Rejected While Pregnant with the Alpha’s Secret Heir

Chapter 10 – Human Walls, Wolf Panic

The clinic’s waiting room blurs past in flashes of color and noise.

A squeaky door. The slap of Corin’s boots on linoleum. Fluorescent lights buzzing like angry insects overhead. The sharp tang of antiseptic that makes my wolf bare her teeth.

“Excuse me—” Corin’s voice cuts through the hum, too loud, too alpha for this cramped human space. “She needs a doctor. Now.”

A receptionist blinks up at us, fingers frozen over her keyboard. “Sir, you have to—”

“She’s pregnant and bleeding,” he snaps. “You want me to put her on the counter so you can see for yourself?”

“Corin,” I hiss, mortified and in too much pain to be subtle. “Volume.”

His jaw clenches. He drags in a breath that looks like it costs him and grinds out, “Please.”

The word sounds wrong in his mouth. Soft. Raw.

That, more than the threat, seems to jolt the receptionist. Her eyes flick from his face to mine, taking in my pallor, the way my hands claw at my lower belly.

“Dr. Alvarez has an opening,” she says quickly. “Room three. I’ll let her know you’re here.”

We move again. I hate that I can’t walk on my own. Hate the way my wolf, usually so proud, is clinging to his scent like it’s the only solid thing in a spinning world.

“She knows you?” he asks as we pass a bulletin board full of children’s drawings and flu shot flyers.

“Yeah.” Talking hurts, but not talking hurts more. “First prenatal. She thinks I’m… normal.”

His throat works. “Are you?”

“Define normal.”

He doesn’t answer.

Room three is a small, sterile box with an exam table, a rolling stool, a sink. Corin sets me down carefully. The paper crinkles under me, loud and accusing.

Bright spots dance at the edges of my vision. I tip my head back against the wall and focus on my breathing.

In. Out. In. Out.

Still there. The faint, frantic hum under my palm. Our baby is terrified, my wolf whispers. Like us.

The door swings open.

“Aeryn?” Dr. Alvarez strides in, white coat flaring. Her gaze flicks from my face to the darker stain on my jeans. “How long has this been happening?”

“Ten, fifteen minutes?” I rasp. “Started on the street.”

She turns to Corin without missing a beat. “You’re—?”

“Her…” He stops. Swallows. “I’m the father.”

The word hangs there, heavier than the air.

Dr. Alvarez’s eyes sharpen, assessing him in a heartbeat: big, coiled with tension, clearly not used to feeling helpless. “Good. Stay close, but give me space.”

She snaps on gloves, motions briskly. “We’re going to check what’s going on. Spotting can be normal in first trimester. Heavy bleeding, strong cramps—we take seriously. Breathe, Aeryn. Has the pain eased at all?”

“A bit.” I lick dry lips. “It’s more… pressure now.”

“Any clots? Tissue?”

“Just blood.”

“Okay.” She nods once. “We’re doing an ultrasound. If this is a threatened miscarriage, I want eyes on that heartbeat.”

The room narrows to the bed, the machine, the cold gel she smooths over my lower abdomen. Corin stands near the corner, hands fisted at his sides, eyes dark and fixed on my face.

He looks like a caged animal.

“Relax your muscles if you can,” Dr. Alvarez says. “I know that’s a ridiculous thing to ask right now.”

I try. My wolf resists, wanting to curl protectively around the life inside. Slowly, we ease—not fully, but enough for the probe to press lower.

The monitor flickers. Gray static, then shapes, then—

There.

The little curve. The dark sac. The too-small-to-be-so-important blur.

“Come on,” I whisper.

The probe tilts. Dr. Alvarez squints. My heart climbs into my throat.

A beat.

Another.

Then, like a drowned star sputtering back to life, a flicker.

“There,” she breathes. “See that? That’s your baby’s heartbeat.”

My own pulse stutters. On the screen, the tiny flash speeds up, steadies into a rapid, defiant rhythm.

“Still strong,” she says. “Still where it should be.”

The tight band around my chest loosens so suddenly I gasp. Tears blur my vision.

“Bleeding doesn’t always mean loss,” she goes on, tone shifting into calm explanation. “Your cervix can be sensitive, your hormones are a circus, and you’ve been under stress.”

That’s an understatement.

“We’ll run labs, schedule extra monitoring,” she says. “But right now? Your body is still doing its job.”

She glances up. “You have to take it easy. No heavy lifting, no overnights if you can avoid them. Less stress.”

I huff a wet laugh. “I’ll put that on my to-do list.”

She gives me a look that says she hears all the things I don’t say.

“I mean it, Aeryn. Rest. Hydrate. Come in if anything worsens. And you—” She turns to Corin, eyes narrowing. “If you’re staying in the picture, you help make that happen. No drama. No extra weight on her shoulders she doesn’t need.”

His gaze snaps to mine. I look away first.

“I’ll make sure she’s safe,” he says, and the rough simplicity of it twists something inside me.

Safe. Not happy. Not forgiven.

Just safe.

“Good.” Dr. Alvarez wipes away the gel, then prints another image, tucking it into my hand. “And Aeryn? Today, you didn’t lose your baby. Hold on to that.”

When she leaves, the room feels huge and too small at once.

I stare at the fresh ultrasound. Same tiny blur. Same beating light.

Same name whispering in the back of my throat.

Lio.

“Why are you here?” I ask hoarsely, not looking at Corin.

He exhales, a sound full of things I don’t want to hear.

“Because,” he says quietly, “the moment I smelled you in this city… something in me knew I’d already made the worst mistake of my life.”

His eyes drop to my still-trembling hand over my stomach.

“And then I realized I hadn’t even known about the second one.”