Zane's POV
I lean back in the chair, my head resting against the headrest, and shut my eyes. Every part of my body aches. I'm tired—physically, mentally, emotionally. Last night's full moon ritual drained me more than I expected, but the real blow came just after dawn.
Freya.
Just hours after we returned home from the celebration, I had stripped down, ready to shower and maybe grab some sleep before another long day began. But instead of peace, I heard a blood-curdling scream that froze my heart mid-beat. I didn't hesitate. I bolted from my room, sprinted down the hallway, and burst into Freya's room.
She was lying on the floor, clutching her stomach, blood pooling around her.
I didn't wait for Dr. Freddy. I didn't even think. Instinct kicked in. I wrapped her in the sheets, carried her in my arms, and sped to the one place I trusted completely—my hospital. The building I built with my hands and dreams, both as an Alpha and as a doctor. My role as pack leader means nothing in moments like this. I was just a man... a terrified mate watching his Luna bleed again.
Now, I sit outside her room, heart heavy, muscles tense. The hospital walls feel colder than usual today, like they're mourning too.
The door creaks open. I sit up quickly, eyes snapping to the man entering—Dr. Freddy.
"How is she?" My voice cracks slightly despite trying to mask the anxiety. Deep down, I already know.
"The mother is stable," Freddy says gently. "But... I'm sorry. We lost the baby."
My eyes close. The pain spreads through me like wildfire. I knew it was likely—hell, I expected it. But hearing it said aloud... it still guts me. This is the third time.
"Sorry, Dr. Zane," Freddy repeats, his voice full of compassion and frustration. "We both know that if it happens again, she might not make it. Her body can't take another miscarriage."
"I know," I whisper, staring at nothing.
I rise to my feet, my body moving before my mind catches up. I need to see her. I need to hold her, even if it's just to remind myself that she's still here.
I push her door open quietly. Freya is awake, sitting up slowly as her eyes meet mine. Her face is pale, her eyes swollen from tears, pain etched in every inch of her expression. She winces, trying to adjust her position. I cross the room quickly and sit beside her.
"Zane," she whispers. Her voice is raw.
I don't answer. I shake my head and cup her cheeks, wiping away the tears rolling down.
"My baby," she cries, her body trembling as she collapses into my chest.
I wrap my arms around her, pressing her to me, trying to be strong for both of us. My fingers stroke through her hair gently, but I feel just as broken. It's not just her baby. It's mine too. For the third time, we've lost a child we never got to meet.
What future is there for a pack without an heir? Without a child to carry on the bloodline? What future is there for us?
We stay like that, locked in silence and sorrow. After a while, her breathing evens out a bit.
"We'll try again, right?" she asks, lifting her tear-streaked face to mine.
I freeze. Her question cuts straight through me. I want to promise her the world, to say yes, to believe it will be different next time. But I can't lie. Not to her. Not now.
I press a soft kiss to her forehead.
"Say something, Zane," she pleads.
"It's risky, Freya," I say softly. "If it happens again... we could lose you."
It's the truth. I hate it, but I can't pretend otherwise. One of my many flaws—I never learned how to lie, even when the truth hurts too much.
"I want to have a baby, Zane. Our baby," she whispers, her voice cracking.
"I know." I stroke her hair again. "Rest for a bit, okay?"
She doesn't resist as I guide her gently to lie back against the pillows. I wait until her breathing settles and she's asleep before standing up and stepping away. My chest feels tight.
I've done all the tests. Run every scan. Medically, Freya's womb is healthy. Perfect, even. But the babies don't stay. Three times. Each pregnancy ended in blood and heartbreak.
I don't want to do this, but I know I have to. I'll have to visit the native herbalist.
His name is Marrek, but we call him Old Marrek. The eldest and most ancient seer and herbalist of our pack. A man people say has roots deep in the earth itself. The last time I went to him, he told me something I didn't want to hear.
"Freya isn't destined to carry on your legacy," he said calmly, like it was the most natural truth in the world.
"What do you mean?" I'd asked, bewildered.
"Her womb is healthy, yes. But it cannot bear your children. The spirits won't allow it. She is not where she belongs—not your true mate."
