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The day I suffered my seventh miscarriage, Alpha Marcelo returned to our packhouse with a young Omega named Virginia. She carried the faintest curve of a baby bump, her youthful face glowing with the promise of new life. The sight of her made my chest tighten, but I forced myself to remain composed. "Virginia is still young," Marcelo said, his voice cold and detached. "She’s inexperienced with pregnancy. As the Luna of this pack, it’s your duty to guide her." He paused, his dark eyes narrowing as he studied my reaction. "Since your pregnancies have all ended in tragedy, we’ll claim Virginia’s pup as ours once it’s born. It’s for the good of the pack." For the first time, I didn’t cry or argue. I simply nodded, my expression blank. Marcelo seemed almost pleased by my compliance, offering a rare moment of false kindness.