The Rejected Wolfless Returns As The Masked Surgeon

Kaela POV:

The night my family tried to kill me started with my stepmother telling my mother she had filth in her blood.

"A Rogue is a Rogue, Genevieve. You can wear silk, but you can't wash it out."

My mother stood in the center of our living room, her face drained of color, her knuckles white at her sides. And Ethelene Hicks, the woman my father had installed in my mother's place, stood before the fireplace with a smile that made the air feel like glass about to shatter.

I had just walked in, hoping for a quiet moment with my mother before the evening meal. Instead, I found this. The same scene, different day.

Ethelene's eyes, cold as chips of ice, flickered to me. Her smile widened.

"And you," she said, loud enough for the servants to hear, "are the unfortunate proof. A wolfless daughter. The perfect stain to complete the picture of your mother's garbage bloodline."

The words landed like a fist. Wolfless. Garbage. Stain. I had heard them since I was old enough to understand language. Ethelene's cruelty was repetitive and relentless, designed to grind you down until you forgot you had ever been anything but a thing to be despised. But I hadn't forgotten. Not yet.

The fire in my stomach roared into an inferno.

I crossed the rug in three quick strides and put myself between them, shielding my mother with my body. "Stop it." My voice shook with rage. "She is my mother. And she is the Alpha's chosen mate."

A light, musical laugh echoed from the grand staircase.

"Oh, little sister." Isabell descended like a queen in her flowing silk gown. Her nails were painted pearl-white-the exact shade my mother used to wear, before Ethelene took that from her too. "Such a temper. So unbecoming."

My half-sister. Perfect, beautiful, venomous as a snake.

Ethelene puffed out her chest. "See? A daughter should show respect. You are a disgrace, Kaela."

"You're not my mother. You have no right to lecture me."

Isabell glided to Ethelene's side, placing a comforting hand on her arm. Her eyes, fixed on me, were sharp and analytical-a predator scanning for weakness. Her gaze swept over me, then narrowed, lingering on my midsection.

"Sister, I'm only worried about you," she said, her tone dripping with false concern. "You've been dressing so differently these past few months. All these loose clothes. And the way you move-so careful, like you're protecting something fragile." Her smile sharpened. "Is there something you want to tell us?"

Cold dread washed over me. She had been watching me for months. The loose tunics. The layers. The binding I wrapped around my ribs every morning before anyone woke, pulling it tight enough to flatten the growing curve. All of it, seen. All of it, catalogued.

Without thinking, my hand flew to my stomach. Something tightened low in my belly-a cramp of pure fear, or the life inside me curling inward as if it knew danger was near.

A fatal mistake.

Isabell's eyes lit up with triumph. She brought a hand to her mouth, her gasp theatrically loud. "Oh my goddess, sister... you couldn't be..."

Ethelene understood immediately. "Brenda!"

The burly servant straightened. "Check her. Now."

"No! Don't you dare touch me!"

But my body was weak. The morning sickness of the early months had passed, replaced by a bone-aching exhaustion that made my limbs feel like they were carrying stones. I was no match for Brenda, a warrior-class wolf.

She grabbed my wrist. Her other hand shot toward my stomach. I twisted, fabric tore, a button popped off.

The garment fell open. The binding was exposed-the long strip of linen I had wound around my ribs so many times it had left grooves in my skin. Brenda tore at it, and the fabric gave way.

My belly spilled free. Swollen and round and undeniable. Seven months of hidden life, exposed to the cold air and colder eyes.

Silence.

A thick, suffocating silence. Every eye-Ethelene's, Isabell's, the servants'-nailed to my stomach.

A soft, choked sound came from behind me. My mother made a little whimpering noise, like a dying animal.

"Seven months," Isabell breathed. For a fraction of a second, something almost like respect flickered in her eyes. Then it was gone, swallowed by cold, glittering triumph. "Does Preston know you're carrying another man's child?"

Preston. My fiancé. The future Alpha of the Silvermoon Pack.

"Scandal!" Ethelene shrieked. "This is the greatest scandal to ever befall the Stonefang Pack! A whore carrying a bastard in her belly!"

My face went bone-white. I tried to reach my father through the mind-link, but it was dead. Blocked. They had planned this.

Isabell stepped close, her perfume cloying. "You're just like your filthy Rogue mother," she whispered against my ear. "Born to roll in the mud."

Then she straightened, her face a mask of sorrow. "Mother, we have to tell Father. We can't let her ruin our family's name."

Two more servants grabbed my arms. I was trapped.

"Lock her in the basement," Ethelene commanded. "She will wait there for the Alpha's judgment."

"No! Kaela!" My mother lunged forward, but Holly blocked her path. Genevieve's sobs echoed as she called my name.

I was dragged backward. My eyes locked with Isabell's. No pretense now. Only pure, venomous triumph.

The cellar door swung open. Damp, musty air washed over me.

They shoved me forward. I stumbled, my bare feet hitting cold stone, and tumbled down, landing in a heap on the packed-earth floor.

A sharp, cramping pain shot through my abdomen. I curled into a ball, my hands cradling my belly. My baby.

Isabell stood at the top of the stairs, a dark silhouette against the light. "Enjoy yourself, dear sister. This is only the beginning."

The iron door slammed shut.

The lock grated.

And my world plunged into absolute darkness, and cold.