THE BIRTH

ZAILA

Eight months later

Ten hours and thirty minutes of pure agony and no comfort, not even from the midwives.

They were nothing but rude and mean, telling me to quit crying as I begged them to make the pain stop.

I had never felt so vulnerable or alone as when I was in labor.

It was hard enough to grow up with the expectations of being the Alpha’s daughter, but then I got pregnant, shunned, and stripped of my title. All for one night.

That one night turned my life upside down. How could he throw away his flesh and blood, his own daughter, over her falling pregnant?

How could anything so tiny and sweet be called a mistake? Hearing the nurse come in, I look up. She grabs my chart from the end of the bed, looking it over before eyeing me.

Glasses teeter on the end of her upturned nose. No one tries to hide their disgust; everyone looks down on me because I had a child with someone who isn’t my mate.

That much is evident, that I have no mate because where is he? Not here beside me like the rest of those new mothers on the ward.

“You really have no idea who the father is?” she asks, clicking her tongue.

I know exactly who the father is, but the last thing I need is for him to hunt me down.

He didn’t even remember me. Doesn’t help that he's a rival pack Alpha. It's just easier pretending I don’t know.

The shame I have brought my family for being pregnant is bad enough; my father would have killed me for the disrespect of foolishly getting into bed with the Blood Alpha.

I watch the nurse flick her red curly hair over her shoulder.

“He is cute; shame his mother is a whore,” she sneers, and I see the points of her canines pressing beneath her gums as they protrude past her lips. “Can I get some Tylenol?” I ask, ignoring her comment. I'm feeling a headache coming on.

Besides,I've received multiple comments along the same lines since being here—I don’t feel the need to defend myself; there is no point.

Nothing I say will make them look at me any differently. “Sorry, can’t. It is not on your charts,” she says.

“It’s Tylenol. It’s not like I am asking for morphine,” I tell her. “Doesn’t matter.

It isn’t on your charts, so you will have to go without,” she says, dropping the chart on the table beside me.

Most women heal directly after giving birth, but I haven’t shifted yet, so I have no such healing ability.

“Can I get something to eat at least?” I ask her. I am starving, and breastfeeding is making me ravenous.“

You came into the maternity ward after the dinner rounds, and breakfast is at 7 a.m.,” she tells me. I look at the clock and see it is only just after 8 p.m. I nod, knowing this nurse will not help in any way.

Crap, every nurse here is horrible because of my situation. Sometimes, I wish I could leave this city, pretend to be human, and just go about my life with my son.

The nurse leaves, stopping at the blue curtain that divides the beds.

“Did you even think of the repercussions for the father by having a child with someone who isn’t your mate?

Did you think of the poor woman who finds her mate in him and one day learns he fathered an illegitimate child to some random she-wolf?”

Little did she know that I thought of that every day since learning I was pregnant, but it was his choice, too. I fight back the tears from her words as I stare down at my amber-eyed boy; those eyes are definitely from his father, from what I can remember at least.

Mine are light bluish-gray. I've just put my son down after he fell asleep in my arms when I see a nurse walk past.

She stops and comes over to me when I wave to her.

Her uniform is different; she must be the head midwife or someone higher up on the staff list. Long, pencil-straight hair hangs to her shoulders, slightly obscuring her name tag.

I try to read the small writing under her name—Maggie—but I can't quite make it out. She must be in her mid-twenties because she seems closer to my age. Well, not really. I am barely eighteen, but still, she looks nicer than the previous nurses.

She picks up my chart, flicking through it.

“Is there somewhere I can get some water? Or maybe a cup of tea?” I ask, and she glares at me.

My stomach drops. Maybe she isn’t so lovely after all. She presses the buzzer behind my head, calling another nurse, yet she still hasn’t answered me.

My son starts to stir, and I reach over and grab him out of his crib as another nurse comes in, my stomach cramping from the sudden movement.

“Why is she in here?” the head nurse asks, making me look at her.I just had a baby.

Why else? I think to myself. The new nurse looks over at me. Her hands tremble slightly—this head midwife obviously instills fear in her colleagues. “Get her to the unmated section.

We don’t need her disturbing the mothers in this ward,” the woman says before turning her nose up at me and walking out.

Turns out, Maggie is a bitch, like the rest of them. I stare, disgusted by this hospital’s bedside manner.

The girl in the curtained-off room beside me speaks. “I knew something was up with her, Hun; her mate never visited her. No one has.

Now I know why,” she says to her mate. She's right. We are allowed one person with us constantly while inhere.

The girl next to me, her mate hasn’t left her side since I got here.

The person across from me had multiple people come in during the night, and her mate also hasn’t left.

I try to ignore their mates gushing over them and tending to their every need while I sit here, getting nothing but sneers and judgment.

The bed moves as the nurse begins rolling me out of the room. Because I am sitting upright, I have to grab the bar that runs along the side to stop from falling back.

She wheels me through the maternity ward before going down a corridor; I appear to be leaving the maternity unit altogether.

The nurse finally stops at a curtained-off area and places the bed against the wall. The woman then turns on her heel and leaves.

“Wait, can I get some water?” But she has already gone and didn’t even acknowledge my question.

“I wouldn’t bother. They won’t help us,” comes a voice before someone jerks the partitioning curtain away to reveal two other girls.

One looks to be in her mid-twenties with long, curly dark hair and sparkling green eyes.

The other girl is around sixteen, with her dark blonde hair tied into a messy bun on top of her head.

“My name is Mirabel,” the oldest of them says. “Hi. Zaila,” I reply. “Her name is Zara. Welcome to the shunned mothers club,” Mirabel chuckles before looking down ather baby. She sighs heavily.

“Don’t expect them to help; they won’t. Seriously, you’re best off getting out as soon as you can,” Mirabel tells me. “But they are supposed to,” I tell her, feeling disheartened.

“Yeah, I have been here two days; baby has a few problems. Half the time, they don’t answer when I buzz, and forget about them feeding you.

I haven’t received anything since being here,” Mirabel explains before reaching to the foot of her bed and pulling a bag toward her.

She rummages through it before pulling out a granola bar.

“Here. You must be starving. I was, and I came prepared expecting this,” Mirabel explains.

“You had a baby before?” I ask,unable to imagine going through this again. She shakes her head.

“No, this is my first. My mom was a single mother, too. We are rogues like you,” she says. I open the granola bar, my stomach growling at the sight of food.

“Boy or girl?” I ask the younger girl, who seems rather shy. “Girl. Yours?” “Boy,” I tell her. “Thanks,” I tell Mirabel before biting into the granola bar. “Plenty in there, just help yourself.

I brought extras in case there were other girls. Which pack are you from? Your aura feels quite strong for a rogue?” she says, staring at me.

“Alpha blood,” I tell her. Her eyebrows raise in shock. “In that case, you don’t have to tell me.

I understand why you would want to keep that to yourself. Zara was born rogue—so was I,” she says, and I glance at Zara, who nods.

“If you don’t mind me asking, where are you girls living? Are there any refuges or anything for women?”

“I have a place at a refuge. But I know it’s full to capacity,” Zara says, a look of sorrow etching her face as if she wishes she could help more.

“Me? I live with my mom and my brother,” Mirabel tells me. “Where are you staying?

No family would help?” Zara asks. I shake my head.

“No. We will be alright. I will come up with something,” I tell them, hoping that will be true, though I have been living in my busted station wagon for the last eight months.

It saddens me that we are pushed aside, but the next day, both girls help me, for which I am grateful.

Mirabel continues to share her food, and she was right—not once did anyone come to check on us, no food was brought to us, nothing.

Shunned for having a baby, and we suddenly don’t matter anymore