Mated to My Intended's Enemy
The doctor, an elegant she-wolf in her fifties, confirmed what we'd begun to suspect after a quick examination and blood test.
"Congratulations, Alpha Moretti, Luna Howlthorne-Moretti," she announced with a warm smile. "You're approximately six weeks pregnant."
The world seemed to stop rotating for a breathless moment. Six weeks—which meant conception had likely happened during our first night here in Greece. Leo's face transformed in a way I'd never witnessed before—shock giving way to awe, then fierce pride and possessive joy.
"A pup," he breathed, his usual eloquence deserting him as he placed a trembling hand on my still-flat stomach. "Our pup."