Chasing the Broodmare He Never Once Looked At

The Alpha of Blood Moon Pack needed an heir his chosen mate couldn't give him. So he found me — a rogue Omega with a destroyed pack and a little brother who needed protection — and offered a deal: carry his child, hand it over, walk away.

He never touched me. A physician, a syringe, a sterile room. When it was done, he said: "Thank you for your cooperation."

His mate Serena moved into the main house the week my pregnancy was confirmed. She picked the nursery colors. She chose the baby's name. She told the pack I was just "a relative visiting."

Then I overheard them planning to erase my scent from my baby within forty-eight hours of birth — so it would never know I existed.

I left that night. Six months pregnant, alone, into the snow.

We arrived at Blood Moon Pack at dusk — me and my eight-year-old brother Milo, both half-starved, him dragging a leg that hadn't healed right since our pack was destroyed three months ago.

A gamma met us at the gate. No greeting. He checked a clipboard.

"The surrogate?"

"Briar."

He didn't write it down.

They split us up right there. Milo to the infirmary, me to the medical wing. Milo grabbed my sleeve when the second gamma reached for him. I peeled his fingers off one by one.

"It's okay. They'll fix your leg. I'll come see you after."

He looked at me like he knew I was lying. Smart kid. The gamma put a hand on his shoulder and steered him around the corner. His limp was worse than yesterday.

This was the deal. Blood Moon gets an heir. Milo gets a roof, a healer, and a pack that won't let him starve. All I had to do was be useful for nine months.

Alpha Cade stood by the window in the procedure room, arms crossed, staring at the trees outside. Tall, broad, face like something carved and left unfinished. He didn't look at me when I walked in. Didn't look at me during. Didn't look at me after.

The physician did what he was there to do. Quick, clinical, painless. When he was done, he packed his kit and left without a word.

Cade turned. His eyes landed somewhere around my collarbone.

"Thank you for your cooperation."

The door closed behind him.

I sat on the edge of that bed for a long time. The paper crinkled every time I moved. My hands wouldn't stop shaking.

Nobody told me where to go next. I found the lobby and waited on a bench until his chosen mate showed up.

"I'm Serena." Warm smile. Hand on my arm. "I put together a little schedule for you — meals, walks, which areas to avoid. All for the baby's health."

She said the baby's health three times in two minutes. Not once did she say mine.

She walked me to a room in the side wing. Private entrance, decent furniture, window facing the garden instead of the main house.

"It's quiet here," she said. "Perfect for resting."

Perfect for disappearing.

I checked on Milo every day after that. His leg responded fast to the healer. He started talking to a younger wolf in the infirmary. He was eating full meals.

Good. That was all that mattered.

Two weeks later, the physician confirmed the pregnancy. Serena organized a pack dinner that same evening to celebrate the news.

I assumed I was going.

"Tonight's dinner is a little... intimate," she said, tilting her head. "People might feel awkward. You know — hard to explain the arrangement." She squeezed my hand. "I'll save you a plate."

So I sat in my room and listened through the walls. Music. Glasses clinking. Someone howled — the celebratory kind, the sound a pack makes when something good has happened.

They were celebrating my baby. I was sitting in the next building over, alone.

I went to check on Milo. Already asleep, curled up under a borrowed blanket. He looked more peaceful than I'd seen him in months.

Back in my room, a plate was waiting outside the door. Cold lamb and roasted vegetables. I left it on the desk.

Then — a flutter. Low in my belly.

My hand went there before I could think. Palm flat, fingers spread.

Again. Tiny. Deliberate.

I held still. Barely breathing.

They were still going in the main house. They hadn't felt this. Nobody knew. The only person who knew this baby had just moved for the first time was me.

I pressed both hands against my stomach. The flutter came again — softer now, settling.

"At least you know who I am," I whispered.