Pregnant with the Alpha’s Baby and He Has No Idea

Chapter 18 – Human Problems, Wolf Solutions

By the next morning, the valley has the nerve to look peaceful.

Mist clings to the trees like cotton. The air is cold and clean, the kind that makes your lungs sting in a good way. The motel smells faintly of coffee, bleach, and the cheap cinnamon air freshener I found in a box marked MISC.

If you didn’t know any better, you’d think this was a normal roadside stop.

I know better.

Wren sits at the tiny table in the office, both hands wrapped around a mug like it might run away if she lets go. Her hair is still damp from the shower. She looks more human and less haunted this morning, but only by degrees.

“You sure I can’t help with something?” she asks, watching me shuffle receipts and scribble on a notepad. “Laundry? Cleaning? I’m not great at sitting still.”

“You’ve been here twelve hours,” I say. “You don’t have to pay rent in chores yet.”

“Feels wrong not to.” She shrugs, eyes darting to the window. “I’m used to…earning my keep.”

By bleeding for it, probably.

“You staying in town or passing through?” I ask, not pretending it’s casual.

She hesitates just long enough to answer the question.

“Staying,” she says. “If you’ll have me.”

My pen pauses. The baby gives a thoughtful little kick, as if voting.

“This isn’t exactly the Four Seasons,” I warn. “We’ve got raccoons with more seniority than me and a sign that dies every time it rains.”

“Yeah, but your sign doesn’t bite.” Wren gives a humorless smile. “I’ll take it.”

Before I can reply, tires crunch on gravel outside. A second later the office door opens and Hazel steps in, shaking off the cold.

She smiles when she sees me, then does a tiny double take when she spots Wren.

“Oh,” Hazel says. “Sorry, am I interrupting?”

“Just interrogating my new tenant,” I say. “Hazel Quinn, meet Wren Cole. Wren, Hazel runs the elementary school and half the town’s sanity.”

Hazel snorts. “Lie. At best I keep the sugar intake under control.”

She offers Wren a gentle hand. Wren takes it after a beat, shoulders tight.

“I heard about what happened the other night,” Hazel says, glancing at me. “Sheriff Cross came by to warn us. Kids aren’t allowed near the woods without an adult until further notice.”

“Probably good life advice in general,” I say.

Hazel’s gaze flicks to my belly, softening. “You all right? Both of you?”

“We’re…” I search for a word that isn’t haunted or hanging on by a thread. “…still here.”

Hazel nods once, like that’s all she needed.

“I brought the weekly,” she says, pulling an envelope from her bag and waving it. “Town notices. Parents’ group is planning a ‘safety fair.’ I assume they mean reflective vests and not ‘meet your local werewolves.’”

Wren chokes on her coffee. Hazel doesn’t even flinch.

“Relax,” Hazel tells her. “I don’t know details. I just know when the rangers start spending nights in their trucks and Maris looks like she wrestled a thunderstorm, something’s up.”

Her eyes slide to me. “And I know you’ll tell me what I need to know if it affects my kids. Right?”

Guilt prickles. She doesn’t know about wolves. Not officially. But she knows enough to trust me with the gap.

“I will,” I say. “Promise.”

Hazel nods, satisfied. “Good. Also, PTA wants to rope you into a prenatal yoga thing they’re starting.” She side‑eyes my belly. “I told them to give you a couple weeks to not die first.”

“Oh, perfect,” I groan. “Right after ‘survive rogue attack’ on my to‑do list, I’ll add ‘be a majestic stretching goddess.’”

Wren actually laughs this time, a quick, rusty sound like she’s out of practice. Hazel’s mouth curves. Mission accomplished.

The bell over the door jingles again.

This time it’s Nolan—and behind him, not Kaelan, but a man in a suit that looks too sharp for Silver Glen. Mid‑forties, neat tie, glasses, the kind of haircut that screams “I sit in meetings for a living.”

“Morning,” Nolan says, nodding to all three of us. “Maris. Hazel. Miss Cole.”

I stiffen. Wren goes pale.

The suited man smiles a practiced, bland smile.

“Ms. Nightfall,” he says, producing a card. “I’m Adam Pierce, with State Child and Family Services. I’m here to follow up on Ms. Grant’s visit and discuss some…options for your future housing.”

Every muscle in my body locks.

“What kind of options?” I ask, voice flat.

“The kind where you and your baby aren’t in a structurally compromised building on the edge of protected land,” he says smoothly. “We have programs. Vouchers. City apartments in safer neighborhoods. Proper facilities.”

Translation: We’d feel much better if you weren’t under the nose of a pack we barely understand.

My fingers curl around the desk edge. The baby pushes back, uneasy.

Nolan shifts, clearly uncomfortable. “Pierce here insisted on a look himself,” he says. “Given…recent events.”

Wren sets her mug down very carefully. Her eyes flick to me, then to the card in Pierce’s hand, then back. Her jaw clenches.

I realize, with a hot, sudden clarity, that this isn’t just about me.

It’s about every person in this valley who doesn’t fit into neat boxes. Every kid like mine. Every stray like Wren.

Options, in a voice that doesn’t understand what it’s actually asking me to give up.

Home.

Pack.

The thin chalk line in the hall pulses once, faintly, like it feels the tension climbing.

I smile at Pierce, baring more teeth than is strictly polite.

“Mr. Pierce,” I say evenly. “Let me tell you about my ‘options.’”