An hour passed. Elowen had already cleaned the baby and wrapped her in a cloak, but Ronan still hadn't touched her. The child was fragile, tiny, and thin, her small chest rising and falling.
The first thing he said was, "Is she dying?"
A daughter wasn't what he had wanted, and she wasn't only a girl but a skinny, weak one.
He had prayed for months. He had asked for a son, a boy with a thick neck and a loud cry, a wolf who could hold the Valecrest territory when Ronan's own strength began to fade. He knew the council would never accept a female heir. He had built his empire with blood and patience, and it was going to end with a girl. The other Alphas would circle like carrion birds the moment they smelled weakness in his bloodline.
And now the mother of that girl was weak, crying, and bleeding out in front of him.
"Ronan," Elowen gasped, looking at him again. She searched his eyes, as if she could pull the words out of him. "She's... she's ours. She's your daughter!"
He shook his head. "No. She's a mistake."
Her heart beat even faster, and the whole thing was killing her. Something crossed her face then. It wasn't surprise. She had known him too long for surprise. It was grief, and it was worse than anger.
"Don't," she pleaded. "Please. Whatever you're thinking, don't."
He crouched beside her, and for a moment he almost felt something. Two years of marriage. Her laughter in the halls, her hands in his hair, her stubborn, gentle faith that he was a better man than he was. He placed his hand on her cheek, and her skin was already cooling.
"You were always too soft, Elowen," he said. "I should have known you'd give me such a weak child."
She opened her mouth to say something, but no sound came. She stopped breathing and went still. Just like that, she was dead.
Ronan covered her with leaves and looked at her for a few seconds. He murmured, "What a waste. Two years for this."
Then he stood up, carried the baby in his arms, and did not look back.
On his way back to the estate, he was already thinking about what to do next.
The girl could not be his heir, but she did not need to be thrown away. A daughter had uses. She could be kept close and kept quiet. And if he needed a son, the Compatibility System had already made it possible to find one.
Every wolf born on Arcadia 7 was registered within a day of birth. The records were sealed to the public, but not to an Alpha with the right favors owed to him. Ronan had spent years collecting those favors.
Three days later, he stood in a cold, white birthing ward in the lower district, in a clinic that had been flagged for closure after a pack raid gutted the neighborhood. The air smelled of antiseptic and old fear. The nurse on duty did not meet his eyes.
"There are infants here with no registered guardians," she said. "Their pack was destroyed. Their parents are dead. We were going to send them to the state nursery."
"I want a boy," Ronan said. "Healthy. Strong. One."
The nurse hesitated. "Sir, there's a set. They were born together. Three."
He frowned. "Three?"
"Triplets. All boys." She wet her lips. "The records show unusually high genetic markers, sir. The best I've seen in this ward. But the System lists them as a unit. They can't be separated without..."
"Show me."
She led him down a narrow corridor and through a pair of sliding doors. Three small cribs sat side by side beneath the dim light. Three infants lay wrapped in gray blankets, each with a different shade of dark hair.
The first one opened his eyes as Ronan approached. They were cold and steady, and he didn't blink. The second was already stirring, reaching toward the air with a tiny, determined fist. The third was awake and watching him with a gaze so sharp it made the hair rise on the back of Ronan's neck.
None of them cried.
Ronan stood there for a long moment. He had come for one heir. The moon goddess, or whatever cruel thing had replaced her, had handed him three.
A slow smile spread across his face.
Three sons. Three strong, perfectly bred wolves with no living family to question where they had come from. They would be raised in his halls, taught by his tutors, and shaped by his hand. No Alpha in the territory would dare challenge a house with three heirs.
"I'll take them," he decided. "All of them."
---
The announcement was made at the Valecrest estate two weeks later.
The guests gathered in the courtyard, and the council elders stood in rows. Alpha Ronan walked out onto the stone balcony in his ceremonial black, a baby cradled in each arm and the third carried by a nurse at his side.
"People of Valecrest," he declared, his voice carrying across the crowd. "Today, I have been blessed. I present to you my heirs. Cassian. Rowan. Lucien."
A roar of approval rose from the courtyard. The council members bowed their heads. Cameras flashed, and the colony's media drones swarmed overhead.
No one asked where the boys had come from. No one asked where the Alpha's wife was.
When a reporter finally dared to ask, Ronan lowered his eyes and let his voice break in exactly the right place.
"Elowen was taken from me," he said, faking a broken tone. "The forest was cruel that night. I wasn't able to save her."
The crowd murmured with sympathy. It was the first lie he told that day, and it was the easiest.
Behind him, in a small side room of the estate, a nurse held the fourth child, the one he had not announced. Once the cheering had faded, Ronan stepped inside and looked down at her for a long moment.
"From now on, her name is Myla," he said coldly. "She'll be listed as an orphan I took in out of charity. Register her as my adopted daughter."
The nurse blinked, confused. "Adopted? Are you sure, Alpha?"
He inhaled and exhaled deeply. "She has no claim to my name," he said. "Obviously. She is weak, like her mother. She will be fed, clothed, and kept where I can see her. But she will never be my heir."
He turned and walked away, and the door clicked shut behind him.
--
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