of tires on wet asphalt. Human noise. Safe noise.

Aria handed me tea and tucked a blanket around my shoulders like I hadn’t outgrown it. “Stop thinking about what’s behind you,” she murmured. “You’re here now. Start thinking about what’s ahead.”

When I lay down that night, I pressed my palm to my stomach again.

Pregnant.

Not just broken. Not just rejected. Carrying something new. Someone.

Fear still clamped around my ribs, but under it a flicker of wonder glowed.

“My little one,” I whispered into the dark, “I don’t know what I’m doing. But I promise—I’ll try.”

From the kitchen, I heard Aria and Hana laugh over some shared story, their voices softening the edges of the night. For the first time, silence didn’t feel like loneliness.

It felt like the fragile start of something I wasn’t ready for—

But maybe ready enough.