Pregnant by the Enemy Alpha

CHAPTER 2

Time passes quietly after that night, not in a way that feels peaceful, but in the way routines do when they’re heavy enough to press everything else flat, and I let pack life settle back over me because it’s easier than examining what I don’t want to name. Training schedules resume, mornings dictated by bells and expectation, meals eaten at long tables where conversation stays surface level, and obedience wears the shape of normalcy so well that most days I almost believe it.

My name moves through the pack the way it always has.

“Monroe, you’re late,” one of the warriors mutters as I jog into the training ring one morning, hair still damp from a rushed shower.

“By two minutes,” I reply, rolling my shoulders as I take my place. “The world will survive.”

He snorts. “You keep telling yourself that.”

I do keep telling myself that, because survival has always felt like something I’m expected to manage quietly.

The first sign that something is wrong comes during warm-ups, when my stomach rolls sharply enough that I have to stop moving, planting my hands on my knees and breathing through it while the dirt blurs beneath me.

“You good,” my older brother asks from a few feet away, already watching too closely.

“Fine,” I say quickly, straightening before he can press. “Didn’t sleep much.”

“Go sit out if you need to.”

“I said I’m fine.”

He holds my gaze for a second longer, then nods, letting it go, and I hate the relief that floods me when he does.

It keeps happening after that.

Nausea in the mornings that fades just enough by midday to be ignorable. Fatigue that sinks into my bones no matter how early I go to bed. Scents that hit too sharp, the tang of sweat in the training ring, the metallic bite of blood from a scraped knuckle, the rich heaviness of meat cooking in the kitchens that makes my stomach twist unpleasantly.

“You’re being weird,” one of the younger pack members says at breakfast when I push my plate away untouched.

“Not hungry,” I reply.

“You never say that.”

I shrug, standing before anyone can comment further. “Guess there’s a first time for everything.”

I adjust my routines without thinking too hard about it, because adjustment has always been my quiet skill. I shower longer, letting the heat ease the tension that keeps pooling between my shoulders. I skip meals and tell myself I’ll eat later. I volunteer for tasks that keep me moving so I don’t have to sit with the way my body feels when I stop.

“It’s stress,” I tell myself while scrubbing my hair one morning, nails digging into my scalp a little too hard. “That’s all.”

It’s a good excuse. A believable one. No one questions stress in a pack where expectation sits heavy on everyone’s shoulders.

My mother notices anyway.

“You look tired,” she says one evening as I pass her in the corridor.

“I am,” I answer easily. “Training’s been rough lately.”

She studies me for a moment, eyes sharp, then nods. “Make sure you’re eating.”

“I am,” I lie, already stepping away.

She doesn’t follow. She never does.

The days stack on top of each other, and I stop counting them until one morning I wake up with a weight in my chest that has nothing to do with nausea or fatigue, a quiet realization pressing down on me while I stare at the ceiling.

I sit up slowly, heart starting to race.

“No,” I whisper to the empty room, even though I haven’t finished the thought yet.

I count back anyway. Once. Twice. Again, slower this time, my fingers curling into the sheets as the math refuses to change no matter how many ways I approach it.

I swing my legs out of bed and stand there for a long moment, breathing carefully, because panic has never helped me think clearly.

“It’s nothing,” I tell myself. “You’ve been stressed. You’ve been busy.”

But the truth doesn’t loosen its grip.

I lock myself in the bathroom and stare at my reflection, searching for something visible, something obvious, and finding nothing except the same composed face I’ve always worn.

“I would know,” I mutter, bracing my hands on the sink. “I would feel it.”

I already do.

The decision to go into the human town happens without ceremony, slotted into my afternoon like any other errand, because if I let it feel dramatic I might lose my nerve. I pull on a hoodie, keep my head down, and cross the boundary with the same practiced ease I’ve had since childhood.

The shop is small and too bright, shelves lined with things I’ve never needed to buy before, and I feel conspicuous even though no one is looking at me.

“Can I help you,” the cashier asks politely.

“No,” I say quickly. “I’m fine.”

My hands shake as I pick up the box, cheap and unassuming, and I keep it turned inward as I pay, heart pounding hard enough that I’m sure she must hear it.

“Have a nice day,” she says.

“You too,” I reply automatically, and leave before my legs can decide to give out.

Back in my room, I sit on the edge of the bed with the box in my hands, staring at it like it might change if I wait long enough.

“This is ridiculous,” I tell the empty space. “You’re overreacting.”

I follow the instructions anyway, movements mechanical, because at this point I need certainty more than comfort.

The waiting is the worst part. I sit on the closed toilet lid, elbows on my knees, staring at the bathroom floor while seconds stretch thin and endless.

“Just be negative,” I whisper. “That’s all you have to do.”

When I look down again, my breath leaves me all at once.

My hands start shaking so badly I have to set the test on the counter before I drop it, and I slide down onto the bathroom floor, back against the cabinet, knees drawn up because I don’t know what else to do with my body.

“No,” I say softly, the word breaking as it leaves my mouth. “No, no.”

The room feels too small, the air too thick, and I press my palm to my stomach without meaning to, fingers splayed like I can hold the truth in place if I’m careful enough.

This isn’t stress.

This isn’t exhaustion.

This is real.

I sit there longer than I realize, staring at the positive result like it might apologize, like it might explain itself, but it doesn’t, and neither does the quiet awareness settling into my bones that nothing about my life is going to move the way it did before.

When I finally stand, my legs feel weak, my reflection unfamiliar, and I understand with a clarity that makes my chest ache that whatever comes next, I am going to face it alone.

The door stays closed.

No one knocks.

And I don’t call for anyone, because some truths change the shape of things the moment they’re spoken, and I’m not ready for that yet.