Darius turned away, jaw clenched so tight a muscle ticked in his cheek. His blood-red eyes stared at nothing, cold and vacant. The silence he offered was louder than a roar.
"Take it away."
The word daughter didn't register. That child—it—was a thief. She had stolen Mariam's life, torn the light out of Darius's world before even drawing her first breath.
And so he left. He walked out of the chamber, the scent of blood clinging to his clothes like guilt, and never once looked back at the child he refused to claim. The proud warrior who had once led armies didn't even have the strength to hold his own flesh and blood.
In the days that followed, he didn't speak of her. Didn't ask if she had survived the night, if she had opened her eyes, or if she looked like Mariam. The pain festered like a wound left untreated, and Darius drank to numb it, fought to escape it, and let darkness bloom inside him.
To him, the baby was not a blessing—it was a thief. A cruel reminder of what he'd lost. Every time she cried, he heard Mariam's screams. Every time she opened her eyes, all he could see was the woman he could not save.
He hated the child.
Not because she had done anything wrong—but because she existed. Because she had survived when Mariam hadn't. He did not know how to hold her. He refused to name her.
Extend
The pack mourned Mariam, but they mourned Darius more.
He was still alive, yes—but hollowed out, like a warrior cursed to wander without a soul. The halls of his once-proud estate echoed with silence, thick and heavy. Servants tiptoed. The midwives who cared for the child avoided him altogether, fearful that his rage might finally spill over onto the infant he refused to acknowledge.
The nursery remained untouched by a father's love—no lullabies, no warm embraces, no whispered promises. Only the soft sounds of an abandoned child and the ever-present scent of ash and whiskey.
Christopher, his alpha and closest friend, tried to intervene. He spoke to Darius gently at first, then with rising frustration, but the man who had once stood at his side through wars was gone.
"She's your daughter, Darius. She needs you."
"She took her from me."
"You know that's not true."
But Darius would only laugh—bitter, broken, dangerous. "She's a curse. A punishment. Let the gods raise her, then. I owe her nothing."
And so the child grew in the shadows of her father's hatred.
Nameless. Unwanted. Alone.
Her crib sat near the window, and sometimes, when the moonlight fell just right, it looked like she was reaching for something—anything—to hold onto.
But the only thing that ever reached back was silence.
Christopher, Alpha of the Golden Moon Pack and Darius's closest friend, watched with mounting concern. Darius wasn't just any warrior—he was his Beta, his brother-in-arms, the man who had once vowed to lay down his life for him and the pack. But now, he was a shadow of that man. Broken. Dangerous.
Christopher's instincts screamed at him: Darius couldn't raise a child. He could barely take care of himself.
So, one quiet evening, after watching Darius stumble out of the training yard reeking of whiskey and grief, Christopher turned to the one person whose judgment he trusted above all—his wife, Aurora.
"I'm worried about him," he said, his voice low, jaw tight. "He's spiraling. This isn't just about losing Mariam anymore—he's drowning, and he's dragging that little girl down with him."
Aurora set her cup of tea down, her expression darkening with concern.
"He hasn't even named her," she said softly. "Did you know that? It's been weeks. That baby doesn't even have a name."
Christopher nodded. "He doesn't see her as his. He's hurting—I get that. But if this goes on much longer, he's going to destroy her. She needs warmth, love, and stability. And he's..."
"He's grieving," Aurora finished gently. "But that child deserves more than to grow up in the shadow of that grief. If Darius can't give her what she needs... someone has to."
"I'm not saying we take her away from him," Christopher said quickly, though the thought had crossed his mind more than once. "But he needs help. Structure. Maybe someone else to care for her—at least for now. Maybe we talk to the elders and ask if they can step in until he's ready."
Aurora sighed. "They won't agree to that. Not unless they see him as a threat to the pack—or to himself—and if we take it to the elders, he would lose everything, including his position. He is your best friend."
Christopher rubbed a hand over his face. "Then maybe it's time I stop being his friend... and start being his Alpha."
Aurora, still weak from childbirth but burning with maternal instinct, watched the small, wailing bundle in her mate's arms with a growing sense of dread, her heart hurting for the newborn that was Darius's daughter.
Aurora and Marcus decided to pay Darius a much-needed visit. The man—once proud and powerful—looked utterly broken, unable to stand the sight of his newborn daughter without trembling in rage. Yes, he lost Mariam, but that little girl also lost her mother. His eyes, once grey and full of molten flame, were now glassy and red-rimmed, staring blankly at the child that had survived where Mariam had not.
She exchanged a look with her husband, Alpha Christopher Valen. He knew what she was about to say before she said it, but she said it anyway—softly, urgently, a mother to a father, a Luna to her Beta.
"Let me raise her," Aurora whispered, reaching out to touch the child's tiny hand. "Please. You're his Beta. His friend. And I—I can't bear to see a child suffer for something she didn't choose. Mariam was my close friend, you know, and it would be an honor to raise her daughter."
Christopher hesitated. It wasn't tradition. It wasn't protocol. But when he looked at Darius—the hollow shell of the man he used to call brother—he knew this wasn't about tradition anymore. It was about saving what remained.
Darius didn't argue. He didn't weep. He simply handed over the child, not even glancing down at her face, glad to finally be rid of it. "Do what you want with her," he muttered, his voice raw. "She took everything from me." The word was laced with so much venom that Aurora cringed inwardly, she knew it was just the pain talking and didn't comment on it, so as not to rile him up even more.