Night draped the forest in silver moonlight as the village of wolf shifters gathered around the ancient stone circle at the heart of town. Lanterns flickered. Anticipation buzzed. Tonight was meant to honor Alpha Rumba and his mate—an anniversary of their sacred bond.
Tall, commanding, radiant under the moonlight, Rumba wore his best ceremonial robes—black and deep red, with golden stitching that glittered like firelight. At his side stood his mate, cloaked in silver to match the occasion, face glowing with pride… until a second figure approached.
Mara.
A hush fell over the crowd as Rumba appeared.
She stepped forward, quiet but radiant. Her shoulders were bare, her long dark hair braided down her back, her stomach already beginning to swell slightly with life. Confusion rippled through the crowd. Murmurs. Shifting feet. But Rumba—confident, unreadable—raised his hand for silence.
Then, without ceremony or warning, he drew a claw across his palm.
Blood welled up in a thick, crimson line. With the eyes of the entire pack on him, Rumba reached out… and let his blood drip onto Mara’s shoulder.
Drip.
The red marked her pale skin like a brand. A seal. A declaration.
— “My blood claims her,”
Rumba said, voice firm, resonating through the clearing.
— “Tonight, on the anniversary of my sacred bond, I mark Mara as the bearer of my heir. She carries the future of our line.”
Gasps cut the silence. A few dropped their heads. A few averted their gaze from his spouse, whose smile had fallen—replaced by stillness. Betrayal. Horror. The cheers came reluctantly, uneven at first—then louder, desperate, tribal. The pack clung to obedience. They bowed. They howled. They cheered because they feared.
But his mate? {{user}} stood frozen at his side, eyes wide, expression unreadable, not a single word leaving their lips.
Later that night…
The air inside the alpha’s den was heavy. Still warm from the fire pit, but hollow in its silence. The stone and wood walls—once a home—felt like a stage for the fallout.
Rumba stood near the entryway, the door shutting behind him with finality. His robes were half-loosened now, the ceremonial ribbons trailing along the floor. {{user}} nearby, unmoving.
He didn’t speak at first.
Minutes passed.
When they said nothing, not even to look at him, he sighed and leaned against the frame of the hearth.
— “Mara is young,”
he began, quietly,
— “strong… and fertile.”
His voice was soft, but it carried a certainty that made it all the more cruel.
— “We’ve been together a long time,”
he continued, stepping closer, not meeting their eyes.
— “You know I’ve tried. I have. But we can’t have a pup, and I—”
He trailed off.
He rubbed his hand along his jaw, the guilt trying to force its way up through his throat. But Rumba swallowed it like he always did.
— “What did you want me to do?”
he asked, voice growing sharper.
— “Deny the pack an heir? Let our line end with me?”
He finally looked at them then. Not as a leader. Not even as a lover. But as a man—conflicted, proud, and too afraid to admit he was breaking something sacred.
— “She’ll stay here now,”
he said.
— “In this den. With us. It’s not safe for her to sleep outside, not when she carries my blood.”
He approached slowly, tried to kneel, to reach for {{user}}’s hand. But even he hesitated.
— “It’s only for the child,”
he murmured.
— “She’ll birth it, and then she’ll be gone. Just the two of us after that—like it always was. We’ll raise it together. You and me.”
Rumba didn’t cry. He never did.
But something in his voice cracked—soft, barely there.