Page 19 of Pregnant, Rejected and Exiled By the Lycan King (Forbidden Alpha Kings #45)

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Rhea

Saturday morning at the Rust Bucket Cafe provided the white noise I needed for dangerous phone calls.

The corner booth had become my weekend office, far enough from other patrons to muffle conversation but public enough to feel safe.

I’d arrived when they opened at six, claiming my spot before the breakfast rush.

My laptop screen glowed with meaningless spreadsheets, a prop to justify the hours I’d spend nursing single cups of coffee.

The encrypted phone app Ronald had installed before I left blinked green on my phone screen.

He’d spent twenty seconds teaching me how to use it, his thick fingers surprisingly delicate on the touchscreen.

“Routes through seventeen different servers,” he’d explained.

“Not foolproof, but better than regular calls.” I had nodded like I understood the technology, grateful for any layer of protection between my new life and the forces that would destroy it.

My mother’s contact showed available for the first time in two weeks.

Listed as “Insurance Company” in my phone, the generic name meant nothing to anyone who might scroll through my contacts.

We’d agreed on communication windows in case of an emergency, Saturday mornings when the time zones aligned and foot traffic provided cover.

I had gone three months without speaking to them. But the pregnancy was an emergency.

The cafe filled with its usual Saturday crowd.

Construction workers coming off night shifts ordered black coffee and eggs over easy.

Young families negotiated pancake flavors with toddlers who wanted everything syrup-covered.

A group of nursing students occupied the large corner table, medical textbooks spread between plates of hash browns.

Normal people living normal lives, unaware that someone among them carried secrets that could upend pack law.

My fingers trembled as I initiated the call.

Each contact risked exposure, digital breadcrumbs that skilled trackers could follow.

But the pull of my mother’s voice overrode every cautious instinct.

The phone rang through the encryption, each tone distorted by security protocols.

Once. Twice. On the third ring, the connection clicked open.

“Baby?” my mother’s voice came through tinny and distant, the encryption adding strange echoes that made her sound like she was calling from underwater.

“Hi Mom.” The words caught in my throat, syllables carrying three months of suppressed longing.

“Are you safe?” The simple question nearly broke my composure.

I gripped my coffee mug with both hands, letting the ceramic warmth ground me in the present.

Safe was relative. I had shelter, employment, and food.

I wasn’t being hunted, at least not actively.

But safety meant more than physical survival, and my mother knew it.

Safety meant peace of mind, a stable future, and the ability to plan beyond the next sunrise.

By that measure, I’d never be safe again.

“I’m... managing. How’s the outback?” I kept my voice level, aware of the couple two booths over who’d stopped their conversation.

“Survivable. Your father’s made some allies. But sweetheart, you sound different.”

Different. The understatement of the century. Three months ago, I’d been the omega spokesperson’s daughter, groomed for political marriages and diplomatic service. Now I was an assistant in the deadest of towns in a real estate office. Different didn’t begin to cover the transformation.

The waitress approached with a coffee pot, her approach giving me precious seconds to compose myself. I nodded at the refill, grateful for the interruption. Steam rose from the fresh pour, creating a veil between me and the rest of the cafe. When she moved on to the next table, I lowered my voice.

“It’s been an adjustment. The job helps. Keeping busy, you know?” The half-truths came easier than outright lies.

“And you’re eating? Sleeping?” Maternal concern transcended encryption and distance.

“Yes.” Another partial truth. I ate when nausea allowed. I slept between bathroom visits and anxiety spirals.

Because I was drowning and could not tell her why. The thought pressed against my teeth, demanding voice.

Because I’m pregnant with an heir from the alpha who destroyed our lives. Because every morning I wake up more trapped than the day before. Because I miss you so much it feels like missing a limb.

Instead, I said, “Tell me about Dad’s work. What kind of allies?”

The deflection worked, as I knew it would.

My mother launched into careful details about the outback’s informal power structures, how my father’s negotiation skills had found new purpose among territorial disputes.

Her voice carried pride beneath the weariness, evidence that Magnus Thornback refused to be broken by exile.

