Chapter 2

My daughter started breaking out in rashes.

Tiny red bumps covered her skin, itching so badly she cried all night.

My milk still wasn't enough. The Head Healer suggested supplementing with formula, but the nursery stock of newborn formula had conveniently "run out."

Leila's room, however, had three boxes stacked in the corner.

I carried my daughter down the corridor.

Clan members bowed as I passed, but their eyes darted away.

From around the corner, I caught two young Omegas whispering:

"Do you think that child is really the Clan Chief's?"

"The Shadow envoy asked so many questions about her pregnancy details that day... could it be someone else's pup?"

"Don't talk nonsense."

"But the Clan Chief hasn't been to her room lately."

I kept walking, not slowing.

My daughter cried in my arms—a thin, kitten-like sound.

Clan members quickened their steps to avoid me—Omega emotions and pups' cries trigger instinctive restlessness in werewolves; they couldn't help it.

But Axel was never restless.

Every time he passed our daughter, at most he'd frown.

I only understood later: that wasn't tolerance—it was indifference.

He was waiting for an answer.

Waiting for someone else to confirm whether this child was really his.

The pediatric clinic door was half-open.

I pushed it open. The young pediatric healer was organizing the medicine cabinet.

When he saw the baby in my arms, his gaze paused briefly on the rashes on her face, then dropped.

"Madam."

"She has a rash."

He took my daughter, examined her carefully, then leaned in to sniff her.

His expression shifted—very quickly, but I caught it.

"What is it?"

"Nothing," he said, placing her back in my arms. "Probably just newborn eczema. I'll prescribe some ointment—it should clear up in a few days."

He wrote on the prescription pad, his fingers trembling slightly.

I stared at his hand: "What are you afraid of?"

"Madam, you jest—I'm a healer, why would I be afraid—"

"What did you just smell?"

His pen stopped.

The entire clinic fell silent, broken only by my daughter's faint whimpering.

I carried her closer to him and lowered my voice: "There was silver in that bottle of formula. I smelled it. That's what you smelled too."

The pediatric healer's face went completely white.

He opened his mouth, then quickly glanced at the door to make sure it was closed.

"Madam," his voice was barely squeezed out between his teeth, "you cannot tell anyone I told you this. The Shadow Clan has warned all pediatric healers—anyone who exposes the adopted daughter's identity will find their family's safety outside the territory no longer guaranteed."

"I'm not asking you to expose anyone."

I looked into his eyes.

"I'm only asking you one thing—is that child, or is she not, Axel's?"

He was silent for a very long time.

Finally, he closed his eyes and shook his head, very faintly.

"Miss Leila was marked before she conceived. That mark's residual scent—ordinary Alphas can't detect it, but trained healers can. She covers it with herbs, too heavily, but occasionally—occasionally, when the herbs fail, a second layer of pheromones can be smelled—an Alpha who does not belong to the Grey Moon clan."

I carried my daughter out of the clinic.

The moonstone light in the corridor was blinding, stabbing at my eyes.

My daughter slept in my arms, tear tracks still on her cheeks.

She was six days old.

Axel had held her twice.

Both times, he stood by the bassinet, bent down, reached out, touched her hair—and pulled back.

Like checking if an item was still there.

I lowered my head and smelled her.

Clean. Pure.

There was no trace of any Alpha mark in her scent.

A newborn Alpha pup, to some degree, carries residual pheromones from the father.

She carried none.

Not a single trace of Axel's scent.

"You're truly mine alone," I whispered.

My daughter smacked her lips in her sleep.

She knew nothing.

That evening, as I carried her back to the nursery, I ran straight into Leila.

She was also holding a child—a male infant wrapped in Grey Moon clan's finest silver fox-fur swaddling.

When she saw me, she smiled—not that weak, fragile smile of before, but a relaxed, lazy curve that said she no longer bothered to pretend.

"Sister," she called out. "Is your little one feeling better?"

"Get lost."

She didn't get lost.

She walked toward me with her child, and as we passed each other, she glanced down at my daughter and said softly:

"What a pity. She looks so much like you."

She paused.

"Just not like him."

She walked past me.

Her heels clicked on the stone—one, two, three times.

I didn't look back.

I kept walking, clutching the edge of the swaddling until my knuckles went white.