Pregnant by the Enemy Alpha

CHAPTER 3

I tell my parents because that’s what I’ve been trained to do, because in this pack honesty is framed as loyalty and silence is treated like guilt, and because some part of me still believes that if I follow the rules closely enough, they’ll protect me the way they’re supposed to.

I shower first, slower than usual, standing under the water while I rehearse the words in my head over and over again, trying to find a version that sounds less like a detonation and more like a statement of fact. I wash my hair carefully, rinse until my skin feels too warm, then step out and dress in clothes that don’t draw attention, smoothing fabric, tucking loose strands of hair back like presentation might somehow soften what I’m about to say.

“Just say it,” I mutter to my reflection. “Say it and stop dragging it out.”

The walk to my parents’ sitting room feels longer than it ever has, every step echoing too loudly in my ears, and I already know my brothers are inside before I even reach the door, because I can hear Levi’s voice and Lincoln’s quieter replies, familiar sounds that usually ground me.

They both look up when I step in.

“Why do you look like that,” Lincoln asks, halfway out of his chair already.

Levi straightens from where he’s leaning against the wall, his expression sharpening instantly. “What’s wrong?”

“I need to talk to you,” I say, and my voice doesn’t shake, which feels like an accomplishment. “All of you.”

Levi and Lincoln exchange a look, then nod, and Lincoln moves to open the door wider just as our parents enter, my father first, as always, posture straight, presence filling the room without effort, my mother at his side, composed and silent, hands folded neatly in front of her.

They take their seats without comment.

I stay standing.

For a moment, no one speaks, and the quiet stretches thin enough that I can feel my heartbeat in my throat.

“I’m pregnant,” I say finally.

The words land heavily, like they hit the floor and don’t bounce.

Levi swears under his breath immediately. “What the f**k?”

Lincoln is on his feet in an instant, crossing the room toward me. “Monroe,” he says sharply. “Are you serious?”

“Yes,” I say. “I’m sure.”

Levi’s eyes are already scanning me, checking for injuries, for signs of something else. “Did someone hurt you?”

“No,” I answer quickly. “Nothing like that.”

Lincoln exhales hard. “Then how.”

I open my mouth, close it, then force myself to speak. “It was a mistake.”

“A mistake,” Levi repeats, disbelief creeping into his voice. “You don’t just make a mistake like this.”

“I did,” I say, and that part is true, even if it’s incomplete.

My father hasn’t moved. He hasn’t spoken. He hasn’t even shifted in his chair. He’s watching me with an intensity that feels measured rather than emotional, like I’m something he’s assessing rather than reacting to.

“And the father,” he says calmly. “Who is he?”

The question tightens something in my chest.

“I don’t know,” I say.

Lincoln frowns. “You don’t know.”

“I don’t,” I repeat. “I don’t even remember his last name.”

That’s not entirely true, but it’s close enough to pass, and the real truth stays locked behind my teeth where it belongs, because saying that he’s an Alpha from another pack would turn this into something bigger, something political, something I can’t survive.

Levi runs a hand through his hair, frustration clear. “Monroe, think. If we know who he is, we can talk to him. We can fix this.”

“There’s nothing to fix,” I snap before I can stop myself. “It’s done.”

My father lifts one hand then, not toward me, but toward my brothers, a subtle motion that stills them instantly.

“Enough,” he says. “Let her speak.”

I swallow and force myself to continue. “It was one night. I made a mistake. That’s all there is to it.”

“And you expect us to believe that,” Lincoln says quietly, hurt threading through his voice.

“I expect you to accept it,” I reply.

My mother still hasn’t said a word. She sits beside my father, eyes forward, expression composed, like she’s watching something distant rather than her daughter unravel in front of her. I glance at her, searching for something, anything, but she doesn’t look back.

“You’re seventeen,” Lincoln says, his voice softer now. “You can’t do this alone.”

“I won’t be alone,” I say automatically, even though the words feel hollow as soon as they leave my mouth.

Levi steps in front of me then, placing himself between me and our parents like he’s done since we were kids. “This isn’t happening,” he says firmly. “You’re not throwing her out. You’re not even considering it.”

My father doesn’t look at him. His gaze stays fixed on me.

“This is not about punishment,” he says evenly. “Or morality.”

Something cold settles in my stomach.

“It is about order,” he continues. “About stability. About perception.”

Lincoln stares at him. “She’s your daughter.”

“And she is pregnant,” my father replies calmly. “Unmated. Unbound. Carrying uncertainty into a pack that cannot afford it.”

I flinch. “I’m not uncertainty.”

“You are,” he says without hesitation, “because your situation introduces variables we cannot control.”

Levi turns on him, fury sharp in his voice. “She’s family.”

“Our pack is family,” the Alpha replies. “And family requires sacrifice.”

The words land harder than anything else has.

I finally understand then that this conversation was never about helping me, or protecting me, or even punishing me. It’s about containment. About removing a problem cleanly before it spreads.

“You’re talking like she’s a threat,” Lincoln says, voice shaking now.

“I am talking like a leader,” my father replies. “And leaders make difficult decisions.”

My mother still says nothing.

I turn to her fully then. “Mom,” I say quietly. “Please.”

For a moment, I think she might respond. Her fingers tighten slightly in her lap, and her jaw shifts, but when she finally speaks, her voice is soft and distant.

“This is your father’s decision,” she says. “And I stand with my mate.”

The room feels suddenly too small, too tight, like the walls are pressing in.

Levi looks like he might explode. “You’re both insane,” he says. “You can’t do this.”

“I can,” my father replies calmly. “And I will.”

I feel oddly detached as he continues, explaining it like a logistical necessity rather than a sentence.

“You will be exiled,” he says. “Quietly. Without ceremony. This is not a punishment. It is a removal of risk.”

Exile.

The word echoes through me, hollow and final.

Lincoln turns toward me, horror written across his face. “No,” he says. “No, that’s not happening.”

“It is,” my father replies. “And it will happen quickly.”

I don’t cry. I don’t scream. I don’t even argue.

I just stand there, very still, because something inside me has gone quiet in a way that feels permanent, and I understand with brutal clarity that nothing I say now will change this.

The decision has already been made.

And I am no longer part of it.