I'm having his heir

The claws retracted as quickly as they came, leaving my fingertips stinging and my palms slick with sweat. My vision tunneled—Marisol’s words echoing like a death knell inside my skull. New heir. Three days. The one growing inside me right now.

The room spun. My wolf snarled so loud in my head I thought the others must hear it.

Dorian’s gaze flicked to my hands, narrowing for half a second—as if he’d seen something he didn’t like. Then he turned away, dismissing me like the inconvenience I had always been.

He clapped his hands.

The sound was sharp. Final.

Six guards stepped into the ward immediately, their boots quiet against the floor, their faces blank. They did not look at me. They did not look at Rowen. They stood in formation like this was a scheduled task.

I turned slowly. “What is this,” I asked.

No one answered me.

Dorian straightened his cuffs. “We need to proceed,” he said. “This cannot become a spectacle.”

A cold weight settled in my stomach. “Proceed with what.”

He looked at the bed. At my son.

“We need to take his body,” Dorian said. “For proper burial.”

The words did not make sense.

“No,” I said.

My voice was calm. Too calm. “No. You are not taking him.”

“This is not your decision alone,” Dorian replied. “He was an heir of this pack.”

“He was my child,” I said.

One of the guards stepped forward.

I moved instantly, positioning myself between them and the bed. “Do not touch him.”

Dorian sighed. “Selene. Do not make this harder.”

Harder.

“You do not get to decide what happens to him,” I said. “You did not even come when he was alive.”

“This is not about feelings,” he said. “This is about protocol.”

Protocol.

I laughed, but no sound came out.

“You will step aside,” Dorian said. “Now.”

“I will not,” I said.

The guards exchanged a glance.

“Take him,” Dorian ordered.

They moved.

I reached for Rowen, gripping his small body against my chest. “No,” I screamed. “You will not take him from me.”

Hands grabbed my arms.

I struggled. I kicked. I screamed his name.

“Rowen,” I cried. “Rowen.”

Someone shoved me hard.

I hit the floor.

The impact knocked the breath from my lungs. Pain shot through my side, but I barely felt it. All I could see was the bed. All I could see was my son being lifted from it like an object.

“No,” I sobbed. “Please. Please.”

Dorian did not look at me.

Marisol watched from the doorway, her face unreadable, her hand still pressed to her cheek.

The guards carried Rowen out.

I scrambled to my feet and ran after them.

The hallway spun. My legs shook. My chest burned like it was tearing apart from the inside.

“Stop,” I screamed. “Stop.”

No one stopped.

I burst outside into the cold air just as they placed him into the back of a black vehicle.

“That is my son,” I screamed. “You cannot do this.”

A guard blocked me.

I tried to shove past him. He pushed me back.

“Get in the car,” he said.

“I am not leaving him,” I said.

“You will,” he replied.

Another guard grabbed my arm and dragged me toward a different vehicle. I twisted and fought, but I was weak. I had been weak for hours. For years.

As they forced me toward the door, I saw Dorian and Marisol.

They were getting into the same car.

She leaned close to him, her hand resting on his arm like she belonged there.

The door shut.

The car pulled away.

I screamed.

The sound tore out of me as I was shoved into the other vehicle. The door slammed shut. The engine started. We followed behind them.

Rowen was gone.

I pressed my forehead against the window and sobbed until my throat burned.

The pack house loomed ahead.

When we arrived, the elders were already waiting.

They sat in a semicircle, robes neat, expressions measured. Candles burned along the walls, their flames steady, untouched by grief. The air smelled of incense and stone.

I was guided forward and then released, left standing alone at the center of the room.

No one asked how I was standing.

No one asked if I could breathe.

An elder cleared his throat. “The body has been secured.”

My chest tightened.

Another nodded. “The burial will take place before nightfall.”

I looked up. “I want to see him.”

Silence followed.

“That will not be necessary,” one of them said gently. “The healer has already confirmed the outcome.”

Outcome.

“He is my son,” I said. “I will see him.”

Dorian spoke before the elders could respond. “It is better this way.”

I stared at him. “Better for who.”

“For the pack,” he replied.

An elder leaned forward. “This loss is unfortunate, Selene, but we must think beyond personal sorrow.”

“The announcement will be brief,” another elder said. “We will inform the neighboring packs that the Alpha’s firstborn passed due to prolonged illness.”

I shook my head. “He had a name.”

No one responded.

“We cannot allow rumors of weakness,” the first elder continued. “The timing is already delicate.”

Dorian nodded. “Especially now.”

I laughed. The sound was sharp and ugly. “You are talking about him like he was a failed harvest.”

An elder frowned. “Mind your tone.”

“My child is dead,” I said. “And you are discussing tone.”

“The pack must remain stable,” another said. “Emotional displays will not help anyone.”

I looked around the room. At their calm faces. At their folded hands.

“He used to sit on those steps,” I said quietly. “He counted the candles when he could not sleep.”

No one reacted.

“He asked why the moon never spoke to him,” I said. “He thought it was because he was not strong enough.”

Dorian shifted. “This is not the time.”

“When is it,” I asked. “When he is buried. When he is forgotten.”

An elder sighed. “Selene, grief is clouding your judgment.”

“You are already done with him,” I said.

“That is not true,” one replied. “We honor all pack members.”

I laughed again. “You have not said his name once.”

Silence fell heavier this time.

“We will move forward,” Dorian said. “That is what leadership requires.”

Move forward.

I looked at him. At the man who had not come when his son cried.

“He was alive,” I said. “He laughed. He loved.”

No one spoke.

“He mattered,” I said.

No one answered.

That was when I understood.

Not because they forgot him.

But because they had already replaced him.

He was a risk resolved.

A weakness corrected.

A future adjusted.

Something inside me went very still.

The mate mark on my neck burned, sharp and furious, like it was finally screaming the truth.

I lifted my head.

“I will remember this,” I said quietly.

Dorian did not look concerned.

“You will calm down,” he said. “You always do.”