Fated Tragedy

2. Zebasthian

Not being able to fall back asleep, I dragged myself out of bed and slipped into a simple dress, pulling on my slippers and tugging my hoodie over it to match my jacket. It wasn’t fancy, but it was me.

I’ve always loved my punk look—dark clothes, sharp edges, the kind of style that tells the world I don’t care what it thinks of me. And even as an adult, I wouldn’t change it for anyone. But as I stared at my reflection, all I could think about was the changes I couldn’t control. The ones that had already begun.

No one knew my deepest secret. No one knew why I couldn’t just wait for the day I’d meet my wolf. The truth? I had no wolf of my own.

Both of my parents had been fated mates, but fate wasn’t enough to save them. My father died of lung cancer when I was only five, he was a product of wolves who were not fated, and my mother remarried soon after. That left me—the unwanted reminder, the daughter of her first mate. The mistake. The disappointment.

As I grew older, it became harder to carry. To be the only one without a wolf. No one ever understood why I was different, why I was broken. My mother never had answers either, and eventually she left for a while, maybe to escape the whispers, maybe to escape me. After that, everyone just… calmed down. They loved her too much to push further.

But I was still left with the truth: no wolf meant no full identity. No guide. No bond. No understanding of why I was standing in the middle of this storm—pregnant, confused, and terrified of who the father might be.

I couldn’t risk going to the Wolf Military hospital. No one would allow me in, and knowing there would be too many eyes, too many connections to Deiniol. Instead, I drove to the local hospital, one that treated anyone, wolf or human.

The woman at the front desk looked up from her screen.

“Name?”

I swallowed hard, sliding my ID across. I had already changed everything back to my maiden name. I wasn’t carrying his name anymore, and the DOD had been canceled last month.

“Michail Toth,” I said firmly.

She typed quickly. “Reason for visit?”

The words clawed at my throat. My stomach turned, and I nearly gagged just trying to say them.

“I… I think I’m pregnant.”

Her eyes flickered with surprise, but she nodded briskly. Papers signed, wristband snapped on, and in seconds I was led inside. A nurse handed me a cup and told me to pee. Another came in to draw my blood. The minutes stretched like hours, and after nearly an hour of waiting, the door finally opened.

The doctor stepped in, folder in hand, his smile wide and warm, as though he was delivering the happiest news in the world. If I’d been pregnant with the right man, maybe I would’ve smiled too. Maybe I would’ve felt joy.

But all I felt was dread.

Because I had no idea who the father was.

And the thought that it could be Deiniol—my soon-to-be ex-husband—made my stomach twist so violently I wanted to run.

The doctor—his name tag read Conner—took a seat across from me. He flipped open the folder in his hands, his expression calm, professional, almost cheerful.

“Well, Miss Toth,” he began, “your speculation was accurate. You are indeed pregnant—currently five months along. We’ll need you to schedule a follow-up appointment soon. Congratulations to you.”

He smiled as he handed me the papers, his words so casual, as if they hadn’t just cracked my entire world in two.

My fingers shook as I clutched the results, the room tilting around me. My other hand gripped the edge of the bed, desperate to ground myself, to keep from collapsing under the weight of the truth. Five months. Five. That meant…

I couldn’t even think his name.

The doctor didn’t linger. He excused himself, closing the door gently behind him. And for that small mercy, I was grateful. Alone, I could finally let the mask slip.

“Fuck.”

The word tore from my lips, raw and broken, echoing in the sterile room. My chest heaved as my mind spiraled, every fear, every memory, every nightmare rushing back.

Five months pregnant. And the one person it could lead back to was the man I swore I would never let touch my life again.

For the rest of the night, I couldn’t sleep. My thoughts tangled in every direction, and though I wanted to call my attorney, I knew better. If I told him the truth—if I admitted I was pregnant—he would be bound by the law to act. And that was the one thing I couldn’t allow.

Deiniol could never know. Not now. Not ever. If this child was his, then the secret had to stay buried until the divorce was finalized completely.

I already had a follow-up appointment set for next week, and I forced myself to focus on that. If I could learn to control the sickness, to hide the symptoms, maybe—just maybe—I could get through the rest of this divorce without suspicion.

The next Monday morning after my doctor appointment, I walked into my attorney’s office, my heart hammering, dread crawling through my veins. I expected the worst—papers delayed, new obstacles, maybe even a leak of information that could reach Deiniol.

But instead, my attorney looked up at me with a grave expression and explained that a war had broken out. Because of it, all proceedings, including mine, would be delayed.

At first, the words felt heavy, like another burden thrown onto my already breaking shoulders. But then, a strange relief settled in. Time. I suddenly had more time than I had expected. Time to prepare. Time to hide. Time to protect the life growing inside me.

For the first time since the test results, I let out a slow breath, clutching the folder in my hands.

The war was chaos for everyone else—but for me, it was a shield.

— Two Years Later —

The sound of the gavel slamming against the block echoed through the courtroom, final and absolute. I let out a heavy sigh, the breath I’d been holding for what felt like years finally breaking free.

Across from me, my now ex-husband shot me a venomous glare, his jaw tight, eyes burning with the same fury I’d come to know too well. But he didn’t say a word. He just stood, stiff and cold, and walked out of the room without so much as a backward glance.

Good. Let him leave. Let him disappear like the ghost he should have been long ago. My restraining order was active for thirteen years.

My attorney rose beside me, his smile breaking through the tension that still lingered in the air. He extended his hand toward me, and for the first time in years, I felt the weight of victory.

“Congratulations on your divorce, Michail! You’re now a free woman.”

His words hit me harder than I expected, my chest tightening with relief as I slipped my hand into his, shaking firmly. I gave him a wide smile in return, though mine trembled at the edges, overflowing with everything I’d endured.

After years of waiting—for battles, for papers, for hearings delayed again and again because of that damn war—after hiding my son Zebasthian, and protecting him from the storm that threatened to swallow us whole, I had finally heard the words I needed. Free.

The journey here had been brutal. My attorney had fought tooth and nail through legal fire, dealing with bureaucracy and military blockades while I sat in silence, forced to wait. Waiting as if trapped in the waiting room of hell itself.

But now… it was over.

At last.