I remember the rage that bubbled in me.
"What nonsense is that? She bears my mark. Our scents align. Everything proves she's my mate!"
He shook his head slowly, as if pitying me. "You are still young, my Lord. You see only what you want to see. But your fated mate—the one destined to carry your lineage—she has not yet found you."
"I shouldn't have come here," I hissed, rising from the seat, fury in my bones.
"You don't have to believe me now," he said as I stormed out. "But when you're ready to listen, I'll be here. The Moon never lies."
At the time, I'd sworn never to return. But now...
I glance back at Freya, asleep, fragile, beautiful. My Luna. My wife. My chosen mate.
I chose her. She is mine and I am hers.
But facts are facts. She can't carry our child. And if I keep trying, I might lose her too.
My fists clench. I hate this. I hate the whispers in my head, the doubts clawing at my heart. I don't want to believe Old Marrek, but deep inside... I fear he may be right.
Still, I can't abandon Freya. Even if she isn't my fated mate, she is my everything. I choose her to be and nothing will change that.
I take one last look at her and step out of the room, my decision made. I'll see Old Marrek. One last time. Maybe there's another way. A herb. A ritual. Anything.
I need answers. I need hope. For my Luna. For my unborn children. For the future of my pack.
And for the piece of my soul that keeps breaking every time I walk away from that hospital bed, knowing I couldn't save the life we created.
***
I'm about to leave the hospital when Carlos, one of our young doctors, dashes toward me. His chest heaves with every breath, his face flushed from running.
"It's an emergency, sir," he says, panting. "The patient needs you. She was transferred here from San Diego General Hospital. They couldn't handle her case. She's lost a lot of blood, and her brain—it's been affected. You need to see her."
I shut my eyes halfway, already weighed down by the morning's heartbreak. My mind flickers back to Freya—her tear-streaked face, her trembling voice as she begged me for another chance to carry our child. My own pain hasn't even settled yet, and here comes another.
"Can't you handle it?" I ask Carlos, not ready to shoulder another burden.
He hesitates, then mutters, "I can't, sir. It's too serious."
I exhale heavily. "I'll be in the operating room in three," I say, turning around and heading back to my office to change into my scrubs.
As I near the theater room, I pick up on it immediately—foreign scent. It's a wolf, but definitely not from our pack. My senses sharpen. My guard goes up.
Inside, the nurses are already prepped and waiting. They help me suit up quickly. My boots echo softly against the tile floor, my heart beats faster, as I walk toward the surgical table—and then I see her.
"Fuck," I mutter under my breath.
Her condition is worse than I imagined. Her body is mangled—shards of tree bark are embedded in her skull, shattered glass clings to her skin, and claw marks slash deep into her torso. Bite wounds too—some fresh, some partially healed. She's been attacked by wolves. Not just one. A group. Possibly even her own.
"She needs blood. Tell whoever brought her to prepare for a donation," I order one of the nurses.
"She came alone, Doctor," the nurse named Selena replies softly. "San Diego hospital said they found her collapsed outside their emergency entrance this morning. She was unconscious. No one claimed her, and they couldn't treat her injuries... so they transferred her here."
I hesitate. Working on her could be risky. She's not one of ours, and if she belongs to a rival pack, healing her could spark something we're not ready for. But then again... she's barely clinging to life. Politics be damned.
"Draw her blood and search for a compatible donor. Check the wolf database," I instruct the nurse.
I glance at the scan results Carlos hands me. Bark and glass fragments have penetrated dangerously close to her brain. One of her vertebrae has a stem lodged into it. Her healing is already slowing—her wolf is growing weaker.
"Let's get to work," I tell Carlos and Adams. The three of us move in sync, slicing, suctioning, stitching—our hands steady despite the urgency.
But with every incision, every drop of blood we clean from her battered body, something strange stirs inside me. My power pulses oddly. There's a weight in the room, thick and electric. I feel... connected. And weak. At the same time.
Halfway through the operation, Selena returns. "No compatible donor was found, Doctor."
"What's her blood type?" I ask.
"Volk-X," she says.
