Enslaved To My Cruel Alpha Husband

False Sickness (Zyrus's POV)

"Zyrus… I think I'm going to be sick again."

Margaux's voice cracks through the heavy silence like a whip. She's doubled over just inside the threshold of my private study, one hand pressed dramatically to her mouth, the other cradling the small swell of her belly. Her auburn hair—usually pin-straight and weaponized—hangs in messy strands across her pale face. Sweat beads on her forehead even though the fire in the hearth has long since died to embers.

I don't move from behind the desk.

My fingers stay curled around the edge of the parchment I was reading—border reports that suddenly feel irrelevant.

"Again?" My tone is flat. Controlled. The same tone I use when interrogating traitors.

She nods frantically. Too frantically. "It started right after the pack run last night. I could barely make it back to my quarters. And now…" She sways theatrically, gripping the doorframe. "I thought maybe it was something I ate, but the healer says it's definitely morning sickness. Stronger than normal. She thinks the pup is… powerful. Like its father."

Her eyes lift to mine—big, shimmering, deliberately vulnerable.

I feel Alexa's small hand tighten on my forearm beneath the desk. She hadn't said a word since Margaux knocked. Hadn't needed to. Her heartbeat thundering against my ribs tells me everything.

I cover her hand with mine. Squeeze once. Stay.

Then I rise slowly.

Margaux straightens the instant I do—like a marionette whose strings just got pulled taut.

"You should be resting," I say, voice low enough that it vibrates in the space between us. "Not wandering the halls at three in the morning."

"I needed to tell you." She takes one shaky step forward. "You're the father, Zyrus. You deserve to know how… how violently this child already loves you. How it fights to be acknowledged."

Alexa makes the tiniest sound—barely a breath—but I feel it like a knife between my ribs.

I don't look down at her. If I do, I'll lose the mask.

Instead I cross the room in three strides and stop just short of Margaux. Close enough to smell the sharp, artificial lavender she douses herself in. Close enough to see the way her pupils dilate—not from fear. From calculation.

"You say the healer confirmed it?" I ask quietly.

"Yes." She lifts her chin. "Luna Faye herself. She said the pup's aura is… unusually dominant for this early. Almost Alpha-level already."

A muscle ticks in my jaw.

Luna Faye doesn't lie. But she also doesn't exaggerate.

"Show me."

Margaux blinks. "What?"

"Show me the healer's note. The examination record. Now."

Her lips part. For one heartbeat her mask slips—panic flashing raw and real—before she recovers.

"I—I left it in my room. I was in such a rush to find you—"

"Then go get it." I step even closer, towering. "I'll wait."

She hesitates.

I tilt my head. "Unless there's a reason you can't produce it."

Her throat works. "Of course not. I'll be right back."

She turns too quickly. Stumbles—genuine or performed, I can't tell—and catches herself on the wall. Then she's gone, skirts swishing, leaving behind the cloying scent of lavender and lies.

The door clicks shut.

Silence crashes in.

Alexa exhales shakily. "Zyrus…"

I spin back to her so fast the chair scrapes. She's still seated, knees drawn up, arms wrapped around herself like she's trying to disappear.

I drop to one knee in front of her—eye level now—and cup her face in both hands.

"Look at me."

Her lashes are wet. "She's lying."

"I know."

"Then why did you let her leave?" Her voice cracks. "Why didn't you call her out right there?"

"Because I need proof." My thumbs stroke her cheekbones. "I need something concrete so when I rip her apart—figuratively or literally—the pack can't cry foul. I won't have anyone questioning your place. Or our pup's."

Her lower lip trembles. "She wants to take this from me. From us."

"No one takes anything from us." I lean in until our foreheads touch. "No one."

She closes her eyes. A tear slips free. I catch it with my tongue—salt and her and everything I can't say out loud because of this gods-damned curse.

I kiss her instead. Slow. Deep. Pouring every unspoken vow into the press of my mouth. When I pull back her breathing is ragged.

"Stay here," I murmur against her lips. "Lock the door behind me. Don't open it for anyone but me."

She nods.

I stand, grab my coat from the chair back, and stride toward the hall.

The moment I step outside, the cold mountain air hits like a slap. Margaux is already halfway down the corridor—moving far too steadily for someone supposedly crippled by nausea.

I don't call out.

I simply follow.

She doesn't go to her quarters.

She veers left toward the servants' stairwell—the one that leads down to the old apothecary wing. The one almost no one uses anymore.

My beast stirs. Interested.

I melt into shadow and trail her.

She slips through a rusted side door into what used to be the healer's storage room. Moonlight barely reaches here; only a single lantern burns low on a crate.

Margaux doesn't hesitate.

She drops to her knees in front of a wooden chest, pops the latch, and pulls out a small glass vial filled with dark red liquid.

She uncorks it with shaking fingers.

