Rejected While Pregnant with the Alpha’s Secret Heir

Chapter 6 – Human Doctors, Wolf Secrets

The clinic smells wrong.

Too sharp, too clean. Antiseptic and printer ink and stale coffee, undercut by the sour tang of fear that clings to waiting rooms no matter the town. No sage, no pine resin, no low hum of pack-bonded voices.

Just hacking coughs, the rustle of magazines, and the distant wail of a bored toddler.

“Ms. Vos?”

I flinch at my name. The nurse at the doorway glances at the clipboard, then back at me. She’s human—short, efficient, tired around the eyes.

“That’s me,” I say, standing.

The room tilts for half a second. I’ve eaten half a granola bar and a banana this morning; everything else came up in the motel bathroom. My wolf bristles at the fluorescent lights and the hum of the old air-conditioning unit.

“First visit?” the nurse asks, already leading me down the hall.

“Yeah.”

“Any nausea, dizziness, unusual pain?”

I let out a humorless breath. “Yes. Yes. No, not really.”

“We’ll have the doctor go over everything.” She gestures to a small exam room. White walls. Poster of a smiling fetus at various weeks. An anatomical uterus above the sink, all pink and labeled.

My stomach flips.

“Go ahead and have a seat. Blood pressure first.” She wraps the cuff around my arm with practised motions, Velcro rasping. “You’re about… eight weeks by your last cycle, you said?”

“About that.” I nod, eyes on the poster. Eight weeks. A cluster of cells with a heartbeat. By pack standards, still early, still fragile—but real.

“Any prior pregnancies?”

My fingers clench on the edge of the paper-covered table. “No.”

“Family history we should know? Complications in pregnancy, heart issues, clotting disorders?”

Family history. Pack history. My mother, who died when I was little. A father I barely remember. A generation of wolves who never set foot in a human hospital unless they were half-dead.

“Nothing I know of,” I say, which is both true and not.

The cuff tightens, squeezes. My wolf hates the pressure, wants to snap the band off. I force myself to breathe steadily.

“Blood pressure’s good,” the nurse says, noting numbers on her sheet. “Doctor Alvarez will be right in.”

She leaves. The door snicks shut.

Silence presses close. I stare at the posters again. The tiny curled bodies at twelve, twenty, thirty weeks. Wolves in the pack used to joke that humans love to put everything on walls—emotions, information, other people’s insides.

My insides feel like they’re on the wall already.

The door opens with a soft knock.

“Ms. Vos?” The doctor is a woman in her forties, dark hair streaked with silver, warm brown eyes behind her glasses. Her coat says DR. CAMILA ALVAREZ. “I’m Camila. Nice to meet you.”

Her handshake is firm, her smile tired but genuine. She smells like soap, caffeine, and a hint of orange lotion. No wolf. No magic. Just human.

“First pregnancy?” she asks, settling on the little wheeled stool and pulling up my chart on the monitor.

“Yes.”

“And you’re new in town?”

“Just moved,” I say. “Still figuring things out.”

She hums. “Well, we’ll help you figure this part out, at least.” She clicks a few buttons. “Your test was positive last week, and by your dates, I’d say you’re around… seven or eight weeks. We’ll confirm with an ultrasound.”

My pulse spikes. “Already?”

“It’s routine. We like to check placement, heartbeat.” She glances up. “Everything okay?”

“I just—” My throat closes for a second. In the pack, pregnancy meant celebration, hands on your belly, elders blessing the new life. Here, it’s a checklist. A billing code. “Yeah. Just a lot.”

Her gaze softens. “It is a lot. Especially if you’re doing this on your own.”

My shoulders stiffen. “I am.”

“No partner in the picture?”

Partner. Mate. Alpha. The man who ripped the bond from my chest and doesn’t know he tore through someone else too.

“Not anymore,” I say, keeping my voice even.

She doesn’t prod. Just nods, a tiny flash of sympathy in her eyes, and moves on. “Any questions before we begin? Concerns?”

A hundred. None I can voice.

