Fated to the Mad Alpha, Pregnant with His Twins

The crimson dress clung to me like a second skin.

I stood before the floor-length mirror in Kael's suite, barely recognizing the woman staring back. The gown was cut with surgical precision—a high-collared sleeveless bodice that swept down to a pencil skirt ending just below my knees. The fabric was the color of dried blood, dark and rich and expensive in a way that made my old cardigans feel like burlap sacks. It hugged curves I'd spent three years hiding beneath oversized sweaters and Ethan's hand-me-down hoodies.

The royal handmaidens had come at dawn. Four of them. Silent and efficient, they'd stripped me of Kael's black silk shirt—Kira had keened at the loss—and worked on me for an hour. My hair, still damp from another shower, was swept into a low twist that left my neck exposed. My face had been touched with cosmetics so subtle I couldn't tell what they'd done, only that my cheekbones looked sharper and my eyes looked larger and the perpetual exhaustion that had haunted my features for years had been erased.

Look at us. Kira's voice was reverent. Look at what we actually look like when we're not dressed like a garbage bag. That Beta kept us in rags for three years because he was terrified someone would notice us.

"That's not—" I started, then stopped. Because maybe she was right.

It IS. He knew. He knew if we ever stopped hiding, someone stronger would see us. Someone better. Her presence stretched inside my chest, preening. Someone exactly like—

The suite door opened.

Kael walked in.

He was dressed in a black suit so sharp it could have drawn blood. Silver cufflinks. Black tie. His dark hair swept back from his forehead, still slightly damp, and the faint shadow of his jaw suggested he hadn't shaved since yesterday. The medical tape I'd pressed to his wound last night was invisible beneath his shirt, but I knew it was there. I knew the shape of the wound beneath it.

His golden eyes found me in the mirror.

And stopped.

Utterly. Completely. Stopped.

The air in the room thickened like honey. His jaw tightened. His pupils dilated. His hand—bare, no glove— curled into a fist at his side, and I watched his knuckles go white, then relax, then curl again. The silence stretched for three heartbeats. Five. Eight.

He's not breathing, Kira whispered. Elara, he's not BREATHING. We did that. We made the Lycan King forget to breathe.

"Your Majesty," I managed, my voice barely above a whisper. "Is the dress acceptable?"

His throat moved. A swallow. "Turn around."

I turned.

The full force of his gaze hit me like a physical blow. He didn't speak—didn't move—but the weight of his attention was a pressure against my skin, a heat that started at my collarbones and slid down my sternum, my stomach, the curve of my hips. I felt it everywhere. I felt it there, between my thighs, where a slow throb had begun the moment he walked through the door.

Kael's expression was stone. But his eyes—his eyes were molten.

"There is one more thing," he said, and his voice came out rougher than it had been last night, rougher than it had been when he was bleeding and exhausted and telling me I was the only person he trusted. "Come here."

My feet carried me forward before my brain could object.

He produced it from his pocket: a strip of black velvet, maybe half an inch wide, with a single teardrop of obsidian dangling from its center. A choker. Elegant. Expensive. Designed to sit flush against the throat.

Wolf territory.

Every wolf knew the significance of the throat. The nape. The vulnerable curve where spine met skull and gland met instinct. To cover a mate's throat was to mark them. To claim them. To announce to every other predator in the room: This one is mine.

Kael stepped behind me.

I couldn't see him anymore, but I felt him—the heat of his chest inches from my spine, the cold-forest-dark- chocolate scent of him wrapping around my shoulders. His fingers brushed my nape as he gathered the twist of my hair and lifted it aside. The touch was feather-light. Deliberate. His knuckle traced the curve of my neck from behind my ear to the knob of my spine, and I heard his breath catch.

Oh, Kira moaned. Oh, Moon above. He's going to do it. He's going to put it on us. He's MARKING us. Do you understand what that means? In front of the entire Senate? Every Alpha in that room is going to see that collar and know we belong to the King.

It's not a collar, I thought back, but my pulse was hammering so hard I could feel it in my teeth.

It IS a collar. It's the best kind of collar. It's a collar that says 'touch her and die.' Kira's presence went limp with pleasure. Lean back. Lean into him. He wants you to. I can smell how much he wants you to.

I didn't lean back. But I didn't pull away either.

