Rejected by My Mate, Desired by His Enemy

"Did we...?"

The memory surfaces, sharp and unwanted. My voice from a month ago, small and hopeful in the morning light.

Damon had shrugged, pouring his coffee. "I guess so. Don't read into it, Iris."

Now I sit on the cold bathroom floor, staring at the pregnancy test in my shaking hands. Two pink lines. Fourth test this week. Fourth time those lines have appeared, unmistakable and certain.

The tile is freezing under my bare feet. I curl my toes, trying to feel something other than the terror crawling up my spine.

Outside the window, birds are singing. Morning sunlight streams through the frosted glass, turning everything soft and golden. The world out there is normal. Beautiful. In here, everything is ending.

Three years married. Three years of Damon barely touching me. When he does, it's mechanical. Quick. Like checking off a task on a list he'd rather not complete.

But last month was different.

The full moon run had left him restless. Wild. When he came home that night, he still smelled like pine and rain and wolf. His eyes hadn't quite shifted back to human. For those few minutes, he'd looked at me. Actually looked at me.

He'd pulled me close. Made me feel wanted.

The next morning, he didn't even remember.

I stand on shaking legs and face the mirror. My reflection stares back, pale and too thin. The circles under my eyes look darker under the bathroom light. When did I start looking so tired?

I practice smiling. It doesn't reach my eyes.

"Damon, I have news."

Too stiff. Too formal. He'll shut down before I finish.

"We're going to have a baby."

Too excited. He'll think I'm crazy. That I planned this somehow.

"I'm pregnant."

Simple. Direct. Honest.

My hand moves to my stomach. There's nothing to feel yet, but I press anyway. A life is growing there. Our child. Maybe this will change things. Maybe a baby will make him remember why he chose me in the first place.

Did he ever choose me? Or was I just convenient?

I shove the thought away. It hurts too much.

Movement in the mirror catches my attention. My sleeve has ridden up, exposing my wrist. Purple and blue marks circle the skin like a bracelet. His fingers. From yesterday, when I interrupted his phone call with the accountant.

He'd grabbed me. Pulled me out of his office fast enough to leave marks.

"Not now, Iris," he'd said. His grip tight enough to make me gasp.

I reach for the concealer on the counter. The routine is automatic now. Dab, blend, smooth. The bruises disappear under a layer of beige. There. Better.

He didn't mean it. He's under so much stress. His father died six months ago, and becoming Alpha has been hard on him. The pack demands everything from him.

It's not abuse if I provoked it.

The thought sits heavy in my chest, but I've repeated it so many times it almost feels true.

From downstairs, laughter floats up. Her laughter. Light and musical and everything mine isn't.

Clarissa.

She's always here. In our house. In our kitchen. In our lives. She stays in the guest room more nights than not, claiming she needs family close. That her apartment is too lonely.

Damon never says no to her.

His deeper voice rumbles in response to something she said. I can't make out the words, but the tone is warm. Affectionate. The way he used to sound with me, back when we were dating. Before the wedding. Before everything changed.

Jealousy twists in my stomach, sharp and bitter. I swallow it down. She's his half-sister. Family. I'm being paranoid.

"She's family, Iris. Stop being paranoid."

His words from last week echo in my head. Maybe he's right. Maybe I am broken and suspicious and everything he says I am.

But I have this now. This baby. Our baby. Things will be different.

They have to be.

I slip the test into my pocket and open the bathroom door. The hallway is quiet. Our bedroom door is still closed. Damon is still asleep, then. Good. I'll tell him tonight. At dinner. I'll make his favorite meal and find the right moment.

The stairs creak under my feet as I descend. Each step feels heavier than the last. My heart pounds so hard I can feel it in my throat.

Their voices get louder as I approach the kitchen.

"...can't keep doing this." Clarissa sounds upset. Distressed.

"I know." Damon's voice is tired. Gentle. "I know."

I pause at the bottom of the stairs. One hand on the banister. Through the doorway, I can see them.

Clarissa stands at the stove, wearing one of Damon's shirts. It falls to mid-thigh on her, showing off her long legs. She's taller than me. Curvier. More of everything I'm not.

She claims she spilled coffee on her clothes. That's why she's in his shirt. It's the third time this week.

Damon sits at the kitchen table, watching her cook. Eggs and bacon, from the smell. He never cooks for me. I do all the cooking, all the cleaning, all the everything while he focuses on pack business.

But for her, he cooks.

Clarissa's blonde hair catches the morning light. She's beautiful in a way that makes me feel invisible. When she turns to say something to Damon, I see her face is blotchy. Tear-streaked.

She's crying.

Damon stands immediately. Crosses to her in three steps. His hand lands on her shoulder, gentle and sure.

"Hey," he says softly. "It's okay. We'll figure it out."

"I'm scared." Clarissa's voice breaks.

"Don't be. I've got you."

My throat tightens. I should leave. Go back upstairs. But my feet won't move. I'm frozen on the bottom step, watching my husband comfort another woman in our kitchen while she wears his clothes.

The test in my pocket feels like it's burning through the fabric.

Clarissa leans into Damon. He wraps his arms around her, pulling her close. She fits perfectly under his chin. They look like puzzle pieces. Like they've done this a thousand times before.

They have done this before. I've seen them like this dozens of times. Always with some excuse. She's sad. She's stressed. She needs family support.

But something about this feels different. Wrong. Final.

"Thank you," Clarissa murmurs against his chest. "For everything. For always being here."

"Always," Damon promises.

The word hangs in the air. Always. He's never said that to me.

I should announce myself. Walk in. Ask what's wrong. Play the supportive wife, the understanding sister-in-law.

But my body won't cooperate.

Clarissa pulls back slightly. Looks up at Damon with those wet green eyes. Her hand moves to his chest, fingers spreading over his heart.

"I need to tell you something," she says.

Damon nods. "What is it?"

She takes a breath. Her other hand moves to her stomach. The gesture is protective. Maternal.

My own hand mirrors hers unconsciously, pressing against my pocket. Against the test.

"I'm pregnant, Damon."

The words slam into me like a physical force. The air leaves my lungs. The kitchen tilts.

Pregnant.

She's pregnant.

With Damon's baby.

The test in my pocket suddenly weighs a thousand pounds.