CHAPTER 6

"There it is," the doctor said, pointing to the grainy grey image on the screen. "Strong. Steady."

Zack stared. His throat felt like he’d swallowed a stone. "That’s... that’s it?"

"That’s your son or daughter, Mr. Durand."

A son. A legacy. Something that wasn't born of trauma or mafia contracts. Zack laid back on the crinkling paper of the exam table, his violet and blue eyes fixed on the ceiling. He hadn't thought his body could do this. Not after years of being a chemical test subject. Not after the way Nathan had to carefully, painstakingly teach him that a hand on his waist didn't always mean a bruise was coming.

Nathan.

The name alone made Zack’s stomach flip. He’d spent a thousand days trying to find the man behind the stone-faced Alpha of the Cocolink empire. He’d found a man who stood outside the bathroom door during Zack’s worst nightmares. A man who bought him weighted blankets and silk shirts because the cheap stuff made Zack’s skin itch with bad memories.

Nathan had been patient. He’d waited months for Zack to stop flinching. Then, one night, Zack had cornered him in the library, shaking with a mix of terror and a need he couldn't name. He’d grabbed Nathan’s tie, pulling him down, demanding to be seen as a man, not a victim.

Nathan had snapped. He’d pinned Zack against the mahogany shelves, his hands roaming over Zack’s body with a hunger that felt like a localized sun.

“You sure, Zack?” Nathan had rasped, his teeth grazing Zack's earlobe. “Because once I start, I’m never letting go.”

Zack had screamed his answer into Nathan’s mouth. That night, the bedframe had groaned under the weight of a man finally claiming his prize. Nathan had been a beast—fierce, heavy, his body a crushing comfort that grounded Zack’s drifting soul. The memory of Nathan’s sweat dripping onto Zack’s chest, the salt of it on his tongue, the way Nathan had driven into him until Zack could only see silver sparks behind his eyelids—it was the only thing that made him feel alive.

Now, that intensity had a heartbeat.

Zack left the clinic, the Havenfall air feeling crisp for once. He stopped at a high-end market, grabbing a bottle of vintage scotch he knew Nathan liked and ingredients for a dinner that didn't involve the Pack House chefs. He wanted a "hole-up" night. Just them.

The elevator ride to the penthouse felt like an eternity. He practiced the words in the reflection of the brass doors. Nathan, I’m pregnant. Nathan, let’s burn the three-year contract. He knew Nathan had been distant lately. He figured it was the pressure of the upcoming anniversary—the day the "out" clause became active. Zack was certain Nathan was just waiting for him to say he wanted to stay.

He pushed the door open, a smile already tugging at his lips. "Nathan? I beat you home for once."

The living room was a cavern of shadows. The only light came from the city’s neon glow bleeding through the floor-to-ceiling glass. Nathan was there, sitting in a leather wingback chair. A glass of amber liquid sat on the table beside him, untouched. His jaw was set so tight the muscle jumped in his cheek.

Zack’s smile faltered. The air in the room felt pressurized, like the moment before a gunshot.

"Bastien?" Zack used the name he only used in private. "What's wrong?"

Nathan didn't look at him. He stared at the wall. "Sit down, Zack."

The tone was a blade. Cold. Precise. Zack dropped the grocery bags on the marble counter, the clink of the scotch bottle sounding like a funeral bell. He sat on the edge of the sofa, his spine stiffening as the euphoria of the doctor's office drained out of him.

Silence stretched. It wasn't the comfortable quiet they’d shared over morning coffee. It was the silence of a predator deciding where to bite.

"I know the anniversary is tomorrow," Nathan said. His voice was a low, gravelly rasp. "The three-year mark."

Zack’s heart hammered against his ribs. Tell him now. Tell him about the baby. But the words died in his throat as Nathan finally turned his head. His silver eyes were dead. Flat.

"I’m not waiting until tomorrow," Nathan stated. He stood up, his massive frame blocking the light from the window. "I’ve already called the lawyers. We’re initiating the rejection ceremony. The dissolution of the marriage."

The world tilted. Zack felt the blood rush from his face, leaving him cold. "What? Why?"

"We both know why," Nathan said, pacing toward the window. "You’ve been a good soldier, Zack. You’ve played the part. But you aren't a Durand. You’re a ghost I’ve been trying to keep warm for three years."

"I... I thought we were happy," Zack whispered.

Nathan spun around, his knuckles white as he gripped the back of his chair. "Happy? You spend half your nights screaming in your sleep. You flinch when the mailman knocks. You don't need a husband, Zack. You need a handler. And I’m tired of being the one holding the leash."

The lie tasted like ash. Nathan’s eyes flickered—a brief flash of agony he couldn't hide—but his voice remained a wall of ice.

"Madeline is back in the city," Nathan added, the name hitting Zack like a physical blow. "She’s what the Pack needs. An Alpha’s mate who can stand beside me, not hide behind me."

Zack felt the ultrasound photo in his pocket. It felt like it was burning a hole through his clothes. He looked at the man he’d learned to love, the man whose child was currently a flickering light inside him.

"So that's it?" Zack’s voice was a jagged fragment. "Three years of me trying... and you’re just throwing me back to the woods?"

"You get the house in the hills. You get the trust fund. You’ll be safe," Nathan said, turning his back. "But tomorrow, it’s over. I can’t do this anymore."

Nathan walked toward the bedroom, his heavy tread echoing in the empty space. He didn't look back. He didn't see Zack crumble onto the floor, his hand clutching his stomach, his breath coming in short, panicked gasps.

Zack looked at the grocery bags. The wine. The meat. The celebration.

The front door clicked open. It wasn't the wind.

Zack looked up as a shadow crossed the threshold. Madeline stood there, silhouetted against the hallway light. She wasn't wearing a coat. She was wearing a dress that looked like it was made of diamonds, and in her hand, she held a small, black vial.

"He didn't tell you the whole truth, did he?" she purred, her eyes dancing with a sick glee.