Rejected While Pregnant with the Alpha’s Secret Heir

Chapter 12 – New Routines, Old Ghosts

By the end of the week, my body remembers how to be pregnant without threatening to fall apart every time I step outside.

The bleeding faded to faint, rusty smudges the next morning. Dr. Alvarez wasn’t thrilled, but she said the words I needed: “stabilizing,” “no new clots,” “keep resting.” I’ve turned those into a mantra, whispered between waves of nausea.

Resting is easier said than done when rent lives in the back of your skull like a ticking bomb.

“Sit,” Marco orders for the third time that afternoon, pointing to the little stool by the pastry case. “You look like you’re going to fall into the muffins.”

“I’m fine,” I say—automatic, useless.

He arches a brow. “You said that five minutes before you painted my bathroom with your lunch.”

“That was a one-time—”

“Aeryn.” His voice softens. “You’re good at this job. I’d rather not scrape you off the floor. Take the damn stool.”

I sit.

The café hums around us, late-day rush ebbing into quieter clinks and low conversations. Outside, the street glows in washed-out sunlight. I can almost forget the clinic, the blood, the way my heart tried to climb out of my throat while I stared at a fuzzy gray screen and prayed.

Almost.

The bell over the door jingles. My wolf lifts her head before the scent hits.

Rain. Cedar. The faint metallic edge of adrenaline he’s trying very hard to hide.

Corin.

He steps in dressed like any other human—dark jeans, T-shirt, leather jacket—but the room shifts around him. People look up. Something in them recognizes a predator and can’t quite look away, even if they don’t know why.

He sees me in a heartbeat.

We’ve fallen into a pattern the last few days: he appears at the end of my shift, walks me home, hovers on the sidewalk like an obedient guard dog who doesn’t know where to put his paws.

Today, there’s something tense and coiled in his shoulders that wasn’t there yesterday.

“Hey,” he says quietly, stopping on the customer side of the counter. “How are you?”

“I’m fine,” I answer, out of stubbornness as much as habit.

His gaze drops, just for a second, to where my apron hides the small curve of my abdomen.

He doesn’t argue. “Can I get a coffee? Black.”

Marco appears at my elbow like he’s been summoned. “You a friend?” he asks, looking Corin over with the wary appraisal of a man who’s seen too many bad boyfriends and not enough good ones.

“Something like that,” I say before Corin can open his mouth.

Corin’s jaw twitches, but he nods. “I’ll pay.”

“You’d better,” Marco mutters, but he rings him up and takes the bill, eyes sharp.

I retreat to the espresso machine, grateful for the excuse to turn my back and breathe.

My wolf doesn’t like that. She wants to see him. Wants to watch every move, every flicker of expression. I compromise by glancing in the reflection on the metal panel.

He’s talking to Marco, voice low. Marco is listening like a man trying to decide if he’s looking at trouble or help.

“You’re hovering,” I say when I hand Corin the coffee.

He wraps long fingers around the cup, absorbing the heat like it’s the only thing anchoring him.

“I had a meeting near here,” he says. “Figured I’d…” He trails off, then tries again, more honest. “I wanted to see for myself that you’re not about to collapse.”

“Doctor says I’m fine,” I reply. “As long as I don’t lift anything heavier than a purse and avoid stress.”

His mouth tips in something that’s not quite a smile. “How’s that going?”

I look from the coffee machine to him, to the city outside, to the ghost of the forest behind all of it.

“Terribly,” I say. “But we’re managing.”

He sobers. “I need to tell you something. After your shift.”

The bottom drops out of my stomach in a different way.

“If it’s about the council,” I say, “I don’t want to hear it.”

“It’s about them,” he admits. “And about him.” His gaze flicks, again, to my middle. “Not here. Not with human ears.”

My wolf goes still.

“Is this a ‘pack is coming with pitchforks’ conversation,” I ask, “or a ‘we have time to finish the pastries’ conversation?”

The tiniest, humorless huff escapes him. “Eat the pastries,” he says quietly. “Then we talk.”

He retreats to a table in the corner, back to the wall, eyes on the door and on me in alternating intervals. Old habits. Alpha instincts.

I try to focus on work. On the hiss of steam, the weight of cups in my hands, the low murmur of customers placing orders. My wolf keeps sliding her attention back to the man in the corner who broke us and is now trying to… what? Stitch something out of the scraps?

“What’s his deal?” Marco asks under his breath when there’s a lull.

“Complicated,” I say.

Marco snorts. “The good ones always are.” He glances at Corin, then back at me. “You want me to tell him to take a hike?”

The offer warms something in me I didn’t know was cold. Human pack. Human protection.

“I’ve got this,” I say. “But thanks.”

Marco studies me for a second, then nods and goes back to wiping down the counter like he’s not ready to drop it entirely.

By the time my shift ends, the sky outside has clouded over, the light gone flat and gray. I untie my apron, hang it on the hook, and grab my bag with deliberate slowness.

Corin stands the moment I move, as if pulled by a string.

We step out into the cooling air together. For half a block, we walk in silence.

“Say it,” I finally demand. “Whatever put that look on your face.”

He doesn’t pretend not to know what I mean.

“Morin knows I’ve been coming into the city more,” he says. “He’s asking questions. About you. About why I smell like exhaust and human coffee and…” His jaw flexes. “…something else.”

Fear slashes through my ribs, sharp as the pain on the sidewalk.

“What did you tell him?” My voice comes out too tight.

“The truth,” he says. “That there’s someone here I care about. That I’m not bringing you—or him—into pack politics without your say.”

We stop at the crosswalk. The light blinks red. Cars rush past, throwing up mist from a recent drizzle.

“And he believed that?” I ask.

“No.” Corin looks straight ahead, shoulders set. “He believes I’m hiding something. And he’s right.”

The walk signal flashes. We step off the curb together.

“So,” I say, heart hammering. “What happens when he decides to find out what?”