Drinks.

The scent hits me from twenty feet away—bitter herbs. Pennyroyal. Blue cohosh. Classic abortifacients.

My blood turns to ice.

Then to fire.

She gags—real this time—clutches her stomach, but forces the rest down. Tears stream down her face.

"Why won't you just leave?" she hisses to the empty room. "Why won't it just die so I can start over? So he can see me?"

My claws punch through my fingertips before I can stop them.

She wipes her mouth with the back of her hand. "One more week. One more week and the pack seer will announce the vision again. She'll say the heir comes from my line. And then he'll have no choice. He'll protect what's his. He'll choose me."

She laughs—broken, jagged sound.

"He always protects what's his."

I step into the lantern light.

She freezes.

The vial slips from her fingers. Shatters on the stone.

"Zyrus…"

My voice is so calm it scares even me. "Explain."

She scrambles backward until her spine hits the wall. "It's not—I didn't—this isn't—"

"You just drank poison." Each word drops like lead. "In front of me."

Tears pour faster. "I had to! She won't miscarry naturally! I tried everything—every tea, every charm—and nothing works! The Moon Goddess cursed me with a barren womb after—after the last time—"

"After you tried to trap me with a false pregnancy two summers ago?" I finish for her.

She flinches.

I take one step closer.

She flinches harder.

"The child isn't mine." It's not a question.

Her silence is answer enough.

"Who?"

She shakes her head violently. "It doesn't matter—"

I close the distance in a heartbeat. Slam my palm against the stone beside her head. Cracks spiderweb outward.

"Who."

"Declan," she whispers. "From the Redfang pack. During the alliance negotiations last spring."

Declan. The Beta who smiled too much. Who lingered too long near her at feasts.

My vision tunnels red.

"You tried to pass another male's bastard off as mine."

"I love you," she sobs. "I've always loved you. I thought—if I could just give you an heir—if I could make you see—"

"You thought you could steal my mate's joy. Steal my pup's birthright. Steal her place."

She reaches for me—desperate.

I catch her wrist. Twist just enough to make bone grind.

She cries out.

I lean in until my mouth brushes her ear.

"You will never touch what's mine again."

I release her.

She crumples.

I turn on my heel and stride back toward the study—toward Alexa—every step fueled by molten rage and razor-sharp clarity.

The halls blur.

When I reach the door I knock once. Sharp.

"Little moon. It's me."

The lock clicks.

She opens it wearing nothing but my shirt—sleeves rolled up, hem brushing her thighs. Her eyes are red-rimmed but fierce.

"You were gone too long."

I step inside. Kick the door shut. Lock it.

Then I back her against the nearest bookshelf.

"I have answers," I rasp.

Her hands fist in my shirt. "Tell me."

I cup her jaw. Tilt her face up.

"Margaux's pup isn't mine."

She stops breathing.

"She's been poisoning herself—trying to force a miscarriage—so she could claim the pregnancy failed and then blame you somehow. Or replace it with another lie."

Horror floods her expression. "The baby—"

"Is fine. Our baby is fine." I press my palm to her stomach. "I swear it on my life."

Tears spill over.

I kiss them away. One by one.

Then I kiss her mouth—hard, claiming, desperate.

She kisses back just as fiercely. Nails digging into my shoulders. Legs wrapping around my waist when I lift her.

I carry her to the rug in front of the dying fire.

Lay her down.

Peel my shirt off her slowly—like unwrapping something sacred.

"You're shaking," she whispers.

"Because I almost lost you to doubt tonight." My voice cracks—the closest I can come to saying the words the curse steals. "Because that woman almost took everything."

She pulls me down on top of her.

"Then remind me," she breathes against my lips. "Remind me who I belong to."

I sink into her in one long, slow thrust.

She arches. Gasps my name like a prayer.

I move—deep, deliberate, reverent—each stroke a vow carved into her skin.

"You're mine," I growl against her throat. "My Luna. My mate. My everything."

She sobs. "Yours."

We burn together in front of the embers—sweat-slick, breathless, unbreakable.

Until a frantic pounding shatters the quiet.

Heavy fists against the outer hall door.

"Alpha!" A male voice—Beta Ronan. "We have a situation at the eastern gate!"

I freeze mid-thrust.

Alexa whimpers—clenches around me.

I grit my teeth. "What?"

"The Redfang Beta—Declan—he's here. Demanding audience. Says he has proof Margaux's child is his—and that you've been keeping her prisoner!"

Alexa's eyes fly wide.

My beast roars inside my skull.

I pull out—slowly—agonizingly.

Press one last kiss to her swollen lips.

"Stay here," I order.

She grabs my wrist. "Zyrus—"

I meet her gaze. Let her see the murder already painted across my soul.

"Declan just signed his death warrant."

I stand.

Grab my pants.

And stalk toward the door—already tasting blood.