Rejected While Carrying His Heir

I am the Luna of the Blood Moon Pack, but my title feels like a cruel, twisted joke. I suffer from a curse no healer can fix: Wolf-Human Dissonance. While my inner wolf burns with absolute devotion for my fated mate, my human lips are cursed to speak only venom.

The wooden wolf totem felt heavy in my palms. I had spent months meticulously carving it for our Marking Anniversary, pouring every ounce of my silent love into the intricate fur and sharp eyes. When Dominic walked into our bedroom that morning, the dark circles under his eyes made my chest ache.

My inner wolf, Lyra, wagged her tail frantically, pacing at the forefront of my mind. *Mate!* she purred, her spirit practically vibrating with joy. *Tell him we love him! Happy anniversary!*

I smiled softly, stepping forward to hand him the gift. I opened my mouth, praying to the Moon Goddess that just this once, my human voice would align with my soul. I just wanted to say, 'I love you.'

Instead, my throat tightened. A familiar, sickening twist hijacked my vocal cords. My hand flew to my neck, my fingers digging into my skin as I tried to physically choke back the poison, but the curse was absolute.

"Another year wasted on a weak leader," I sneered. The words dripped with cold, unfeeling malice.

Dominic froze. The exhaustion on his handsome face twisted into raw, unfiltered anger. He ran his hands roughly through his dark hair, a habit he only exhibited when I pushed his patience to the absolute brink.

"Is that right, Daphne?" he growled, his voice thick with a hurt he tried to mask with dominance. "Parker spent all morning telling me pack morale is down because of my leadership. I come to my mate for a single moment of peace, only to get this?"

He snatched the intricately carved totem from my trembling hands and hurled it violently against the stone wall. It shattered into jagged, worthless splinters. He didn't look back as he stormed out, slamming the heavy oak door behind him. I dropped to my knees among the broken pieces of wood, clutching my throat as Lyra whined in silent, suffocating agony.

By evening, the silence in our shared quarters was unbearable. I couldn't speak my truth, so I wrote it down. *I love you. I am so sorry. The words aren't mine.* I folded the note tightly in my fist, determined to find him and force him to read it.

I tracked his familiar, intoxicating scent of rain and cedarwood across the territory. It led me away from the main pack house, toward the secluded guest cabins near the dark tree line. But as I got closer, my senses snagged on something wrong. Woven deeply into his cedarwood was another scent. It smelled exactly like my natural floral pheromones, but grossly exaggerated—cloyingly sweet, heavy, and entirely synthetic.

My hand shook as I pushed the heavy cabin door open.

The apology note slipped