Kael's arms came around me from behind, the velvet choker stretched between his hands. His chest pressed against my shoulder blades—just barely, just enough for me to feel the solid wall of muscle through his suit jacket. His breath ghosted across my ear. My temple. The side of my neck.

"Hold still," he murmured.

The velvet settled against my throat.

His fingers worked at my nape, securing the clasp with a dexterity that suggested he'd imagined doing this many times before. The obsidian rested in the hollow of my throat, cool and heavy. The velvet was snug but not tight—a constant, gentle pressure that I would feel with every breath, every swallow, every turn of my head.

Kael didn't step back immediately. His hands lingered on my shoulders. His thumb traced the edge of the choker where it met my skin, back and forth, a slow stroke that made my knees threaten to buckle.

Purrrrrrr, Kira went, and the vibration of it ran all the way down my spine.

"Now," Kael said, and his voice was a low rumble against my ear. "You are prepared."

---

The black SUV pulled up to Pack Corporation headquarters, and my stomach dropped through the floor.

I knew this building. I'd walked through its revolving doors every morning for four years. I'd brought coffee through that lobby. I'd nodded at security guards who never nodded back. I'd been discarded in that lobby, publicly, permanently, while thousands of comments scrolled past calling me worthless.

Yesterday, I'd been a Wolfless joke.

Today, the Royal Guard opened my door.

Kael stepped out first. His Alpha Aura preceded him like a shockwave—I saw it hit the glass doors before he did, saw the wolves inside stiffen and turn. He extended his hand toward me without looking back, palm up, fingers open. An expectation. A command.

I took it.

His grip closed around my fingers, firm and possessive, and he drew me out of the SUV and onto the pavement. My black heels clicked against concrete. My crimson dress caught the morning light. The velvet choker at my throat felt like a brand.

"Head up," Kael said, low and private. "At my side, you look at no one. No one looks at you."

We walked through the revolving doors.

The lobby went dead silent.

Sixty, seventy wolves—executives, assistants, security personnel, the same people who'd laughed at me two days ago, the same people who'd watched Ethan kiss Chloe and done nothing—dropped to one knee in unison. Heads bowed. Eyes down. The Alpha King's Aura pressed through the space like an invisible tide, and every wolf in that lobby bent beneath it.

I recognized faces. Margaret from Accounting, who'd once told me I should be grateful Ethan even looked at me. Derek from Legal, who'd called me "the Wolfless charity case" within earshot and then pretended he hadn't. They were all kneeling now. Kneeling for the King. Kneeling for me.

Kael's hand found the small of my back.

Not a gentle touch. A claim. His palm pressed flat against the crimson fabric, his fingers curving around my hip, and he pulled me against his side like a shield he'd decided to carry into battle. The heat of his body seared through the dress. The strength of his grip made my breath catch.

"Walk," he murmured. "You don't need anyone's colors."

We crossed the lobby. Past the fountain where Chloe had aimed her phone at my face. Past the marble floor where my coffee had splashed across my sneakers. Past the spot where Ethan had kissed her and broken me and the whole PackNet had cheered.

This time, no one cheered.

This time, no one even breathed.

The elevator rose toward the Senate chamber, and I watched the floor numbers tick upward with my heart lodged somewhere in my throat. Kael stood beside me, silent and immovable, his hand still anchored at my back. The velvet choker warmed against my skin.

They're all going to see us, Kira said. The senators. The Alphas. Chloe. Everyone who ever called us worthless is going to watch us walk in on the King's arm.

I'm terrified, I admitted silently.

I know. Kira's voice softened—just a fraction. But I'm not. I was born for this.

The elevator doors opened onto the top floor.

Chloe was waiting.

She stood near the entrance to the Senate chamber, dressed in a white pantsuit that screamed desperate elegance, her golden hair falling in perfect waves. Her face was carefully composed, but her eyes—her eyes were red-rimmed and wild. Ethan was a fugitive. Her influencer career was in tatters. And she'd clearly decided that if she couldn't have one powerful man, she'd try for another.

She stepped toward Kael with a smile that quivered at the edges.

"Your Majesty," she breathed, dipping into a low bow that emphasized her cleavage. "I was hoping I might have a moment of your time. I have information about the traitors, and I thought perhaps we could discuss it over—"

Her eyes found me.

The smile froze.

