IVY'S POV

I slipped out of the underground medical bay with Ronan's dark tactical jacket folded over my arm before the morning maintenance crews unlocked the main concourse gates.

Every muscle in my body throbbed with a heavy ache. My collarbone still burned from the heat of Ronan Blackwood's mouth, but my mind was completely clear.

I didn't regret walking away from Jace. After hearing him trade me to the northern coalition like a surplus asset, whatever love I had carried for him over the past three years had turned to ash.

Still, I refused to let things end in cowardice. I owed it to myself to look the betrayal in the face and give him one last chance to deny it.

I pulled out my phone and dialed his private number.

He picked up on the fourth ring.

"Ivy?" Jace's voice came through, thick with sleep and irritation. "Where the hell are you? My shoulder is locked up, and the team doctor doesn't know how to release the subscapular knot."

In the background, a woman's light laugh drifted through the receiver, followed by the rustle of silk sheets.

"Jace," I said, keeping my voice level as I walked down the empty corridor toward the dormitories. "Are you trading me to Frostpeak?"

The line went dead silent for two seconds.

"Who told you that?" he demanded, his tone sharpening.

"Answer the question."

A heavy sigh rattled through the speaker. "Miller shouldn't have brought it up before the victory gala. Look, Ivy, it's a strategic alliance. The northern coalition holds the mineral rights to the lower valley. They asked for an unbonded female with pure lineage. It’s the best move for the pack. It’s good for everyone."

"Good for everyone?" I stopped in my tracks outside the athletic center doors. "You're selling me to an enemy Alpha in exchange for supply routes, Jace. What about us? What about your promise to claim me at the gala tonight?"

"Be realistic," Jace snapped, his patience snapping. "The pack comes first. A captain has responsibilities. Sloane's father controls thirty percent of our arena revenue. An alliance with her family secures our franchise for the next decade."

"So Sloane gets the Luna title, and I get shipped out like freight."

"Sloane, give me a minute," Jace muttered away from the phone.

I heard the distinct sound of someone stretching across a mattress, followed by Sloane's sweet, smug purr. "Don't take too long, Captain. The press team needs your signature on the joint Luna announcement draft before noon."

The knife twisted in my chest, but the pain lasted only a split second before freezing into cold resolve.

"We're done, Jace," I said. "Don't ever contact me again."

"Stop being dramatic," Jace scoffed, entirely unbothered. "You're an Omega. You're emotional because of the tournament stress. Go back to your quarters, rest, and set up my pre-gala recovery table. We'll talk about your relocation terms after the season wraps up."

"There's nothing to talk about."

"Ivy, don't test me," he warned, his Alpha authority lacing his words. "You work for the Ironfang medical staff. You do what I say. Be in my suite by two."

I hung up on him.

I walked straight into the medical administration wing, scanned my badge, and opened the league management portal.

Without hesitating, I pulled up my contract. I had two weeks of accrued leave and an open resignation clause due to unpaid overtime. I typed in my departure notice, stamped it with my digital medical seal, and sent it directly to the pack commissioner's inbox.

Next, I opened Jace's private profile.

For three years, I had maintained a customized rehabilitation protocol for him. His team physicians knew the diagnoses, but no one else knew the exact routine that kept his severe meniscus tear and chronic nerve entrapment under control. I had spent hours every night massaging the scar tissue, applying specialized herbal poultices, and manipulating his joints so he could stay functional through the league's mandatory physicals.

The team physicians thought he was a medical marvel. They thought his body was indestructible.

I selected his treatment schedule, revoked my private protocol access, and transferred the encrypted treatment logs to the team compliance archive.

If he wanted to be the great Ironfang MVP with Sloane by his side, he could survive on the ice without my hands keeping him intact.

I went up to the third-floor staff dorms and dragged my single duffel bag from beneath the bed. I packed my clothes, my medical reference books, and my certifications. Everything Jace had ever bought me—the team jackets, the jewelry, the flowers from last year's finals—I dumped into the trash bin by the door.

A sharp knock sounded against the wooden frame.

I zipped my bag and looked up. A junior courier from the front office stood in the hallway, holding a thick manila folder stamped with the official wax seal of the pack board.

"Miss Ivy?" the boy asked nervously. "Pack Owner Miller asked me to deliver your transfer package. He said the captain wanted you to have the formal documentation before the press conference."

"Leave it on the desk," I said.

The courier set the folder down and quickly stepped out.

