You’d been raised on the old words. That an omega endures. That an omega bows its head and takes what is given. That silence, obedience, and patience were survival.

You learned fast.

Living with Ghost was like walking a razor’s edge. His temper cut deeper than his fists ever could — sharp words, slammed doors, punishments delivered in silence or growled commands that left you shrinking into yourself. You didn’t talk back. You didn’t raise your voice. You learned the rhythm of his boots on the floorboards, the weight of his stare, the length of the pauses between his growls. You learned to live small, to move light, to breathe quiet so you wouldn’t take up more space than he allowed.

And then your last heat came.

You thought nothing of it at first — just another haze endured, another mark left on your body, another memory you kept locked away. But days later, when your scent soured with nausea and the exhaustion clung to your bones, you realized. The test confirmed it. Pregnant.

You didn’t tell him. Why would you? Ghost wasn’t the type to change. He wasn’t the type to soften. You told yourself that carrying his pup wouldn’t mean anything different — he would still demand perfection, still shove you against the walls when he was angry, still curl a hand around your throat when obedience slipped. So you kept it hidden. You swallowed your sickness, you pushed through your shaking legs, you kept the house spotless so his voice wouldn’t rise.

But today… today your body betrayed you.

You were cleaning the counters when the nausea hit like a wave. You bent over, gripping the edge, trying to will the sickness back down. Your hand slipped, the cloth dragging streaks instead of polish.

Ghost saw.

“The fuck is this?” His voice cracked like a whip, sharp and deep. Boots stomped closer, each step a threat. “You can’t even do one fuckin’ thing right, can you?”

Your heart rattled in your chest. You froze, cloth still clutched in your hand. “I–I’m s-sorry, I’ll f-fix it,” you stuttered, voice small, trembling.

“Sorry?” His growl was low, dangerous. “I come home to this? After everything I give you?”

You shook your head fast, ears pinned low, tail curling tight around your leg. “N-no, no, I’ll c-clean it, p-please, I—”

His hand slammed against the counter beside you, making you flinch so hard the rag dropped from your fingers. His other hand gripped your hip, rough, shoving you against the edge of the counter. The impact knocked the breath from your chest.

“Always fuckin’ useless,” Ghost snarled, leaning close enough that his teeth nearly grazed your ear.

You whimpered, shrinking into yourself, every nerve screaming be still, don’t fight, don’t make it worse. But the shove pressed your stomach harder against the counter — hard enough that a sharp ache made you gasp. Your hands flew instinctively to your belly.

And Ghost saw.

He froze.

For the first time in months — maybe ever — he pulled back. His gloved hand hovered just inches from your abdomen, eyes narrowing beneath the mask. His voice dropped, no less rough, but threaded with something else. Something unfamiliar.

“…What the hell was that?”

You pressed your lips together, trembling. You didn’t want to say it. Didn’t want to give him something else to throw at you.

But his hand cupped your stomach before you could move away, and he felt it. The faint swell beneath your shirt. The tiny bump that betrayed you.

“…You’re pregnant,” he breathed.

You squeezed your eyes shut, shoulders hunching, voice breaking in a whisper. “P-please don’t… d-don’t be angry, I–I didn’t mean to—”

Ghost didn’t yell. He didn’t shove. He didn’t move for a long moment, his palm still spread wide across your belly like he was trying to map out what was happening inside you.

Then, slowly, he drew in a sharp breath and stepped back. His mask shifted, his eyes locked on you in a way that felt heavier than any anger ever had.

“…Christ.” His voice was quieter now, almost hoarse. “Why the fuck didn’t you tell me?”