He was born to a maid, raped by the Alpha in the dining hall after his engagement banquet, a night blurred by too much drink. The Alpha's fiancée, discovering the truth, raged and demanded the maid's immediate banishment from the pack. But the Alpha offered no defense, merely watching. It was the Old Alpha who spoke, forbidding her expulsion. Such an act, he declared, would reveal a fatal lack of control over his pack, for only those who defy the Alpha's established laws are banished, and such a scandal would forever tarnish their name if news of his bastard firstborn reached other packs.
Thus, she remained, yet her days became a brutal regimen of labor, tripled even as her belly swelled. Though the blood of a werewolf grants strength beyond human measure, the relentless toil and starvation began to consume her. While other servants ate the scraps from the Alpha's abundant table, her sustenance was nothing but stale bread, occasionally a morsel of moldy cheese. This grueling year culminated on the night of the Alpha's wedding, the very night she gave birth. Only two ancient maids assisted in the delivery. When it was over, they swaddled the tiny, small creature in a soiled blanket, laid him beside his spent mother, and departed.
When she came around, she looked at the child's sleeping face and extended a hand to gently brush his cheek. In his sleep, the little boy grabbed her finger with his tiny fist. It was then, after an entire year, that she cracked a smile.
Softly, she spoke to him:"No matter what happens, you'll always be my son. And I'll always be here for you—even if the world turns against you."
At that moment, the child began to cry. She uncovered her chest, lifted him into her arms, and gently pressed her nipple to his mouth. Pinching it lightly to help the milk flow, she watched as he began to feed hungrily.
Quietly, she whispered to herself,"I'll have to work even harder now... I need to eat more—he won't survive if I can't make enough milk for him."
She leaned back against the headboard as the baby continued to suckle. Slowly, sleep overtook her.
She awoke with a start, heart pounding—only to find her son peacefully nestled against her chest. Relief softened her features. Carefully, so as not to wake him, she lifted him and placed him beside her on the bed. He turned in his sleep and settled again, undisturbed.
A sudden knock at the door broke the silence.
A maid entered, carrying a chair. She placed it near the foot of the bed and stepped aside. Moments later, the old Alpha walked in—tall and broad-shouldered, his presence still commanding despite the streaks of white in his hair. Without a word, he took a seat, his cold eyes fixed on her with the same indifference he had shown that night.
She tensed, instinctively pulling the blanket over her chest. Her stomach twisted with the sick ache of memory. Her eyes dropped to the floor, heart pounding—not in fear, but in that quiet, burning shame that never fully leaves.
She had always been just a maid—one of many expected to clean, obey, and disappear. But she had held herself apart, refusing to let her body be reduced to a convenience. Others whispered that she was proud. Maybe she was. But she had drawn a line, and held it.
Until that night.
It was the Alpha's son—his Heir. Drunk, angry, and out of control. He had cornered her while she was gathering dishes in the dining hall, the night he was just engaged his breath thick with wine and power. She'd tried to push him off, begged him to stop. Her voice broke, her nails scratched, but it hadn't mattered.
And then his father walked in.
The old Alpha stood there for a moment, watching. His expression unreadable. The younger man didn't even stop. And the old one—he turned and walked away. No command. No punishment. No words.
That was the moment she knew: her body had never truly belonged to her in this house.
No one came for her afterward. No one even asked if she was alright. She bled in silence. She carried her pain into the shadows. And later, when she realized she was pregnant , she kept it to herself. She didn't know if it was a punishment or a gift—but when the boy came into the world, small and hungry, her heart broke open in ways she didn't know it could.
Now, the old Alpha sat across from her as if none of it had happened. As if he hadn't once stood by while his son tore her apart.
"You'll be assigned to the kitchen," he said, voice cold and controlled. "Under no circumstance are you to appear before my daughter-in-law or any of our guests. No one must find out about the child."
Still pretending. Still protecting his blood. But not hers.
She didn't cry. Not anymore. She had no tears left to waste on men like him. All her strength was for the child sleeping beside her—the only thing in her life born not of violence, but of survival.
She nodded once. It was all she could give him.
The old Alpha rose, the chair scraping back across the floor. Without another word, he turned and left, the maid trailing silently behind him.
The door clicked shut, leaving behind the cold, familiar quiet.
She looked down at her son. He stirred, little fingers curling toward her.
He had no idea what world he'd been born into. But she did. And for him, she would fight it—quietly, fiercely, and with everything she had left.