The Alpha’s Rejected Luna and Her Five Daughters

Push.

Push.

Push.

Bonita’s scream tore through the birthing chamber as another contraction ripped her open. Sweat soaked the thin shift clinging to her body. Her fingers dug into the edges of the wooden bed until her nails split. The air smelled of blood, herbs, and fear.

“Again, Luna. Push!” the head midwife ordered, voice sharp with urgency.

Bonita bore down with everything she had left. Her vision blurred. Somewhere beyond the pain she heard the low, restless pacing of heavy boots outside the door. Alpha Drogo. Waiting. Expecting.

The pack mage had sworn this child was a boy. He had looked her in the eyes three moons ago and declared it with absolute certainty. A son. An heir. The one who would carry the Blackthorn bloodline and rule after Drogo was gone.

Bonita had prayed it was true. Not for herself. She had long stopped hoping for kindness from her mate. She prayed for the child. For the four little girls already sleeping in the nursery wing, the ones their father refused to claim, refused to name properly, refused to touch.

Another wave of agony crashed through her. She pushed until her throat raw, until the midwife’s hands guided and pulled.

A thin, furious cry split the air.

Silence followed.

The midwife lifted the slippery, red newborn and wiped it clean. Her face went carefully blank.

Bonita’s chest heaved. “Is… is it…?”

The woman did not meet her eyes. She only wrapped the child in a soft cloth and placed it gently against Bonita’s chest.

A girl.

Perfect. Tiny. Alive. Another daughter.

The door slammed open before Bonita could even count the baby’s fingers.

Alpha Drogo filled the doorway, tall and broad, dark hair falling into cold eyes. Blood still streaked his knuckles from the hunt he had refused to leave until the last moment. He strode in, gaze locked on the midwife.

“Well?” His voice was low, dangerous.

The midwife swallowed. “A healthy child, Alpha.”

Drogo’s eyes dropped to the small bundle against Bonita’s breast. He stepped closer. The room held its breath.

He reached out, pulled the cloth aside, and stared.

The silence stretched until it became something sharp.

Then he laughed. Once. Short. Ugly.

“The Moon Goddess must truly hate me,” he said, voice flat. “Or she simply finds my mate amusing.”

Bonita’s arms tightened around the newborn. The baby’s soft cry rose again, small and confused.

Drogo looked at his wife as if she were something he had stepped in. “Five daughters. Five. And still no heir.” His lip curled. “You were supposed to give me a son this time. The mage swore it.”

Bonita’s voice came out cracked, barely above a whisper. “I… I did everything…”

“You failed.” He turned away as if the sight of her disgusted him. “Again.”

He walked to the door, paused, and spoke without looking back.

“Clean her up. Then bring the child to the nursery with the others. I will decide what to do with all of you later.”

The door shut hard enough to rattle the walls.

Bonita stared at the tiny face pressed against her skin. The baby’s dark lashes fluttered. A soft, perfect mouth opened in a quiet whimper.

Another girl.

Another disappointment in the eyes of the man who was supposed to protect them.

Bonita’s tears finally fell, silent and hot, landing on the newborn’s forehead like a blessing no one else would give.

The night wind howled through the trees of Blackthorn territory, carrying the scent of pine and coming storm.

Inside the birthing chamber, Bonita held her fifth daughter and wondered how much more the Moon Goddess expected her to endure.