"Let's cut ties here."
The words slammed through the corridor like a death knell. Silence followed—thick, absolute—Bernard's dominance shattered beneath Adriel's unyielding roar.
But in that silence, another sound cut through.
A sharp gasp.
Eren staggered, his hand flying to his stomach, pain rippling through him with sudden, merciless force. His knees buckled, and only Adriel's grip kept him from collapsing.
"Eren!" Adriel's voice snapped, raw and panicked, his dominance vanishing in an instant as his focus narrowed to the trembling body in his arms. The faint, coppery tang of blood threaded the air, sickening and wrong.
Adriel's heart plummeted. The baby.
Eren clung to him, shaking, breath coming in shallow bursts. His lips moved soundlessly at first before he forced a whisper past the pain. "It…hurts…"
Terror coiled in Adriel's gut, colder than any rage. Bernard's venomous assault, his crushing pheromones, had struck deeper than flesh or pride—it had reached the fragile life within.
Adriel scooped Eren into his arms, fury and fear warring in his chest. "Hold on. I won't let anything happen to you. To either of you."
Behind them, Bernard stood frozen, his triumph curdled into something darker. For the first time, his weapon had struck not his son, but the unborn heir—and the weight of that act hung heavy, undeniable.
Adriel didn't look back. With Eren trembling against him, he carried his mate away, every step fueled not by rage now, but by desperation.
The battle with Bernard could wait. The fight for Eren—and their child—could not.
Adriel carried Eren through the sterile halls like a man possessed, his arms tight, his steps pounding with dread. Eren's breaths came ragged against his chest, each one shallower than the last, his body trembling violently. The copper tang of blood was sharp, staining the air with every stride.
When Adriel burst through the hospital doors, his voice cracked with desperation.
"Somebody help us!"
Doctors and nurses rushed forward, a gurney wheeled out in a blur of metal and white coats. Adriel laid Eren down, his hands shaking, and instantly hands were on him—checking his vitals, barking orders, pushing Adriel back.
"Blood pressure's crashing—get him on fluids now!"
"Fetal monitor—hurry!"
Eren's hand flailed until it found Adriel's, clutching with startling strength. His eyes—wide, wet, terrified—locked on Adriel's face.
"Don't leave me," he whispered, voice fraying with pain.
Adriel bent low, his lips brushing Eren's temple. "I'm right here," he swore, gripping tight, refusing to let go even as nurses tried to pry him back. His dominance was ragged, unstable, no longer a weapon but a frantic shield. "I'm not leaving you, Eren. I promise."
Then the monitors shrieked, filling the room with a shrill, merciless sound. Doctors moved quickly, sharp orders snapping like whips.
"Heartbeat is decelerating—faster, faster!"
"Too much blood loss—"
"We're losing the baby—"
The words hit harder than any blow. Adriel's chest went hollow, a brutal silence roaring in his ears.
And then it was over. The monitors steadied, but the smaller sound—the fragile second heartbeat—was gone.
The doctor's words lingered in the sterile air: "The child couldn't be saved."
Eren's broken sob tore through the silence, raw and unbearable. His hand clutched at Adriel's chest, his entire body trembling as grief hollowed him out. "No… no, please…" His voice cracked, small and desperate, as though denial alone could call the child back.
Adriel held him tightly, his chest heaving. He had thought he could weather anything—his father's fury, Claude's venom, the endless weight of legacy. But this—this helplessness—struck deeper than any wound. His arms tightened around Eren, but no strength in his body could shield him from this.
When the doctors and nurses quietly excused themselves, leaving the monitors humming in the background, silence fell heavy. It was then, alone, that Adriel felt the burn in his throat, the heat blurring his vision. He tried to choke it down, to steady himself for Eren's sake—but the dam broke. Silent at first, then ragged, his breath hitched, and a single tear slid down his cheek. Then another.
An Alpha's tears.
Adriel bowed his head against Eren's shoulder, his body shaking as grief wrenched through him, raw and unguarded. His tears mingled with Eren's, unseen by anyone else in the world.
