"I'm pregnant," I whispered to the empty room, clutching the positive test while my husband zipped up his brother's widow's dress in the next room.
It was our one-year anniversary. I had spent weeks stitching a shirt for Alaric, hoping he’d remember me. Instead, I found him with Tazira. He didn't just ignore me; he looked at me with cold disgust, as if I were the dirt beneath his boots.
"I want her," he had claimed a year ago. Now, he only wanted to hurt me. He forced himself on me, using my body like a vessel for his rage, then left me bleeding on the couch to comfort her.
When the fire started—lit by Tazira’s own hand—I was tied up, suffocating in smoke. I screamed for him. I begged him to save our unborn pup. He burst through the door, looked me dead in the eyes... and turned away. He scooped Tazira up and carried her to safety, leaving me to burn.
That was the moment I died. Not physically, but my heart turned to ash. Through the roaring flames, I forced the bond to snap. "I, Elowen, reject you, Alaric Veylor."
He thinks I’m dead. He thinks he’s free to marry her. But I survived. And when I return, carrying the blood of a Queen he never knew existed, he will kneel in the ashes of his regret.
