Three

Savannah

Three weeks later

The world had moved on. I hadn’t.

I hadn’t left the house in days. The ache in my chest became too sharp to ignore. And now, I'd missed my period.

I lay curled on the couch, staring blankly at the ceiling fan spinning above me. The TV flickered, but the scenes meant nothing, just empty laughter floating past like ghosts.

Inside, it felt like war, grief throwing punches while fear curled in the corner, too tired to fight back.

I prayed I was wrong.

God, I had to be wrong.

Because if there really was a baby growing inside me, my life wasn’t just over, it was a gamble with death.

Werewolf pregnancies were dangerous. Getting rid of it was risky, as both mother and child could die.

Memories of the humiliation rushed into my mind. I’d rushed back to the Grand Oak Hotel, demanding security footage, desperate to prove my innocence. But they wouldn’t give me access or tell me who’d been in the room I’d woken up in.

"Please," I screamed at the receptionist, wild-eyed. “Just give me his name. He's got dark hair. Wolf tattoo. He was in room 203 and—”

"Sorry, Miss," she’d cut in flatly. "We’re not authorized to disclose guest information."

They didn’t just deny me answers. They erased the truth.

I’d searched the hallways. The lot. Every car.

He was gone. Just like that.

I had stood outside the hotel, screaming inside, choking on panic

I blinked, attempting to erase my humiliation.

I'd always imagined my first sex would be special, or at the very least memorable, but was a complete blur and forgotten details.

If the stranger walked past me on the street, I wouldn’t recognize him.

Maybe if I had known I’d be the one dragged through the mud, I would’ve paused that morning and woke him up. But I ran like a coward, thinking I’d fix it later, not knowing the world had already made up its mind to condemn me.

I pulled the blanket tighter around me and pressed my face into the pillow, hoping it was stress, trauma, or anything but pregnancy.

There was only one way to find out.

I pulled the hoodie over my head, kept it low, and grabbed my bag. My hands trembled as I walked to the store, face down, barely breathing.

At the counter, I grabbed a test and a few extra things. I paid quickly, stuffing the box deep into my bag.

“Ethan, honey, look at these strawberries,” Claire’s voice rang out.

That voice. The kind that smiled while stabbing you in the back.

My stomach clenched as I turned sharply and walked the other way. Her laugh followed me like poison.

They looked so happy. Like they hadn’t destroyed anyone.

My fingers dug into the strap of my bag.

Claire and Ethan had set this up. I could feel it in my bones. Claire’s stupid smile had reeked. Let them laugh now. Let them walk around like royalty. One day, they’d choke on it.

I went home broken.

My dad had stormed into Ethan’s house that same day, demanding answers. Ethan sent guards to beat him up. My dad came home with bruises.

The narrative twisted viciously.

I had become the bride who cheated. The unfaithful, disgraceful, worthless, dirt poor woman who tried to climb above her class. Others said I threw myself at strangers. Some elderly women even dragged my late mom into it, suggesting that adultery runs in my blood.

Someone even dared to say, “It’s probably a curse. Her kind never keeps a man.”

Every whisper chipped away at the strength I had left. The truth didn’t matter. Only their version of the story did.

And in their story, I wasn’t just the girl who got left at the altar. I was the slut who deserved it.

Now, three weeks later, it all came down to one test.

My heart pounded as I stared at the bathroom sink. The test lay on the counter like a verdict.

Five minutes.

My legs bounced. My palms were slick.

Please no. Please let this be stress.

The timer buzzed.

I reached slowly and turned the test over.

Two lines.

My chest caved in. I couldn’t move or speak.

I sank to the floor of the living room. The world grew quiet.

My dad walked in sometime later. His voice came from the kitchen.

“Honey, I got you some pies from—”

Silence.

Then footsteps. Then a crouch. Then his rough fingers on my chin.

“Are you alright, Sav?”

“I’m pregnant,” I whispered.

His breath hitched. He stood up fast and backed away.

I watched him. His heart broke all over again.

“We barely have enough as it is.” His voice cracked, low, and bitter. “How are we supposed to feed another mouth?”

He rubbed his face, then looked at me again.

“You’re just twenty.” His tone hardened. “Who’s going to marry a rejected, pregnant female?”

The slap wasn’t in the words. It was in the fear behind them.

Werewolf pregnancies were unpredictable and dangerous. There was no fixing this.

I moved to his side and tried to hold his hand.

“I’ll take care of myself.”

He pulled away. “You think this is about strength? Bills don’t care about strength. Mouths need food. You want to keep that child, you better grow up faster than you ever planned to.”

I nodded, not trusting my voice.

Days later, the healer confirmed the pregnancy with a tight-lipped nod and handed me potions like they were shame in a bottle. Then she told the entire pack.

My dad stopped defending me.

“Do you even remember what he looked like?” he barked one night. “The idiot who touched you?”

I flinched. “No.”

He stormed out, banging my door noisily.

But I didn’t cry. Not this time. I already knew what I had to do.

I’d lost enough. If I stayed, I’d lose myself too.

“I’m leaving.”

He paused in the hallway. “What?”

“I can’t stay here. I’ll find work, save money, and raise this baby on my own. I’ll come back when I can.”

He turned slowly. I saw something break in his eyes, just for a second.

He didn’t try to stop me.