Page 24 of Pregnant, Rejected and Exiled By the Lycan King (Forbidden Alpha Kings #45)

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Rhea

I peeled myself from the bed and pulled on clothes, jeans that barely buttoned over my growing belly, a hoodie that smelled like the thrift store’s mothball-and-desperation scent.

The same clothes I’d worn home from work yesterday, wrinkled from being tossed on the floor.

Everything else was in the laundry basket, waiting for quarters I didn’t have.

The building’s back entrance beckoned through my window.

The woods behind Millbrook called to my wolf, promising a space to run without human complications.

Just an hour, I told myself. Just enough to quiet the restlessness, to burn off the hormones still flooding my system.

The metal door scraped against its frame, the sound too loud in the pre-dawn quiet.

I froze, waiting to see if any windows lit up, if any neighbors noticed my escape.

But Millbrook slept on, exhausted by its own mundane struggles.

These weren’t the manicured forests of pack lands, with their marked trails and territorial boundaries.

These were scrub woods, forgotten patches between development and farmland where nature reclaimed what humans abandoned.

Empty beer cans caught moonlight beside deer paths.

Plastic bags hung from branches like toxic fruit.

I stripped behind a dumpster, folding clothes carefully; I couldn’t afford to lose them.

My only pair of jeans without holes, the sweater that still mostly fit over my growing belly, underwear I’d hand-washed in the sink because the laundromat cost too much.

Each piece represented hours of work at Wayne’s office, dollars scraped together for survival.

I tucked them behind the dumpster’s wheel, praying no one would find them before I returned.

The shift came harder now, my body protecting the twins with ferocity that worked against my own needs.

The change used to flow like water, one form melting into another in seconds.

Now it was all grinding resistance, bones reluctant to reshape, muscles cramping as they tried to accommodate passengers that shouldn’t exist during transformation.

I gritted human teeth that wanted to become fangs, pushing through pain that would have stopped me if I’d had any other choice.

Just run. Don’t think. Just run.

Finally, fur replaced skin in a rush that left me panting on frozen ground.

My wolf form showed the pregnancy more obviously, swollen sides that threw off my balance, careful gait that favored protection over speed, the unmistakable scent of carrying pups.

Even in my primal form, I couldn’t escape what I was.

The twins were there in every step, every breath, every movement adjusted for their presence.

But the freedom of four legs and night wind temporarily erased human worries.

My paws found purchase on frost-brittle leaves, carrying me deeper into the woods.

I ran the deer paths worn by generations of wildlife, following scents of rabbit and raccoon, pretending for precious minutes that I was just a wolf.

Not a banished omega, not an unwed mother, not a woman growing her executioner’s children.

My wolf’s instincts sang simpler songs. Hunt.

Protect. Survive. The basics that had kept our species alive before politics and mate bonds complicated everything.

Out here, I didn’t need to worry about rent or vitamins or the way my body still reached for a man who’d carved me out of his life.

I just needed to run, to feel earth beneath my paws, to remember I was more than a walking incubator.

The creeks were frozen at the edges but ran swiftly in the center.

I splashed through, the shocking cold water, a relief against paw pads that had grown soft from too much human form.

My wolf wanted to hunt, to chase down one of the rabbits whose fear-scent painted trails through the underbrush.

But hunting while pregnant was foolish. A kick from prey, a bad fall, and the twins would pay for my wildness.

So I settled for the run itself, for the stretch of muscles too long dormant, for the night air filling lungs that actually felt large enough.

The scent hit my nostrils too late, rogue wolves, at least three, marking territory that wasn’t claimed last week.

The acrid stench of wrongness, of wolves without pack bonds, of creatures who’d crossed lines that got them exiled from civilization.

I froze mid-stride, recognizing my mistake.

Pregnant omegas shouldn’t run alone, every maternal guide would scream that truth.

But I had no pack for protection now. No alpha to patrol boundaries. No safe territory to run within.

The first rogue appeared from the shadows, massive, scarred, the kind of wolf who gets exiled for violence even packs won’t tolerate.

His yellow eyes fixed on my swollen sides with disturbing interest. Gray fur matted with old blood and dirt, ears torn from past fights, everything about him screamed danger.

He was twice my size, muscle and malice wrapped in a form that had forgotten how to be human.

Two more emerged, flanking my retreat path with practiced ease.

These weren’t newly rogue wolves, confused and desperate.

These were old rogues, comfortable in their exile, who’d learned to hunt together despite lacking pack bonds.

They communicated in wolf-language, body posture, small sounds, scent markers that made my fur stand on end.

The second was leaner, russet-colored with a limp that didn’t slow him down.

The third kept to the shadows, but I could smell his excitement, the anticipation of easy prey.

I read their intent clearly: pregnant omega, no pack scent, perfect victim.

The leader, his scent signature carrying traces of old alpha blood gone sour, stepped closer.

His approach was casual, confident, the swagger of a predator who’d done this before.

The russet one circled left while the unnamed third blocked right.

Classic hunting formation. They’d worked together before, probably on other lone wolves who’d made the mistake of running these woods alone.

Should have stayed in the apartment. Stupid, stupid.

My options narrowed to nothing good, fight while pregnant, risking the twins in combat I couldn’t win, or shift to my human form and be even more vulnerable.

Human form meant naked, slow, soft skin against claws and fangs.

Wolf form at least gave me teeth, even if my swollen sides made fighting nearly impossible.

It was not impossible to communicate with each other in wolf forms. Most of us had the strain in our DNA that connected us even with our fur.