What happens if my baby’s heartbeat is too strong? If my temperature is a little high? If my bloodwork comes back… wrong?

“What if…” I pick at the paper cover. “What if I’m… a little different? Physically. Faster healing. Higher pain tolerance.”

She tilts her head. “Do you have a diagnosed condition?”

“No.” I swallow. “Just… strong genes, I guess.”

Her mouth quirks. “You wouldn’t believe how many patients tell me that. We’ll keep an eye on your vitals. If something looks concerning, we investigate. But from what I see now, you’re healthy. That’s a good start.”

She stands. “Go ahead and lie back, lift your shirt. This’ll be a transabdominal scan first. Gel’s cold, I’m afraid.”

I obey, heart thudding. The gel shocks my skin, cool and slick. My wolf recoils at the foreign sensation, then settles, uneasy but curious, as the probe presses gently into my lower abdomen.

The monitor flickers from gray static to shadowed shapes. Dr. Alvarez squints, adjusts angles, clicks a button. The machine whirs.

“There we are,” she murmurs. “Tiny, but… yes. See that little flicker?”

I turn my head, breath caught.

On the screen, in a small, dark curve, there’s a dot. A flutter, fast and insistent, like a trapped firefly.

“That’s the heartbeat,” she says softly. “Looks strong.”

Something in my chest caves in.

My eyes burn. I blink hard, but tears still rise.

“Is that… normal?” I ask, voice rough.

“Perfectly.” She smiles, and this time it reaches her eyes. “You’re measuring about seven and a half weeks. Everything looks where it should be. No signs of ectopic placement. We’ll do bloodwork to check your levels, but so far, your body’s doing exactly what it’s supposed to.”

Exactly what it’s supposed to.

My hand drifts down, fingers tangling with the doctor’s on the probe for a second before I snatch them back.

“Sorry,” I mumble.

“No need to apologize.” Her tone is gentle. “It’s a lot to see. Especially the first time.”

Your body’s doing exactly what it’s supposed to.

My body, which once bent itself to a bond and a pack and an alpha’s needs without question, is now quietly building a new life in the middle of all that ruin. Stubborn. Relentless.

Like me.

“Can I… hear it?” I ask.

She nods, taps a control. The room fills with a rapid, thrumming whoosh-whoosh-whoosh.

My wolf goes utterly still.

Mine, she breathes. Ours.

I let the sound wash over me. Beat after impossible beat. Proof that there is something here worth crossing entire worlds for. Worth defying councils and courts and old, rusted laws.

“Okay,” Dr. Alvarez says after a minute, turning the volume down. “That’s enough excitement for one morning. We’ll print you a photo.”

A black-and-white image slides out of a slot in the machine. She tears it off and dries the gel from my skin with a paper towel, efficient and careful.

“Any questions now?” she asks.

So many.

“Just…” I clear my throat. “If some of my numbers are… off, you’ll tell me? Even if it’s not what you’re used to seeing?”

“We’ll tell you everything,” she says simply. “It’s your body, your pregnancy. Our job is to give you information and support, not to make decisions for you.”

Support, not decisions.

My chest tightens.

“Okay,” I whisper. “Good.”

She leaves me with a stack of pamphlets, a schedule of future appointments, and a prescription for prenatal vitamins.

I leave with a folded ultrasound photo burning a hole in my pocket.

Outside, the city air is humid and full of exhaust. I step onto the sidewalk, press my back against the warm brick of the clinic wall, and pull the picture out with shaking hands.

A blurry peanut shape. A dark curve. That tiny white flicker caught mid-beat.

Nothing on the paper says wolf. Nothing says alpha. No one in that building knows my child will grow up smelling the world in colors they can’t imagine.

But they will know one thing, if I have anything to say about it.

They will know he is wanted.

I press the photo flat against my chest, eyes closed, and breathe.

In the back of my mind, like a distant echo, I feel the ghost of a bond that used to tie me to a different heartbeat. A different life.

I push it away.

This one is mine.