My head snaps to the patient.
Volk-X is a rare type blood—powerful and dominant. Only a few wolves in the world have it. A bloodline that can only receive from Alphas, and not even all of them.
I step back. My heart thuds in my chest.
"Run a test using my blood," I order without pause. I roll up my sleeve and inject a sample into the tube, handing it to the nurse. There's no time to waste.
She disappears while we continue stabilizing the patient, cleaning the debris, reinforcing cracked bones.
A few minutes later, Selena returns, holding the report.
"It's compatible," she says.
I exhale softly. I shouldn't be surprised, but I am. My blood can save her.
"You take over from here," I say to Carlos. "Finish the closing."
I move to the bed beside hers and lay down. Direct transfusion is faster—cleaner in this case. They hook the IV line from my arm to hers, and I watch as my blood flows into her.
My gaze drifts to her face—soft despite the bruises. Something deep in my chest tightens. There's something about her. Something I don't understand. My wolf stirs beneath my skin, restless, drawn.
My heartbeat stutters. For the umpteenth time, my eyes trace the features of this mysterious girl. I don't know her name, her story, or why she was brutally attacked—but something in me desperately wants to save her.
Whoever she is… I hope I'm saving the right person.
The blood transfer continues.
Her breathing stabilizes—slowly, but surely. The monitors stop screaming and settle into a steady rhythm. Her vitals rise, still weak, but improving. I feel the drain—my body growing colder, my pulse slowing. But I don't stop it. I can't. My blood is saving her. And that's all that matters.
Carlos moves over, checking the monitors. "She's responding. Her heart rate is climbing. That's a good sign."
I nod faintly. "Keep monitoring her oxygen levels."
From where I lay, I can still see her face. Pale. Unconscious. Fragile. But somehow, beneath all that, I sense strength. Her energy is unlike anything I've felt before—raw and chaotic, like an untamed storm trapped in a cage. My instincts scream that she's not ordinary. That she's powerful. Dangerous, even.
And yet, my wolf doesn't flinch.
It draws closer.
The transfer takes almost thirty minutes. When it's finally done, the nurse carefully disconnects the IV line. I sit up, ignoring the spinning room and my own aching veins. I glance at the clock—it's almost 5 in the evening.
"Take her to the isolation wing," I say, my voice rough. "She's not from our pack. No visitors. No contact until I say so."
"Yes, sir," the nurse responds immediately.
They wheel her away, and I stand there for a moment, blood-stained gloves still on my hands, sweat coating my skin.
"Sir…" Carlos steps forward. "You did something incredible tonight."
I look at him, but I don't answer. Because this doesn't feel like just another surgery. It feels... personal.
Something sacred.
When I finally return to my office, I strip off my gloves and scrub my hands in silence. Freya's photo sits on the desk—still smiling, still hoping. Guilt crawls up my spine. I wasn't supposed to care for anyone else. Freya's pain is mine. Her tears, my responsibility. But something in me shifted the moment I saw that girl on the operating table. Something I can't explain.
I slump into my chair, running a hand down my face. My phone buzzes with a dozen messages I ignore. The scent of foreign blood still lingers in the room—hers. Even though I've washed it off, I can still feel it on my skin, like a mark.
I close my eyes.
I see her face again.
***
I enter Freya's hospital room quietly. The soft beeping from the heart monitor greets me first, followed by the gentle whoosh of the ventilator. The room smells sterile, but warm—a mixture of antiseptic and Freya's familiar lavender scent.
The IV drip beside her bed has run dry. I walk over, remove the needle from her arm with practiced ease, and toss the tube into the nearby waste bin. She stirs slightly. I lean down and press a gentle kiss on her forehead.
Her skin is warm.
She murmurs something I can't quite catch and shifts in her sleep but doesn't wake.
"Take care of her," I tell the nurse sitting in the corner, flipping through a chart. "Tell her I'll be back soon when she wakes up."
"Yes, Sir" the nurse says, bowing her head slightly.
I pause at the door. My mind betrays me. I think of her again—the girl in ICU. The stranger with Volk-X blood. I want to check on her, to see how she's doing, if her body is stabilizing, if her heart still beats strong after the transfusion. But I resist. I don't go.
