No Mercy for Alphas

The candlelight swayed, throwing thin shadows across the stone walls. Isabella's hands gripped the edge of the bed until her knuckles turned white. “Breathe, Bella—just breathe with me," Nancy urged, her voice trembling but steady enough to hold onto. She pressed a damp cloth against Isabella's forehead. “I am breathing!" Isabella gasped, the words breaking into a cry as another contraction tore through her. Nancy squeezed her hand. “Again. Push now." Isabella pushed, the muscles in her neck straining, her chest heaving with ragged breaths. Outside, rain tapped the shutters like impatient fingers. Inside, the smell of blood and sweat was thick enough to taste. “Almost there," Nancy said, though her pale face betrayed more fear than hope. “One more." Isabella clenched her jaw and bore down until the world blurred at the edges. Somewhere far away, a cry rang out—thin, high, miraculous. She slumped back, tears leaking from her eyes. “My baby," she whispered. “Give him to me." But Nancy didn't move. She stood frozen, her hands cradling the small, slippery weight, her expression caught between joy and dread. “Give him to me, Nancy," Isabella repeated, the edge in her voice cutting through her exhaustion. Nancy's lips trembled. “I—Bella, you need to rest—" “Rest?" Isabella tried to sit up, a sharp pain stabbing her ribs. “I carried him for months. I nearly—" She broke off, coughing against the taste of iron. “Where is he?" Nancy's gaze flickered to the door. “Aaron came before dawn." “What?" The word was a whipcrack. “He said—" Nancy swallowed hard, “—he said it was for the baby's safety." Isabella's chest constricted as if someone had pressed a blade beneath her ribs. “Safety from what? From me?" “No, from… from talk. From rumors. He said—" “Enough." Isabella swung her legs over the bed. Pain lanced through her, hot and dizzying, but she forced herself upright. “Get me my robe." “You can't—" Nancy tried to press her back down. “You're still bleeding—" “I said get it." Nancy hesitated, then fetched the robe from the chair. Isabella pulled it around her shoulders, her hands trembling but determined. She tore a strip from the hem and bound her ribs, hissing at the pain. Each movement was deliberate, mechanical. “Bella, please," Nancy said softly. “You'll kill yourself." “I'll kill something if I don't go now," Isabella murmured, shoving her feet into her boots. “Help me walk." They stepped into the corridor, the air heavy with the scent of wet earth. Rain slicked the cobblestones as they crossed the courtyard. Each step was a battle against her body's weakness, but the image of her child—taken—burned hotter than pain. By the time they reached the Alpha's residence, dawn was a pale smear against the clouds. Guards glanced at her but didn't stop her; no one dared. On the terrace, under a canopy strung with fresh flowers, Samantha sat in a high-backed chair, a pale blue shawl draped over her shoulders. In her arms, swaddled in white linen, was Isabella's child—her son. He slept soundly, tiny fists curled against his chest. Courtiers stood in clusters, murmuring blessings and congratulations. Aaron was beside Samantha, his black coat immaculate, his hair damp from the rain yet perfectly arranged. His hand rested on the back of Samantha's chair, completing the picture: a proud Alpha, a serene Luna, a newborn heir. For one breath, Isabella couldn't move. The scene was too perfect, too clean, as if her own blood and struggle had been edited out of the story entirely. Aaron's gaze caught hers across the distance. For a moment, something flickered—guilt, maybe, or a memory—but it was gone as quickly as it came. He stepped away from Samantha and approached her. “Bella," he said quietly, his voice warm but threaded with warning. “You shouldn't be here." “That's my child," she said. The words were steady, but her hands curled into fists beneath her robe. “Lower your voice," Aaron murmured, glancing over his shoulder. “You're still weak. You need to rest." “Give him back to me." He exhaled slowly, as though bracing for a storm. “You know I can't do that." “You *won't* do that." “Bella, listen to me." His tone sharpened. “Samantha can't have children—not after the rogue attack. The council expects an heir. They expect the Luna to provide one." “So you stole mine?" “I'm protecting him," Aaron said, jaw tightening. “From whispers, from challenges to his legitimacy. From wolves who would use the truth against him." “And against you," Isabella shot back. His eyes hardened. “This is bigger than you and me. It's about the pack." She laughed once, bitter and sharp. “The pack. Always the pack. And what am I, Aaron? Just a womb you can hide when it's inconvenient?" “You're more than that," he said quickly, then hesitated. “But this is the only way." Isabella stepped closer, the rain sliding cold over her hair. “You think I'll just walk away?" “I think," Aaron said quietly, “you love him enough not to ruin his life before it starts." Nancy's hand tightened on Isabella's arm, a silent plea. The courtiers were watching now, murmurs threading through the drizzle. Aaron lowered his voice further. “Go back to the villa. Rest. I'll… make arrangements for you to see him. Sometimes." “Sometimes," she repeated, tasting the word like poison. “It's the best I can give you," Aaron said. “No," Isabella said, her voice suddenly calm. “It's the least." His eyes flickered, but before he could speak again, Samantha called out, “Aaron?" Her voice was light, warm—practiced. She looked over with a smile that didn't reach her eyes. “We're ready for the blessing." Aaron straightened, the Alpha mask sliding back into place. “Go home, Bella," he said under his breath, then turned away. Isabella stood there for a moment longer, memorizing the line of Samantha's smile, the shape of her son's tiny fist against the blanket. The sound of the blessing—a chorus of polite voices—rolled over her like cold water. Nancy touched her sleeve. “Please, Bella." Isabella turned without another word. As they walked back through the rain, she kept her head high, her mind already reaching forward, past the ache, past the humiliation. Whatever the cost, she would reclaim what blood had earned. She would not beg. She would not break.