The Enemy Alpha's Wet Nurse

“Stop dragging your feet or I’ll slice your ankles right now!” The rough yank on the iron chain threw Amara’s body onto the cold stone floor. Her knees slammed into the hard surface, skin scraping painfully as a sharp sting flared, yet the agony in her legs was nothing compared to the pressure crushing her chest from the inside. “Argh…” A muffled groan slipped past her clenched teeth as she bit down on her lip, the metallic taste of blood blooming across her tongue. Her chest felt hard as stone—swollen, tight, and throbbing as if it might tear her apart from within. Her postpartum body betrayed her relentlessly; her system continued to produce nourishment for the child who had stopped breathing two days ago. The torn silk gown clung to her, soaked across the front. Warm dampness mixed with cold sweat, spreading in an unmistakable stain that screamed humiliation. “Get up, you filthy Luna!” A kick struck her hip, forcing Amara to lurch upright with a sharp gasp. “Easy, Grik,” the second soldier warned—an older man with a scar cutting across one eye. “Alpha Kaelen’s orders are clear. Bring her back intact. No lasting damage.” Grik spat on the floor beside Amara’s face. “Hmph. She’s just Silvermane’s leftover trash. Look at her—can’t even stand straight.” He crouched before her, his rough hand gripping her chin and forcing her to look up. His gaze crawled over her pale face, slid down her dirt-smeared neck, then lingered deliberately on the damp fabric clinging to her chest. “The smell…” Grik grinned, nostrils flaring as he inhaled. “Sweet. Like warm milk and vanilla. This widow is really overflowing, Senior. Too bad we’re not allowed to touch.” “Watch your mouth,” the older soldier hissed, yanking Grik back. “Do you want Raxus to rip out your tongue? You know how possessive Alpha’s eldest son is over his spoils. Don’t court death.” Raxus. The name struck Amara harder than any blow. Nausea surged violently. Raxus Blackmoon. The Butcher of the North. The monster who led the slaughter in the Silvermane nursery—where she had lost everything. “Move,” the older soldier ordered. Amara forced her trembling legs forward. Every step sent a jolt of pain through her engorged body. She was dragged through the castle corridors that had once been her home. The silver wolf emblems had been torn from the walls, replaced by black moon banners hanging in arrogant dominance. In one corner of the hall, the bodies of her loyal soldiers lay stacked like refuse, awaiting fire. The double doors of the throne room screeched open. Seated upon her dead husband’s throne was Alpha Kaelen. The old man radiated suffocating authority. He wiped his long sword with a silk cloth—her late mother’s favorite shawl. The guards threw Amara down at his feet. She collapsed, lips brushing the dust of the marble floor. “Show respect to Alpha Kaelen!” they barked. Kaelen didn’t look at her immediately. He studied the blade’s edge under torchlight. “Did she resist?” “Only a little, Alpha,” Grik answered quickly. “But we corrected her manners.” Kaelen gave a low snort and sheathed the sword with a sharp click. His hawk-like eyes finally settled on the broken figure before him. “Stand up, Amara.” The voice was calm. Absolute. She lifted her head slowly, meeting his gaze with what remained of her shattered pride. Her hair was matted, lips cracked, yet the fire of hatred still burned fiercely in her eyes. With trembling hands, she forced herself upright. “Just end it,” Amara said hoarsely. “Use that sword. Send me to my husband and child. I refuse to live as your prisoner.” Kaelen chuckled softly and descended from the throne. Each step echoed with deliberate arrogance. He stopped inches from her. The scent of old musk and dried blood clung to him. The tip of his boot lifted her chin. He sniffed the air. “You smell of milk,” he remarked coldly, eyes fixed on the darkened stain across her gown. “My soldiers were correct. You are still fully lactating.” Heat flooded her face. Amara crossed her arms instinctively, trying to shield herself. The stress only worsened the ache, her body responding against her will. “What do you care?” she hissed. “Do you enjoy degrading a grieving woman?” “I care nothing for your shame,” Kaelen replied flatly, knocking her hands aside. “I am a businessman, not a sadist. I value useful assets.” He turned toward a gold-plated bassinet near the strategy table. From within came a weak, broken cry—thin and desperate, like a fading kitten. Amara’s heart plunged. Her instincts reacted instantly; the sound sent a painful surge through her chest, warmth seeping anew. “My youngest son,” Kaelen said without turning. “Raxus’s full brother.” So the rumors were true. The Blackmoon Luna had been pregnant during the war. “She died giving birth two weeks ago,” Kaelen continued. “For three days, the child has refused to feed. Cow’s milk. Goat’s milk. Even our own wet nurses.” He faced Amara again, gaze calculating. “The physician says he requires Alpha blood. He is premature—weak. Ordinary milk lacks the spiritual nourishment needed to sustain an Alpha soul.” Kaelen spread his hands slowly. “And the only woman of Alpha blood still producing nourishment… is you.” Amara’s world collapsed. “No,” she whispered. “Don’t ask me to feed the child of my family’s butcher.” “He is dying, Amara!” Kaelen roared. “The Blackmoon heir starves while you let what he needs spill uselessly onto my floor!” “Let him die!” she screamed, tears burning her eyes. “Let your bloodline rot! You slaughtered my child—you deserve no mercy!” “Insolent.” Grik moved forward, but Kaelen raised a hand. The Alpha stepped closer, gripping Amara’s jaw until blood welled beneath his nails. “Listen carefully,” Kaelen said softly. “This is not a negotiation.” He gestured toward the doorway. More soldiers had gathered—silent, watching, eyes sharp and predatory. “You have two choices,” he whispered. “Refuse, and I release you to them. Men who haven’t seen a woman in months. You will not survive the courtyard.” Cold terror seeped into Amara’s bones. “Or,” Kaelen continued, voice dropping. “You nurse my son. You live. You eat. You are protected. As long as that child breathes… so do you.” The baby’s cries weakened further. The pain in Amara’s chest became unbearable, her body screaming for release. “Choose,” Kaelen said. There was no escape. If she died now, her vengeance died with her. With shaking hands, Amara bowed her head. “Take me… to him.” Kaelen smiled. “A wise decision.” He snapped his fingers. “North Wing. Raxus’s chambers.” Her head snapped up. “Raxus? Why his room?” “The child sleeps there. Raxus guards him personally,” Kaelen replied casually. “And remember—Raxus just lost his mother. If anything happens to his brother… he will skin you alive.” The guards dragged her away. The North Wing was darker, colder. Power pressed down like a living thing. “Go in,” the older guard muttered, unlocking her shackles. “May the Moon God pity you.” The massive black door opened. Moonlight sliced across the floor. The air was thick with dominance—smoke, iron, and Alpha presence. “Who allowed you entry?” The voice emerged from the darkness. Before she could answer, a shadow moved. CRACK. A massive hand closed around her throat, slamming her into the wall. Her feet lifted off the floor. “Ugh—!” Golden eyes blazed inches from her face. Raxus Blackmoon loomed over her, shirtless, blood streaked across his powerful frame. He leaned in, inhaling sharply at her neck. “Give me one reason,” he snarled, fangs grazing her skin, “why I shouldn’t tear out your throat right now, captive.”