I closed my eyes and let her words wash over me, pretending for precious minutes that we were sharing Saturday morning coffee instead of encrypted secrets across impossible distances.

The conversation danced around dangers, speaking in code about things that mattered.

But beneath the careful phrases, something else pressed against my ribs, demanding release.

The secret I’d carried alone for days now felt too heavy for one person.

My mother’s voice, even distorted by encryption, offered the first safe harbor I’d found since those three tests confirmed my worst fears.

“Mom,” I started, then stopped. The coffee shop suddenly felt too exposed, too public for this confession. But when would I have another chance? These calls were rare lifelines, not guaranteed to connect again for weeks.

“What is it, sweetheart? You can tell me anything.” The gentle prompt nearly undid me.

I pressed my free hand against my stomach, that unconscious gesture I’d developed in the past week. “I’m pregnant.”

The words fell between us like stones in still water. I heard her sharp intake of breath, then silence that stretched across miles and encryption. Around me, the cafe continued its Saturday morning symphony, oblivious to my world tilting off its axis.

“How far along?” When she finally spoke, her voice carried no judgment, only careful assessment.

“Fifteen weeks.” I didn’t need to say whose. We both knew there’d been only one possibility, only one night as far as she knew that could have led to this.

“Oh, my sweet girl.” The words came wrapped in tears she was trying to hide. “Are you... have you been to anyone? Seen a healer?”

“I can’t. Medical records would…”

“I know.” She cut me off gently. “The pack databases would flag it immediately. But baby, you need care. Especially if...” She trailed off, but I understood.

Especially if it’s his. Especially if the bloodline runs true.

Especially if my omega body was doing what omega bodies did with alpha offspring.

“I’ve been taking vitamins,” I offered weakly. “Eating when I can.”

“That’s not enough and you know it.” The maternal steel entered her voice, cutting through encryption static. “Listen carefully. I know someone who might help. Discrete. Off the pack grid.”

Relief flooded through me so fast I felt dizzy. “Mom, I’m scared.” The admission came out barely above a whisper.

“I know, baby. I know.” No platitudes about everything being okay. We both knew better. “Her name is Meredith. She’s in Branson, two hours from you. She is a rogue omega who left the medical system years ago. She would rather stop practicing than report confidential matters.”

My mother had always maintained connections others overlooked. Omega networks that existed beneath official notice, webs of mutual aid and shared secrets. Even in exile, she’d found threads to pull.

“She helped a friend with a similar... situation.” The pause loaded with meaning. Similar could mean many things. Unwanted pregnancy. Hidden pregnancy. Pregnancy that threatened political structures.

“Will she...” I couldn’t finish the question. Would she help me end it? Would she help me hide it? Would she judge me for carrying the child of the man who banished me?

“She’ll help with whatever you decide. That’s what she does. No judgment, no reports, just medical care for omegas who can’t access the system.”

The address came in fragments, woven between discussions of weather patterns and recipe modifications.

4782 Willow Street, behind the blue house with wind chimes.

Knock three times, wait, knock twice more.

Cash only, no insurance, no records. I memorized each detail, knowing I’d never write them down.

“Meredith will know what to do,” my mother had continued before we hung up. “She delivered babies for thirty years before the Medical Registration Act forced her underground. Whatever path you choose, she’ll keep you safe.”

“What if there’s no safe path?”

“Then you make the best choice from bad options. That’s what we do now. All of us.”

The pragmatism hurt more than sympathy would have.

But she was right. Safety had become relative, choices limited to degrees of danger rather than actual options.

I touched my stomach again, thinking of the ultrasound I’d never had, the heartbeats I’d never heard.

Ignorance felt safer than knowledge, but my body was already telling truths I couldn’t unhear.

“Thank you,” I managed.

***

The healer’s office occupied a converted garage behind a modest house in Branson’s omega district.

The January wind cut through my thin coat as I followed the gravel path around the side of the blue house, counting wind chimes like rosary beads.

Seven sets hung from the eaves, their metallic songs creating a cacophony that masked approaching footsteps.

Smart for someone operating outside pack law.