I bury my mate. I raise an Alpha alone. I watch my pack bleed for years under the shadow of old wars.
But nothing prepares me for watching my son’s mate and unborn grandson fight for their lives in front of me.
Sienna lies on the reinforced ritual mat at the forward command point, her body trembling with violent contractions that come far too early. The gentle swell of her belly, which has only begun to show her pregnancy, now looks painfully tight. Sweat soaks her hair. Her face is pale, lips bloodless.
“Stay with us, Luna,” I whisper, gripping her hand tightly. My voice is steadier than I feel. “Your Alpha is coming. Your son needs you.”
The pup’s spark — that fierce little light I feel through the bond — is dimming. Every time it flares to protect his mother, the device drinks deepe
