Pregnant with the Amnesiac Alpha’s Heir

The man didn't ask many questions.

Even after waking up with no memory no name, no clue where he'd come from he didn't break or panic. No shouting.

Just silence.

Sometimes, he'd sit for hours like that, staring at nothing. Listening to sounds most people never noticed. Letting his body do the slow work of healing. 

Like a wolf torn open on the inside, but too proud to show where it hurt.

Lyra was used to patients crying out in pain, asking for help. 

But not him.

His silence wasn't weakness. 

It was strength the kind forged in hardship, not fear.

He never complained when she changed his bandages. Never flinched when her fingers brushed the tender wound at his ribs. His jaw would tighten, and once or twice, he'd close his eyes like he was trying to remember what it felt like to be whole.

"Any change?" she asked on the fifth day, kneeling beside him, balancing a tray of tea and broth.

He shook his head slowly. "Still nothing. No name. No memory. Just… pieces."

She studied him for a second. 

"Dreams?"

He nodded. "Flashes. A voice sometimes. But it's like smoke. Soon as I reach for it, it's gone."

Lyra swallowed, masking the doubt in her chest. 

"You will," she said, steady as she could manage. "It'll come back."

Even though she wasn't sure.

She'd never seen anyone heal the way he did. His injuries had been brutal deep enough to kill most. But somehow, he kept getting better. Not instantly not inhumanly fast.

Just… steady. Like his body remembered something his mind had lost. Like it knew how to survive, even if he didn't.

And through it all, he was polite. Always.

Grateful without saying much. Quiet, but never cold.

He never asked her name.

Maybe he was afraid to ask. Or maybe saying it out loud would make everything too real.

He kept a part of himself back. Always behind those golden eyes.

But Lyra didn't mind.

His quiet didn't leave her feeling alone. Somehow, it filled the room more than words ever could.

By the end of that first week, he was on his feet again.

Walking, slowly, carefully, each step steeped in pain.

But he walked and that's what mattered.

He moved like a soldier.

Not just strong but precise. Every step measured. Controlled. Even with the limp in his right leg likely still sore from the fall his back remained straight, shoulders firm. Pain didn't bend him. It sharpened him.

Lyra noticed it during one of her quiet walks in the healer's courtyard. She'd stepped out to gather herbs and saw him shifting his weight, arms steady, turning lightly on the balls of his feet.

It wasn't the movement of someone recovering.

It was instinct. A fighter's body remembering what the mind could not.

Later that evening, she mentioned it casually.

"You fight," she said, watching him sip water.

He looked up at her, something unreadable flickering across his face.

"I think so," he said after a pause. "My body remembers what my mind doesn't."

She smiled quiet, warm. "Your body remembers a lot."

His brow lifted just slightly. "Is that your healer's opinion?"

"No," she replied, standing to clear the tray. "That's just… me noticing."

He didn't answer.

But as she left the room, she caught it the faintest curve of a smile on his lips.

By the tenth day, the rumors had started.

Lyra heard them whispered just outside the healer's hall. Pack members talking a little too loud as they passed.

"He moves like a trained warrior."

"He's not limping anymore."

"Did you see him catch that crate at the market? Didn't even flinch."

"Who is he, really?"

Alpha Caelen had increased the guards—two at the door, one posted near the courtyard. 

Rynn came by more often, hovering like he had business there. But Lyra knew better.

The tension coiled around her like rope, tightening a little more with each passing day.

But inside the healer's hall, it was different.

He was still just… him. 

Quiet. 

Steady. 

Always watching, never judging.

And slowly, he started to let her in.

Not with grand gestures. Just small ones. 

The kind of trust that doesn't ask permission. It just grows.

He would nod when she entered the room. Let her touch his scars without flinching. Once, she caught him watching her hands as she ground herbs, as if mesmerized by the rhythm. Another time, she found him outside in the garden, sniffing herbs like he was trying to remember them by scent.

Something no ordinary warrior would think to do.

"I feel calmer around you," he said one day, voice low as she wrapped fresh bandages around his side. 

"Like my head doesn't hurt so much when you're near."

Lyra blinked, surprised by the honesty in his voice.

"Maybe that's my gift," she said lightly. "Calming stubborn, mysterious strangers."

And then he smiled.

Really smiled. Full and unguarded.

And something in her chest shifted.

One evening, she returned later than usual. The river trail had slowed her, and twilight was already falling over the village when she reached the healer's hall.

His bed was empty.

A flicker of panic lit up inside her until she heard it. A soft, rhythmic thud behind the hut.

She followed the sound.

There, half-hidden beneath moonlight and shadow, he stood alone moving in slow, calculated motions. His body shifted through stances low, grounded, lethal. Every movement was practiced. Precise. Not showy. Just… deadly.

Lyra froze, watching him.

His breath was steady. He moved like someone trained from youth like someone who had seen battle and survived it.

Eventually, he saw her.

He stilled.

"You shouldn't be out of bed," she said gently not scolding.

"I needed to move," he replied. "My body's restless."

She stepped closer, slowly. "You're more than just a soldier, aren't you?"

He didn't answer right away. Silence stretched between them.

Then, quietly, "I think I was something important. Before."

"You still are."

His eyes met hers. "You don't even know who I am."

"I don't need to," she whispered. "Your eyes say enough."

And they did.

Because when she looked at him, something stirred inside her.

Not fear. 

Not suspicion. 

Something like remembering a name she'd never been told.

Recognition.

Even though she still didn't know who he was.