CHAPTER 5

Eudora Whitlock POV

"Sit back down on the stone bench, Eudora Whitlock," the iron-clad pack guard commands, his heavy sword clattering against his greaves as he steps across the vaulted doorway of the sanctuary chamber. "The Alpha Matriarch ordered us to track your every breath until the High Alpha returns."

Eudora clutches the rough wool blanket around her shoulders, her heart hammering against her ribs like a trapped bird.

For twenty-four agonizing hours, guards had stood posted outside her room at the healer's lodge, watching her every twitch. Thelma Ashbury was terrified she would vanish into the wilderness with the bloodline. Eudora had spent every second repeating her frantic denials, desperate to protect the tiny spark of life inside her womb, but no one listened. She knew the brutal truth of the wolf packs. A severed consort carrying an unbonded pup was a threat to the High Alpha's legacy.

She knew this child could not exist in Leighton Ashford's world. Yet no matter how her mind screamed with panic, she had no control over her fate.

The heavy oak doors swing open with a sharp creak.

Leighton Ashford steps into the moonlit chamber. He wears a tailored dark tunic embroidered with silver wolf sigils, a heavy fur mantle draped over his broad shoulders. His massive frame commands the entire room, his golden amber eyes gleaming with cold, absolute authority.

Eudora stares at him, her throat tightening so hard she can barely breathe. It feels as if a lifetime has passed since he demanded her signature on the severance parchment.

The two guards bow low and exit immediately, pulling the heavy timber doors shut. The lock clicks into place.

Leighton grabs a carved wooden chair, dragging it across the stone floor before sitting directly beside her bed. He crosses his long legs, resting his powerful forearms on his knees. His dark, impenetrable aura presses down on the small room, smothering the air.

Out of pure, year-long habit, Eudora's body reacts before her mind can stop it. She leans forward, her trembling hands reaching out to take his heavy outer mantle to hang it on the peg.

Before her fingers touch the dark fur, Leighton casually unclasps the cloak himself and tosses it onto the wooden chest at the foot of the bed. Her hands freeze in mid-air, useless and exposed.

Leighton tilts his head, his golden eyes fixing on her face with unsettling intensity.

"So," Leighton says, his voice low, flat, and devoid of any warmth. "You carry my blood."

Eudora slowly pulls her hands back, tucking them into her lap as her fingers curl into tight, white-knuckled fists. She bows her head, staring at the braided thread of her blanket.

"No," Eudora whispers, her voice shaking violently. "The healers made an error. The lunar crystal reading was mistaken."

She continues to deny it, desperately trying to build a wall of lies around the tiny pulse in her belly.

Leighton stares at her in cold silence for a long, suffocating minute. He does not blink. He does not flinch.

"Purge the pup," Leighton says.

Purge it.

The words hit Eudora like a silver blade plunging straight into her chest. Her eyes snap up, widening in total horror as she stares at the High Alpha.

"This is your bloodline, Leighton," Eudora chokes out, her breath catching in her throat. "How can you order its destruction without a second thought?"

"You are no longer my consort," Leighton replies smoothly, his tone as indifferent as if he were discussing border patrols. "A pup born outside the pack bond creates chaos for the line of succession."

"No..." Eudora shakes her head frantically, tears welling up in her eyes. "I am telling you... I am not pregnant..."

She grips the bedsheets so hard her fingernails crack, blood oozing from the beds of her thumbs, but the physical sting is nothing compared to the sickening void opening beneath her soul. She takes a harsh, ragged breath, forcing her wildly racing heart to steady as she looks him straight in his icy eyes.

"Leighton, listen to me," she enunciates every single syllable with fierce, desperate determination. "I am not carrying your child. Trust me."

Leighton studies her ruined face for a moment longer, then slowly pushes himself up from the chair. He stands tall, his massive shadow completely engulfing her small frame.

"I will have the head herbalist prepare the moon-root draught," Leighton says, turning toward the door. "Rest until then."

He takes a step away. His broad, unyielding back looks like an impenetrable wall, the back of the man she had loved with every fiber of her being, now delivering a death sentence to their unborn child.

The corners of Eudora's eyes burn red. Tears spill over her lashes, tracking down her pale cheeks as her cracked nails dig deeper into the wood of the bed frame.

"I want this pup!" Eudora cries out, her voice cracking as she sits up straight. "Its bloodline name will be Whitlock, not Ashford! It will never lay claim to the Frostmere Dominion! It will have nothing to do with your pack or your throne! Leighton... please... will you allow that?"

She knows how insane her plea sounds to a High Alpha. In the werewolf world, no Alpha willingly lets his bloodline roam free outside his control.

Yet she cannot let him kill it. She cannot let the herbalist destroy the only piece of love left from their two years together.

Leighton stops. He lifts his head slightly, his shoulders stiffening as a terrifying, icy aura surges through the room, making the air in her lungs freeze solid.

"Eudora," Leighton growls, turning his head just enough for her to see the lethal, golden flash in his eye. "You are not being sensible."

Dead silence falls over the stone chamber.

Eudora looks at him through a haze of tears, using every last drop of her strength to whisper a final, breaking question. "Leighton... just this once... can I not be unreasonable?"

"No," Leighton says coldly.

He steps forward, knocking his heavy fist against the wooden door panel twice. The iron latch lifts, and Leighton steps out into the dark hallway without looking back.

Eudora collapses backward onto the mattress, burying her face in her hands as silent, sobbing gasps tear through her throat.

For two years, he had protected her. He had wrapped her in warmth, fought off the sneering pack elders, and made her believe that an Omega could truly find a home in the arms of a High Alpha. She had believed she was the luckiest woman in the Frostmere Dominion. But the dream was dead, shattered into bloody pieces at her feet.

She slips her hand down to her flat stomach, her bloody fingers pressing firm against her skin.

A quiet chime echoes from the side table.

Eudora turns her tear-streaked face to look at her glowing communication stone. A short message from an unknown pack frequency burns across the crystal surface in bright crimson runes:

The moon-root draught is already mixed. The herbalist enters your room in ten minutes—unless you drink the vial hidden beneath your pillow first.