For three full seconds, Chloe's brain visibly struggled to reconcile the crimson-clad woman at Kael's side with the coffee-stained Wolfless she'd humiliated on livestream. Then her expression curdled. Her lips pulled back from her teeth. Her knuckles went white around the designer clutch in her hands.

"Your Majesty," she said, and her voice had lost all its honey, "surely you're not bringing her to a Senate meeting. She's a Wolfless. She can't even—"

Kael didn't move.

Didn't speak.

Didn't lift a finger.

His Alpha Aura detonated.

The pressure hit Chloe like a collapsing building. Her knees cracked against the marble floor with a sound that was wet and sharp and final. A scream tore from her throat—short, choked, agonized—and she crumpled forward, her palms slapping the stone, her perfect hair spilling around her face like a golden shroud.

The guards stationed at the chamber doors flinched. They didn't intervene.

Kael looked down at her. His golden eyes were cold. Flat. The eyes of a predator who had already decided his prey wasn't worth the effort of a kill.

"She is my personally appointed assistant," he said, and his voice was winter—absolute, merciless, without thaw. "She is the only mind capable of deciphering the ancient runes. If I ever hear you use that filthy word to refer to her again, I will remove your tongue. Do you understand?"

Chloe made a sound. A whimper. A sob.

"I asked," Kael said softly, "if you understood."

"Yes," Chloe gasped, her voice cracked and wet. "Yes, Your Majesty. I understand. Please—"

He walked past her. His hand never left my back. I stumbled after him, my heels unsteady, my mind reeling, my heart pounding so hard I could feel it in the velvet choker at my throat.

---

The Senate chamber was vast and circular, tiered rows of seats descending toward a central table of ancient dark wood. Every seat was filled. Alpha senators in formal robes. Military commanders with medals on their chests. Advisors and strategists and power brokers who had shaped the kingdom for decades.

They all rose when Kael entered.

They all bowed.

And then they saw me.

The shift in the room was subtle—a ripple of raised eyebrows, a few exchanged glances, a current of male interest that slid through the air like oil on water. They didn't stare. They knew better than to stare. But they noticed. The crimson dress. The bare legs. The velvet at my throat.

They're looking at us, Kira said, and for the first time, she sounded uneasy. The males. They're looking at us like—

Bane exploded.

Kael's inner Lycan surged against his mental cage with a force that made the King's stride hitch—just slightly, just for an instant, but I felt it in the way his fingers tightened on my hip. His breathing changed. His pupils dilated. The gold of his irises began to bleed toward copper, toward crimson, toward something ancient and murderous.

Kill them, Bane snarled, and the roar of it was so loud it nearly leaked through the mate bond. KILL THEM

ALL. Who let them look at her? WHO LET THEM BREATHE HER AIR? Rip their eyes out. Rip their throats out. She's OURS. Cover her. Hide her. NOW.

Kael's jaw locked.

He pulled out the chair beside his throne—not a subordinate's seat, the consort's seat, the seat that had been empty for three centuries—and gestured for me to sit. His movement was controlled. Precise. The movement of a man who was using every ounce of discipline he possessed to stay civilized.

I sat. My hands were shaking. I reached for the parchment scroll on the table—a report on the traitors' movements, marked with a red seal—and the edge of the paper caught my finger.

A paper cut.

Tiny. Insignificant. A single bead of blood welled up on my index finger, bright red and glistening.

The scent hit the air.

And Kael broke.

His pupils swallowed the gold whole. His irises went crimson—not the crimson of my dress, but the crimson of fresh blood, of dying suns, of a predator that had starved for centuries and just smelled meat. His chest expanded. A sound rumbled in his throat, too low to be a growl, too animal to be a word.

Every Alpha in the room went rigid.

Kael's hand shot out and closed around my bleeding wrist. His grip was iron. His skin was fire. He yanked me out of the chair and against his chest, and I felt the thunder of his heartbeat through his shirt, his suit, my dress—fast, violent, utterly uncontrolled.

"Meeting adjourned," he said, and his voice was gravel and shattered glass. "No one approaches this door. No one."

He dragged me toward the private chamber at the back of the room.

My heels scraped the marble. My heart lodged in my throat. The door loomed before us—heavy oak, iron hinges, no windows—and Kael threw it open with one hand while the other locked around my waist.

The door slammed shut.

The bolt drove home.