The Alpha Rejected His Pregnant Luna

Seraphina had survived worse things than a room full of wolves.

She reminded herself of that as she stood outside the grand doors of Blackthorn Palace, wearing a servant's dress that was two sizes too large and shoes that pinched her toes. Beyond those doors, the most powerful Alphas in Aethoria had gathered for the Winter Council. Their wealth could buy entire villages, their armies could flatten smaller packs, and their names could make grown wolves lower their heads.

She had once belonged among them. Now, she was expected to carry their wine and serve their meals.

“Keep your eyes down,” Mara warned, adjusting the collar of Seraphina's dress.

The old healer had accompanied the servants from their subordinate pack, though she had no business attending the council herself.

“Do your work diligently, speak to nobody, and leave before anyone notices you. Is that clear?”

Seraphina glanced at the woman who had become more of a mother to her than her own memories allowed.

“You make it sound as if I am about to enter a den of hungry wolves.”

Mara's expression did not change. “You are.” She responded.

A bell rang from somewhere inside the palace.

The servants hurried through the doors.

Seraphina followed, lifting her chin despite the warning beating hard in her chest.

The ballroom was breathtaking. Crystal chandeliers hung from a ceiling painted with scenes of ancient battles. Gold pillars rose beside enormous windows, and silver decorations glittered beneath the moonlight. Wolves in expensive suits and elegant gowns moved through the room, their laughter carrying the confidence of people who had never been forced to beg for a meal, not for once.

At the far end of the ballroom stood a man dressed entirely in black. Damien Blackthorn.

Even from across the room, his presence was impossible to ignore. He was tall and broad-shouldered, with dark hair, a hard jaw, and the kind of cold, striking face that made people stare even when they feared him. His black suit fitted him perfectly, and a silver wolf pin rested on his chest.

At twenty-nine, he was the youngest Alpha to command such a powerful pack in generations. He had inherited more than land and warriors. He inherited enemies, political obligations, and a kingdom that expected him never to show weakness.

Seraphina knew all this because people had spent years whispering about him.

She also knew that his father died under complicated circumstances, and that her father was blamed for it.

She looked away before the memories could take hold of her.

“Wine,” a servant whispered, thrusting a tray into her hands.

“Take it to the royal table,” he ordered.

Seraphina obeyed quietly.

She had almost reached the table when a sharp crash shattered the music.

A young Omega knelt on the marble floor, weeping, surrounded by broken glass. Red wine spread across the white stone. A tall man in a green suit stood over him, his face twisted with disgust.

“You stupid animal!” he shouted.

“Do you have any idea how much that bottle costs?”

“I am sorry, my lord,” the Omega stammered, scrambling to collect the pieces.

“Someone pushed me. I didn't mean…”

“Silence!”

The man angrily kicked the tray away. Glass scattered across the floor, messing up the entire room, and the Omega flinched.

Several guests laughed out loud, while others watched with the bored expressions of people enjoying a familiar show.

Seraphina stopped halfway.

She knew what could come next. The Omega would be forced to kneel until his knees bled, perhaps beaten if his master felt particularly cruel. Nobody would interfere. In Aethoria, rank was treated as permission to be cruel.

“Pick it up,” the man ordered aggressively.

The Omega reached for a shard and cut his palm. He gasped, but no one cared.

“Faster!”

Seraphina's fingers tightened around her tray like someone ready to fight at the sound of a bell.

She could have continued walking. Then, she remembered Mara's warning to survive another night by making herself invisible. But instead, she stepped forward.

“He has already apologized,” she yelled.

Suddenly, everywhere went silent; the laughter died.

The man in green slowly turned toward her in surprise.

“What did you say?” he asked with his intimidating eyes wide open.

Seraphina's heart thumped against her ribs, but she held his gaze.

“He apologized. You can see he is bleeding. There is no reason to humiliate him further,” she suggested.

A woman near the royal table covered her mouth in fear, wondering what could happen next.

Someone in the crowd whispered, “Is that servant mad?”

The man in green stared at Seraphina as though she had grown a second head.

“You dare to question me?”

“No,” she replied. “I am asking why you need everyone in this room to watch you hurt someone weaker than you.”

A few guests s*ck*d in their breath.

The man raised his hand, but Seraphina didn't move.

Before he could strike her, a voice cut through the ballroom.

“Enough.”

One word. Quietly spoken with authority.

Yet every wolf in the room went still.

Damien Blackthorn had turned from the royal table. His blue-grey eyes rested on Seraphina, and something about his expression made the back of her neck prickle.

The man in green immediately lowered his hand.

“Alpha, this servant has insulted me.”

Damien walked toward them confidently in his floor-length furry royal coat.

People moved aside without being asked. Even the musicians had stopped playing.

Seraphina felt his approach before she fully registered it, as if the air itself had become heavier.

“Did she?” Damien asked.

“She questioned my authority.”

Damien glanced at the injured Omega. “And what did you do?”

The man hesitated. “I corrected his mistake.”

“By kicking a tray across my ballroom?”

“My apologies, Alpha.”

“Apologize to him.”

The man's face darkened. “But…”

“Now.” Damien barked.

He turned to the Omega. “I am sorry,” he muttered.

Damien's gaze shifted back to Seraphina.

“And you. What is your name?”

Her mouth suddenly felt dry.

“Seraphina.”

“Your pack?”

“Frostmere.”

A lie, or at least half of one.

She had lived among Frostmere's servants for years, though her blood belonged to a pack that no longer had a home or a name that was recognised.

Damien studied her.

“Who taught you to speak to your betters like that?” he asked, curiously. But Saraphina knew how to play her card well, and had already thought of a way to answer his questions.

She looked at the injured Omega, who was being helped back to his feet.

“No one,” she said. “I thought kindness shouldn't require permission.”

Something flickered in Damien's eyes, then it disappeared.

“Kindness is a luxury in this kingdom,” he said. “And you are a servant. Remember your place.” He added.

The words struck harder than she expected. Not because she believed him, but because she had spent eight years being told the same thing by people who wanted her to forget who she really was. And this time, something i