Rejected While Pregnant with the Alpha’s Secret Heir

Chapter 15 – First Touch

The city looks different with his name in my pocket.

Not better. Not worse. Just… sharper. Every sound a little too loud, every scent a little too vivid, like the world knows something shifted and is waiting to see what we do with it.

The three of us walk out of the clinic together.

Dr. Alvarez had arched a brow when I handed the form back with both parent lines filled in, but she didn’t comment. Just scanned it, nodded once, and said, “We’ll keep this on file.” When she mentioned “your partner” in passing, I didn’t correct her.

Partner, my wolf muses. Better than alpha. Closer than stranger.

Outside, the sun is low, the air still warm from the day but carrying a hint of evening cool. The street is busy—kids with backpacks, a woman yelling into her phone, a man balancing a box of takeout containers.

We move in step at first, then fall slightly out of sync, like dancers trying to find a rhythm after years apart.

“You okay?” Corin asks, keeping his voice low, meant just for me. “You went quiet back there.”

“I wrote your name on my kid,” I say. “Give me a minute.”

He huffs a breath that might be a laugh, might be disbelief. “Fair.”

We stop at a light. Across the intersection, a little park sits in a triangle of green—patchy grass, a couple of trees valiantly growing out of concrete, a rusted swing set.

A boy about four bolts away from a distracted dad, arms out, chasing pigeons. He shrieks with delight when they erupt into the air.

My hand tightens reflexively on my belly. Lio does a slow roll under my palm, as if responding to the sound.

“You want to sit?” Corin asks. “There’s a bench. You shouldn’t be on your feet this long.”

“I’m pregnant, not made of glass,” I protest reflexively.

“You’re pregnant and stubborn,” he counters. “Which is a dangerous combination.”

He’s not wrong. My back twinges in agreement.

“Five minutes,” I concede. “Then I need to get home before my ankles stage a mutiny.”

We cross to the park. The bench is rough wood, peeling at the edges, but it holds. I sink down with a sigh I pretend he doesn’t hear.

Corin sits at the far end, leaving a respectful gap. His knee bounces once, then stills when he notices.

Kids shriek and laugh around us. Someone’s dog trots by on a leash, tail wagging. The breeze carries a thin thread of green—cut grass, city trees, a hint of the forest beyond the skyline.

No one here knows that an alpha and his rejected mate are sharing a bench like two strangers waiting for a bus.

“I keep thinking about him,” Corin says suddenly, eyes on the swing set. “What he’ll look like. Who he’ll take after.”

“Annoying,” I say. “Loud. Too smart for his own good.”

A ghost of a smile flickers across his face. “So you, then.”

“And you,” I admit, because honesty was part of the bargain we made. “At least a little. He already kicks like he’s trying to rearrange the furniture.”

Something hungry flashes across his expression. Not lust. Not power.

Longing.

“Can I…” He swallows, the words scraping on the way out. “Can I feel?”

My wolf goes very still.

There’s a world where I say no. Where I guard every piece of this pregnancy like a dragon over treasure, never letting his hands anywhere near what he once chose to walk away from.

In that world, I don’t have his name on a form. I don’t have the memory of him standing in a clinic exam room, shoulders hunched, braced for bad news about a life he didn’t create on purpose but is finally trying to show up for.

We’re not in that world anymore.

“Once,” I say. “And if I say stop, you stop.”

He nods, the movement jerky. “Of course.”

I shift slightly, turning toward him. My hoodie stretches over the gentle curve of my abdomen. I take his hand—big, calloused, warm—and guide it to rest there.

His breath catches.

For a second, nothing happens. Just the weight of his palm, the heat of his skin through cotton, the echo of the old ache in my chest where a different kind of connection used to live.

Then Lio moves.

A small, decisive thump, right under the heel of Corin’s hand.

He goes rigid.

I feel it then—the way his wolf surges up, not with the feral edge I remember from fights, but with something almost… reverent. The scent of him shifts, thick with awe and something raw and aching.

“Oh,” he breathes. Just that. “Gods. That’s him.”

My throat tightens. “That’s him.”

His fingers spread, like he wants to cover more, be closer, then immediately check themselves, staying exactly where I put them. Obedient to the letter of the rule, if not the spirit of how badly he wants this.

I watch his face.

The last time we were this close, his mouth was forming the words I renounce you while our bond screamed between us. Now there’s no magic thread, no shared hum under the skin. Just this: his hand, my body, our son making himself known between us like he’s knocking on a door.

“Hi, little wolf,” Corin whispers, voice cracked. “It’s… it’s your dad.”

The word hits me like a soft blow.

Lio kicks again, stronger this time. My wolf rumbles, low and grudgingly pleased.

I have to look away for a second, blink hard against the sting behind my eyes.

“Easy,” I murmur, mostly to myself. “Don’t get attached.”

Too late, my wolf says, almost gently. We all are.

Corin’s hand trembles once against my stomach, then stills. He doesn’t try to move higher or lower, doesn’t pull me closer. Just sits there, head bowed, breathing like this is the first real air he’s had in years.

“I know I don’t deserve this,” he says quietly. “Not the touch. Not the chance. But thank you for letting me have it anyway.”

Something in my chest twists.

“This doesn’t erase anything,” I warn.

“I know.” He lifts his head, meets my gaze without flinching. “It’s not a reset button. It’s… a start.”

We sit there a few more breaths. Three heartbeats, layered over each other: mine, too fast; Lio’s, quick and insistent; Corin’s, slow and heavy.

I pull back first, covering my belly with both arms.

“That’s enough for today,” I say.

He withdraws his hand immediately, fingers curling into a fist in his lap. “Right.”

We stand. The spell of the moment breaks under the normal world pressing in around us—honking cars, a siren in the distance, a kid yelling for another push on the swings.

“You still walking me home?” I ask.

“If you’ll let me,” he says.

I roll my eyes. “Don’t make it sound like a gift.”

His mouth quirks. “Personally, I consider any time you don’t slam a door in my face a win.”

We step out of the park and back onto the sidewalk, the bench receding behind us.

For the first time since the clearing, the space between us doesn’t feel like a battlefield.

It feels like a road. Uneven, cracked, full of potholes.

But at least, for now, we’re walking it in the same direction.