I walked over and picked up the packet. Inside was a formal transfer contract addressed to the Frostpeak Alpha, detailing my lineage, my medical qualifications, and the terms of my permanent relocation to the northern territory.

My eyes dropped to the bottom of the page.

The signature line wasn't blank. Jace's sharp, familiar handwriting was scrawled across the captain's authorization block.

Beside his signature was the date stamp: *Six weeks ago.*

A bitter chill rushed through my veins.

He hadn't made this deal last night under pressure from the board. He hadn't been forced into anything. He had finalized the sale of my life over a month ago, all while kissing my forehead in the locker room and telling me we were going to build a home together after the Founders Cup.

I slid the papers into my personnel folder, picked up my duffel bag, and walked out the door.

I dropped my security badge into the drop box at the front gate, walked past the arena security checkpoint, and flagged a private cab toward the city limits.

***

RONAN'S POV

Across the district line, inside the fortified command compound of the Blackridge territory, the air in the war room was thick with tension.

I sat at the head of the steel conference table, my black tactical shirt unbuttoned at the neck, revealing the fresh, neat sutures holding my torn flank together.

"The arena skirmish is contained, Commander," my second-in-command reported, setting a tablet on the table. "Ironfang security suppressed the concourse footage. But our intelligence team pulled the identity of the medic who treated you in the lower bunker."

I looked up, my amber eyes catching the harsh fluorescent lights. "Who is she?"

"Her name is Ivy," the officer replied. "Head physical therapist for Ironfang's primary roster. Officially unbonded, but our sources inside the arena confirm she has been Jace's private companion for the past three seasons."

I went dead quiet. My jaw tightened as the memory of her scent—sweet, raw, and completely unmasked—flashed through my mind.

"Where is she now?" I asked, my voice low and dangerous.

"She's gone," the officer said. "Twenty minutes ago, she submitted an immediate resignation to the Ironfang medical board and cleared out her quarters. Jace has four squads tearing through the arena looking for her, but she vanished off the grid."

I reached into my pocket and pulled out the small, discarded scent patch I had taken from the medical bay floor. The faint trace of her lavender-and-cedar pheromones lingered against my palm.

"She won't leave the medical field," I said, my fingers closing around the patch. "Run her credentials through every independent rehabilitation clinic and regional trauma outpost accepting Ironfang transfers. Find her before Jace does."

IVY'S POV

The dry heave hit before my feet even touched the hardwood floor.

I barely made it to the bathroom of my new studio apartment, gripping the porcelain bowl as my stomach emptied itself into nothing. Sweat gathered at my temples, cold and sharp.

For the past three weeks, every Alpha who walked into the Apex Sports Rehabilitation Center made my stomach turn. A patient would come in with a torn hamstring, smelling of standard cedar or musk, and I’d have to step into the hallway just to keep from throwing up.

Worse than the nausea was the restlessness.

Every night, I tossed and turned in pure agony until I reached into my closet, pulled out the heavy tactical jacket I had grabbed during my escape from the arena, and buried my face in the collar. The dark scent of winter pine and crushed slate settled my racing pulse instantly. The moment I held Ronan Blackwood’s jacket against my chest, my body relaxed, and I slept like dead weight.

I knew what it looked like, but I had refused to admit it until I sat on the examination table in the private clinic after hours.

"Take a look," Dr. Sarah Evans said, pointing the ultrasound wand at the small monitor.

A tiny, pulsing flutter showed up on the gray screen, steady and impossibly strong.

"You’re eleven weeks along," Sarah said, wiping the gel off my stomach. "The pup's heartbeat is already measuring at Alpha-tier resonance."

I stared at the screen, my throat tight. "Eleven weeks."

"Which puts conception right around the Founders Cup final," she said gently, pulling her gloves off with a snap. "Ivy, standard one-night encounters resulting in a pregnancy aren't rare among wolves. But the severe scent dependency you described? The fact that you can't sleep without his clothing?"

"My hormones are unbalanced from leaving Ironfang," I said, pulling my shirt down.

"That's not hormonal imbalance," Sarah countered, leaning against the counter. "That kind of biological dependence only happens when two wolves have an extraordinary bond compatibility. Ninety-nine percent or higher. You're carrying a true mate's child. If you don't get his scent directly from him soon, your body is going to exhaust itself trying to sustain the pup."

"I don't need him," I said, sitting up.

"Ivy, being stubborn won't stop the biological strain."