The leader’s wolf spoke in the growling undertones our kind used, his mental voice sliding against my mind like oil. “Well, well. What’s a pretty omega doing alone? No alpha to protect you?”

The russet wolf added his own observation, circling closer. “Smells like alpha offspring. High-born. Someone important knocked this one up.”

They could smell him on me, in me. Damon’s bloodline was marking the twins even though he’d never know they existed.

The rogues recognized power in that scent, offspring that would be worth something to the right buyer.

Black market pup trading was real, especially for powerful bloodlines.

My stomach turned at the thought, maternal instincts flaring hot enough to burn through fear.

The unnamed third finally spoke, his wolf-voice younger but no less threatening. “Maybe she ran away. Maybe no one’s looking for her at all.”

They were testing, seeing if I’d claim pack protection, if I’d threaten them with retribution from some fictional alpha who’d come for me. But I had nothing to threaten them with.

The gray leader lunged without warning, his massive body aimed at my throat. His attack was designed to subdue, not kill, they wanted me alive, wanted the pups I carried. That gave me the only advantage I’d get.

When he lunged, I moved on pure instinct.

I ducked under his attack, using my smaller size as an advantage.

My swollen sides scraped the ground but I twisted, feeling his claws catch air where my throat had been.

His momentum carried him past, and I tore into the russet wolf’s flank as he tried to compensate for his leader’s miss.

The taste of rogue blood flooded my mouth.

It carried the flavor of meat gone bad, of wolves who’d eaten things that shouldn’t be eaten, who’d crossed lines that tainted their very blood.

The russet wolf howled, more surprised than hurt, but it broke their coordination momentarily.

They’d expected easy submission, a pregnant omega who’d bare her throat rather than risk her pups. They hadn’t expected fury.

I bolted through the gap, my body protesting the speed but adrenaline overriding pain. My swollen sides made me lumber where I should have flown. Each stride sent shock waves through my frame. But I ran anyway, crashing through an underbrush that tore at my fur, leaving bloody patches on thorns.

They pursued with the lazy confidence of predators who knew the territory better.

I could hear them behind me, not running full out, just maintaining pace.

They knew these woods, knew every deer path and dry creek bed.

The gray leader snarled commands to his packmates, coordinating their hunt with the efficiency of long practice.

“Circle around! Drive her toward the deadfall!”

They were herding me, I realized with sick certainty.

Not chasing, herding. Toward some predetermined spot where a fourth member probably waited.

Because there was always a fourth in these rogue packs, always one more than you counted on.

My path curved left, away from their pressure, but that’s where they wanted me to go.

River. Get to the river. Protect the pups.

Water might mask my trail, might give me options they couldn’t predict.

The sound of rushing water grew stronger, the spring melt making even small streams dangerous.

But dangerous water was better than certain capture.

I crashed through a final wall of brambles, feeling them tear skin beneath fur, and saw the river ahead.

Wider than I’d hoped, faster than was safe.

Black water reflecting fractured moonlight, carrying branches and debris from upstream.

The kind of current that killed wolves who weren’t careful.

But behind me, the leader’s howl signaled his pack.

They’d figured out my destination, and were moving to cut me off.

“Stop running, omega. We’ll be gentle... enough.” The gray wolf’s voice carried false promise, the kind of gentle that left scars.

I didn’t hesitate. Pregnant belly and all, I launched myself into the black water. The cold hit like a physical blow, driving air from my lungs. Current caught me immediately, spinning my body as I fought to keep my head above water.

But I kicked anyway, paws churning water, aiming for the far bank.

Behind me, I heard splashing. At least one of them had followed, probably the russet wolf with his wounded pride.

But the current was stronger than any of us expected.

It pulled me downstream, away from their territory, toward the human bridges and morning traffic.

My paws found purchase on a submerged log, letting me push toward shore.

I dragged myself onto the opposite bank, fur plastered to my body, shivering so hard my teeth chattered.

When I looked back, the russet wolf was fighting the current midstream, his injured flank making swimming difficult.

The gray leader stood on the far bank, yellow eyes burning with fury at losing his prize.

I didn’t wait to see if they’d follow. On shaking legs, I ran back toward Millbrook, toward the safety of human witnesses and locked doors.

The twins rolled inside me, active after the adrenaline dump, reminding me how close I’d come to losing everything.

My wolf form wouldn’t last much longer, the shift wanting to reclaim human shape after such trauma.

By the time I reached the dumpster, dawn was breaking.

I shifted in painful stages, body reluctant to change after such abuse.

Human skin showed the damage, scratches from thorns, bruises from the river rocks, exhaustion that went bone deep.

My hidden clothes were still there, blessed mundane reality.

I dressed with shaking hands, every movement an effort.

The apartment building’s back door had never looked so welcoming. I slipped inside, dripping river water and trying not to think about what could have happened. What nearly happened.

In the shower, I scrubbed rogue blood from beneath my fingernails, washed river mud from my hair, counted new injuries that would need explaining if anyone asked.

I pressed a hand to my belly, feeling movement beneath my palm. “No more midnight runs,” I promised them. “Your mother learned her lesson.”

But even as I made the vow, my wolf whined for the forest, for the freedom of four legs and wind in her fur.

Some hungers couldn’t be satisfied with safety.

Some needs demanded risk. And somewhere in the woods, three rogues nursed wounds and wondered about the pregnant omega who’d fought instead of submitted, who’d chosen drowning over capture.

They’d remember my scent. I’d remember theirs. And if our paths crossed again, there would be no river to save me.