Eren felt it—the tremor in his Alpha's chest, the wetness against his skin. His sobs faltered, not with relief, but with the shock of it. Adriel—his unyielding Alpha, the man who had stood against father, fiancé, legacy—was weeping with him. Not for weakness. Not for shame. But because he loved.
Eren's trembling hand rose, fisting in Adriel's shirt. He buried himself in that warmth, finding solace in the proof that he wasn't alone—that the loss was theirs, not his to bear alone.
When at last Adriel lifted his head, his face was stripped bare—red-rimmed, raw with grief, yet hardened with resolve. He pressed a kiss to Eren's hair, his voice hoarse but steady.
"I will not forgive him for this," he whispered. "Not now. Not ever."
The antiseptic stung the air. The machines hummed their indifferent song. And in the quiet, unseen by anyone else, the bond between Alpha and Omega held fast—even through tears.
The hospital room was too white, too bright. Every surface seemed to mock their grief with its cold, sterile indifference. The faint hum of the monitor filled the silence, each pulse a reminder of what no longer beat within Eren.
Eren clung to Adriel as though letting go would make the loss final, unbearable. His sobs came in waves, breaking against Adriel's chest, until his throat was raw and his breath hitched like a child's.
Adriel's hand threaded through his hair again and again, a desperate rhythm without words. He did not know how to soothe him, not when he himself was drowning.
His own tears still streaked quietly, silent confessions pressed into the crook of Eren's neck where only his mate could feel them.
There were no vows of strength, no promises of hope. Not yet. Tonight, there was only grief.
Eren's fingers fisted in Adriel's shirt, pulling tighter, tighter, as though the Alpha might vanish if he loosened his hold. His voice was barely a whisper, cracked and hollow.
"Was it… my fault?"
The question shattered through Adriel like glass. He pulled back just enough to grip Eren's face in both hands, his own eyes wet and unflinching. "Never," he rasped, the word torn from somewhere deep and bleeding. "Do you hear me, Eren? Never. This is not you. It will never be you."
Eren's lip trembled, another sob wracking his fragile frame, but Adriel held on. He kissed the dampness on Eren's cheeks, the corners of his eyes, as if trying to erase every tear with his own.
They stayed like that, bound together in a silence made heavy by loss. Outside the door, the world went on—footsteps in the hall, pages turning at a nurse's station—but none of it could breach the cocoon of their sorrow.
For the first time in his life, Adriel had no shield, no dominance, no answer. Only tears. Only the weight of his Omega in his arms, and the hollow space where their child should have been.
And still, he held on. Because even in grief—especially in grief—letting go was unthinkable.
The room was heavy with silence, broken only by the sound of their ragged breaths. Time had lost meaning—minutes blurred into hours, marked not by clocks but by the rise and fall of sobs, the tightening and loosening of trembling hands.
Eren's tears ebbed into quiet hiccups, his body weak, spent from grief. He clung still, though his strength was fading, his fingers lax but unwilling to release Adriel's shirt. His lashes, damp with sorrow, fluttered against his cheeks.
Adriel's arms never wavered. He rocked him faintly, unconsciously, as though gentling something fragile and broken. His own tears had dried, leaving only the burn of them, but his chest was hollow, raw. He pressed his lips to Eren's hair, whispering nothing—just the sound of his breath, steady, anchoring.
Eventually, exhaustion conquered them both. Eren sagged into Adriel's hold, sleep stealing him away, his grip loosening at last though his body stayed pressed against his Alpha's chest.
Adriel followed soon after, though he fought it, afraid to surrender, afraid to wake and find it all too real. But weariness won. His head bowed, cheek resting against Eren's crown, his arms tightening reflexively even in sleep.
In the quiet hum of the hospital night, beneath the indifferent glow of fluorescent light, they slept in each other's arms. Not healed. Not whole. Only surviving, clinging to one another in the hollow left behind.
And for this night, that was enough.