The Alpha Sacrificed Our Pup for His Fake-Sick Mistress

“Move, Clara!”

The voice was a muffled growl through a black cloth mask. A hand, thick and brutal, clamped over my jaw, forcing my mouth open. The world tilted—my bedroom, my sanctuary, all the soft lamplight and velvet cushions—became a prison in a single, shattering second.

They came through the door.

It wasn’t a knock. It was the sound of the lock giving up, a crack of wood, and then three shadows moving with a purpose that stole the air from my lungs. I was on the bed, reading a book to distract myself from the dull ache in my lower back. Now, I was a puppet with its strings cut.

Another man, taller, held a small ceramic bowl. The liquid inside was pitch black, viscous, and it smelled like rotten earth and bitter herbs. My stomach revolted.

“No,” I choked out, trying to twist my head away. “Please, don’t—”

“Drink it.” It wasn’t a request.

The bowl was tipped against my lips. The cold rim dug into my skin. I fought, I clawed at the hand on my face, but my nails found only thick fabric. The liquid poured in, flooding my mouth. I tried not to swallow, but a fist thumped against my diaphragm and my body betrayed me. I gulped, gagging as the awful stuff slid down my throat, burning like acid.

They let me go. I collapsed back onto the mattress, coughing, spitting, but most of it was inside me now. A deep, wrong heat bloomed in my core, right where my baby—my sweet, tiny, secret hope—was curled up safe.

Oh god. Oh god no.

The first cramp hit like a knife. A sharp, tearing twist deep in my belly. I cried out, a sound that was more animal than human, and rolled off the bed onto the floor. The thick wool carpet was supposed to be soft. It felt like concrete.

“Silas,” I whispered, my vision blurring with pain and panic. “Silas, help me.”

The men were just standing there, watching. Their eyes, the only thing visible above the masks, were flat.

Empty. Like they were waiting for a timer to run out.

Another cramp, worse than the first. My whole abdomen clenched, a wave of pressure that made me vomit a little of the black liquid onto the carpet. I saw the stain spread, dark on dark. I curled in on myself, my hands clutching my stomach, trying to protect what was inside. A feeble, desperate thought flickered: my phone.

The comm unit. It was on the bedside table, where I’d left it after my last futile call to him.

I had to try.

Gritting my teeth against a scream, I uncoiled my body and lunged. My fingers scrambled over the polished wood of the nightstand, knocking over a glass of water. My hand closed around the cool, rectangular shape of the communicator. I clutched it, my thumb finding the record button by muscle memory.

I pressed it, held it close to my mouth,