"I spent three years letting an Alpha dictate my career and my future," I said, looking her dead in the eye. "Jace treated me like a pawn he could trade away the second a better offer showed up. I am not trading one Alpha's cage for another. This baby is mine. My choice. My responsibility. I'm not chasing down Ronan Blackwood to beg for handouts."

Sarah studied my face for a long second, then sighed. "Fine. But you need to take it easy. No heavy lifting, no high-impact trauma calls."

"Understood," I said.

That promise lasted exactly five days.

On Friday night, Apex was contracted to provide emergency medical support for the inter-district playoff match between Ironfang and Blackridge. With two senior medics out with the flu, Sarah called me into the mobile arena unit.

I stood in the tunnel behind the glass partition, the roar of the arena washing over me in waves of hostile energy. Even through the heavy industrial air filters, the scent of fifty wolves on ice was suffocating.

On the rink, the game had turned into a bloodbath.

Ironfang was down by two goals in the third period. Jace was playing reckless, his movements slightly off-balance—proof that his shoulder and knee hadn't received the specialized care I used to give him every night. His eyes were wild with frustration.

Across from him, Ronan Blackwood moved like a predator on open ground. He dominated the neutral zone, his massive frame shielding the puck with effortless authority.

Jace saw his opening.

As Ronan pivoted near the boards to clear the puck, Jace launched himself forward, leading with his elbow and driving his full weight directly into Ronan's left flank—the exact spot where the claw wounds had barely finished healing three months ago.

The collision sounded like a gunshot against the Plexiglas.

Ronan hit the boards hard, his skates flying out from under him as his body slammed onto the ice. He didn't bounce back up. He stayed flat on his back, one arm clutching his ribs as the referee blew the whistle frantically.

My medical instincts moved before my brain could stop them.

I grabbed the trauma pack from the bench, shoved open the side gate, and stepped onto the slick ice. The cold air bit at my cheeks as I hurried across the red line and dropped to my knees beside him.

"Commander, stay down," I ordered, setting my kit on the ice. "Do not rotate your torso."

I reached out, pressing my fingers against the side of his neck to check his carotid pulse.

Ronan's eyelids snapped open.

His molten amber eyes locked onto mine. For a fraction of a second, his pupils expanded until the gold was nearly swallowed whole. He inhaled sharply through his nose, drawing in the sweet lavender scent that my blockers could no longer fully suppress.

Recognition flared across his hard features.

Then, his gaze dropped to my throat, down to my chest, and lower. His nostrils flared again as his inner wolf caught the distinct, undeniable second layer of scent radiating from my core.

His own Alpha aura, blooming inside another life.

"You," Ronan rumbled, his voice rough as gravel.

Before he could say another word, the ice behind us erupted in chaos.

A Blackridge defenseman had tackled Jace for the dirty hit, and the entire neutral zone devolved into a brawl. Players threw gloves, slamming against the boards. A towering Ironfang winger lost his footing in the scuffle and was shoved backward at full speed, tumbling directly toward where I was kneeling on the ice.

Ronan moved with terrifying speed.

Ignoring the pain in his flank, he caught my waist with an iron grip and yanked me off the ice, pulling me hard into his chest. He spun his body around, taking the full impact of the falling player against his back as he hauled me over the boards and straight into the Blackridge bench.

The impact rattled the wood, but he kept his arms locked around me like steel bands, shielding me completely from the swinging sticks and flying bodies.

My hands flew up, instantly pressing against my lower abdomen to protect my stomach.

Sarah, running behind the glass with the trauma stretcher, yelled in pure terror: "Watch it! Careful! She's pregnant!"

The entire tunnel seemed to fall dead silent.

The fighting on the ice stopped. Gloves hit the ice as players separated, looking over at the bench in shock.

Jace stood twenty feet away, his helmet torn off, chest heaving. He froze, his face turning pale as his eyes locked onto my hands protecting my stomach, and then shifted to Ronan’s massive frame wrapped tightly around me.

Ronan didn't let go.

He stayed leaned over me, his face inches from mine, his dark head ducked low. His amber eyes burned with absolute certainty as his gaze shifted from my face down to my belly, feeling the resonance of his own bloodline pulsing against his chest.

"Eleven weeks?" Ronan asked, the question vibrating low and heavy against my skin.

I pressed my lips together, refusing to answer.

Out on the ice, Jace took two unsteady steps toward the bench, his eyes wide as the timeline clicked into place. His voice cracked through the silence of the arena.

"That was the night she left me."