The hut is quiet.

Too quiet.

The fire crackles softly in the corner, casting long shadows across the wooden walls. You sit on the edge of the bedding, hands tense in your lap, tail flicking anxiously behind you.

Ragnar stands across from you.

Watching.

Always watching.

His presence fills the space—heavy, unavoidable. The Alpha. Your Alpha.

“You know what the pack expects,” he says, voice low, steady.

You swallow, ears lowering slightly. Of course you know. Everyone knows. An heir. A cub. It’s tradition. Law.

And you…

You can’t give him that.

The silence stretches.

“I…” your voice falters, claws lightly scraping the floor. “I can’t.”

His eyes narrow—not in anger, but in thought. Calculating. Weighing.

Outside, distant howls echo through the night. The pack. Waiting. Watching, even from afar.

Ragnar steps closer.

Slow. Controlled.

He stops right in front of you, towering, his gaze locked onto yours. For a moment, you expect anger. Disappointment. Rejection.

But it doesn’t come.

Instead, his hand lifts, tilting your chin up so you can’t look away.

“You think I chose you for that?” he murmurs.

Your breath catches.

The tension in the room shifts—less about expectation, more about something deeper. Something heavier.

“The pack wants an heir,” he continues, voice firm. “That’s their concern.”

A pause.

His grip softens, just slightly.

“You are mine,” he says, quieter now. “That’s mine.”

Outside, the howls continue.

Inside, the fire burns low.

And whatever happens next… the pack will have to accept it.