His Luna, Never His Priority

The rescue team finally reached me.

The hydraulic spreader screamed against the crushed door. A paramedic fitted an oxygen mask over my face while another braced my neck and asked how far along I was and whether I had any allergies.

"Thirty weeks." I caught her wrist with both hands. "Please, save the baby first."

She leaned out of the wreck. "Is the patient's mate here? We need her prenatal history!"

Kieran stood less than twenty feet away.

Vivienne was folded against his chest, trembling so hard her teeth chattered. A thin cut marked her temple, and her wolf flashed in and out of her eyes. Damon had died in an overturned car three years earlier. Since then, sirens and the smell of gasoline had sent her into panic attacks.

Kieran covered her eyes with one hand and coached her through every breath. He didn't react when the paramedic called for him a second time.

I dragged off my oxygen mask and screamed his name.

He looked at me. For one second, his eyes met mine through the fractured window. Then Vivienne fisted the front of his shirt and sobbed that she couldn't control her wolf.

Kieran turned away and lifted her into the Blackpine emergency vehicle. As the doors swung shut, he called to the medic beside me, "She's the Luna. Get her to the best hospital you can."

The medic froze, then glanced down at the mate mark circling my wrist.

I closed my eyes. I didn't have the strength to explain that the Alpha had just called the wrong woman his Luna.

They took me to St. Joseph Medical Center. In the ER, the fetal monitor showed a single, merciless line.

The obstetrician said the crash had caused a placental abruption. They needed to operate immediately, or the bleeding would kill me too.

I asked if there was still a chance for my son. The obstetrician didn't lie to me or hide behind careful words. She squeezed my hand and said they would try, but the monitor had already told us what neither of us wanted to say.

A nurse hurried out with the consent forms, only to return a few minutes later. "Your emergency contact isn't answering. Is there anyone else we can call?"

My phone was shattered but still lit up. Kieran's name filled the call log, each attempt marked unanswered, so I gave the nurse Naomi's number.

Naomi had been my college roommate. After I became Luna, she was one of the few people who still treated me like Aria instead of a title with a pulse.

She burst into the surgical wing twenty minutes later, soaked from the rain. Her hands shook so badly that the nurse had to steady the clipboard while she signed.

"Where the hell is Kieran?" Naomi asked as she came to my side.

I couldn't answer. If I said the words out loud, I might have to admit what I'd watched him do.

The anesthetic burned into my vein. The last thing I heard before the room disappeared was Naomi choking back a sob.

When I woke, it was after midnight. Only the lamp beside my bed was on, and Naomi sat in the chair with swollen eyes and her damp hair twisted into a knot.

My hand moved toward my stomach before I could stop it.

The curve was gone.

The doctor told me my baby had been a boy. They had done everything they could, but I had arrived too late to save him.

Deep inside my mind, my wolf curled into herself and went silent. The mate bond that had always carried Kieran's steady warmth was nothing but a cold, empty stretch of dark.

"Does he know?" My voice scraped on the way out.

Naomi clenched her jaw. "The hospital called him seventeen times. I called nine. His assistant said he's with Vivienne while they sedate her, and he doesn't have his phone."

She handed me mine. A message from Kieran had arrived two hours earlier.

[Vivienne started to partially shift and couldn't stop. I have to stay until the sedative kicks in. The rescue crew said your vitals were stable. I'll come see you once she's asleep. - Kieran]

As long as I was still breathing, he could sit at another woman's bedside with a clear conscience.

Naomi watched my face. "Do you want me to call again and tell him?"

I opened a reply and typed, [Our baby is gone.]

For a long moment, my thumb hovered over Send. Then I deleted the words.

"No."