Just like I used to count the lies he told me during our seven-year mating.
In Draven’s world, “tomorrow” was a day that never arrived.
--
Three days had passed. He never came.
Instead, I was bombarded with glowing video-scrolls from packmates—footage of Draven at the Alpha Summit, with his hand curved protectively over Freya’s swollen belly. Feeding her honeyed elk meat at the banquet. Kissing her bump under the stars at Blackridge Lake, the same place where he once promised me eternity.
On the day of my discharge, a new Blackthorn Pack broadcast lit up my phone.
Draven had posted a series of nine bonded-mate photos.
He was kneeling in the middle of a wild moonbloom field, his cheek pressed to Freya’s stomach. The caption read:
“Awaiting our little moonflower.”
The comment feed gushed with praise. Freya is glowing! What a perfect Luna!
He hadn’t blocked me.
I tapped the heart emoji anyway.
Seconds later, my device vibrated. Alpha Draven’s name lit up.
I didn’t answer.
I slipped the phone into my hoodie jacket and handed my release paper.
As I walked past the maternity wing of the hospital's hall, I heard a voice that stopped me cold.