I turn and leave the hospital, heading toward the outskirts of the Northside—my pack's territory, nestled in the quieter, more guarded part of San Diego.
Old Marrek lives just beyond our borders, where the urban sprawl thins out and the land slowly gives way to wilderness. Not deep in the forest, but right before it begins—secluded but not forgotten. His house is surprisingly modern. Solar panels on the roof, automated lighting, smart security systems—but inside, the place carries an ancient energy. A place where modern science and old-world magic meet.
He opens the door before I even knock.
"Welcome, my Lord," he says, stepping aside to let me in.
"Thank you," I nod, walking past him into the main room.
I sit on one of the sleek leather couches while he settles across from me. A bowl of dried herbs and leaves rests on the glass table between us. Despite the technology, it still smells like old smoke, damp earth, and secrets.
"To what do I owe this visit?" he asks, tearing a leaf and placing it between his teeth.
I hesitate, collecting my thoughts. My fingers drum against my knees.
"Not that I believe your earlier claims," I start, keeping my tone neutral. "Freya is my wife. My fate. My Luna. That can't be changed."
He nods slowly, but says nothing.
I continue, voice firm but restrained. "She's broken, Marrek. Not weak—broken. She's been through too much. I want to fix it. I want her to be happy again. I want… a child. Our child. If there's anything you know—any solution that could help us bring our baby to this world—I'm willing to listen."
Marrek swirls the contents of his bowl with a carved stick, then licks it.
"You don't have to believe, My Lord," he says calmly. "Fate doesn't ask for belief. It simply unfolds."
I clench my jaw but stay quiet.
"There is a solution," he says after a pause. "A vessel. Chosen by the moon."
I lift a brow.
He nods slowly. "A surrogate. But not just any. The Moon Vessel. She can bear your child."
My body stiffens. "No," I say flatly. "I want the child to come from me and Freya. Not from a stranger. Freya will never feel connected to a baby born from another woman's egg. That child won't be hers."
He chuckles, not mockingly, but with a hint of patience. "You're a doctor, my Lord. You understand how surrogacy works—how gestational surrogacy works. The child can still be from both of you. Your seed. Her eggs. The vessel will only carry it."
My jaw relaxes just a little. It makes sense. But still, the idea of another woman bearing our child, even temporarily, unsettles me.
"How do I find this… Moon Vessel?" I ask after a long silence.
"You won't need to look," he says. "She will find you. Or rather… the moon will lead you to her. She may be human, or wolf. She may belong to your pack… or the South."
I stiffen.
The Southside of San Diego belongs to the rival pack— The Aurora Pack. We've co-existed for years by staying apart. Minimal contact. No shared grounds. No open conflict… but no trust either.
Old Marrek leans forward, his tone serious. "The moon does not recognize borders. Neither should you."
I run a hand down my face. This entire situation feels unreal. Fated vessels, glowing marks, ancient prophecies—yet I can't ignore how right it feels… how desperate I've become.
So what will the mark look like?" I ask.
"A flower," he says softly. "A yellow bloom, right above her hip. Invisible to most. But visible to you. Only to you."
"But, my Lord," Marrek says carefully, "I do not believe Freya's eggs are capable of producing your heir. You may try—but it will not work. Her womb and her essence are intact… but she is not destined to carry this legacy."
I rise sharply from the couch, my hands clenched at my sides. "I'll use Freya's eggs," I say, voice firm. "They are capable. I'll prove you wrong. The problem isn't with her soul—it's something in her womb. And I'll find it. I'm a doctor. And I'm her mate."
Marrek doesn't fight me on it. He only nods slowly, eyes ancient and distant, as if already seeing the road ahead.
"As you wish, my Lord," he murmurs. "But heed the signs when they come. The moon never lies… even when the truth hurts."
I turn and stride out of his home, a storm of thoughts crashing inside my head.
The cool breeze greets me outside, brushing across my face like a whisper—half warning, half welcome. It smells of spring… and something wild.
In the distance, a lone wolf howls—low and haunting.