My Alpha Planned Pups with Her in Our Bedroom

The flight cancellation board at the airport flickered with a depressing shade of red—'CANCELLED DUE TO ROGUE ACTIVITY.'

I sighed, adjusting the strap of my laptop bag on my shoulder. The European Lycan Council meeting would have to wait. As a Beta, and one of the most sought-after architects on the continent, I was used to plans changing. But this time, the disruption felt like a gift from the Moon Goddess herself.

It meant I could go home early.

I drove my sleek black SUV toward the Silver River Pack lands, a small smile playing on my lips. My mate, Alpha Tate Snyder, didn't know I was coming. We had been pouring everything into the new Pack House extension. It was my design, my funding, and—most importantly—our future home. I imagined Tate’s face lighting up when I walked in a day early, maybe catching him reviewing the blueprints for the solar roofing I’d insisted on.

I parked the car a half-mile down the road to keep the surprise intact and shifted my approach, walking through the dense treeline. The air was crisp, smelling of pine and damp earth. It was a good day to be home.

But as I neared the construction site of the East Wing—the wing specifically designed to be the Alpha and Luna’s private quarters—my smile faltered.

Something was wrong.

From the outside, the structure looked fine. My clean, modern lines were there. But piled near the entrance were stacks of materials that definitely weren’t on my manifest. I saw rolls of velvet. Crates of what looked like faux-gold trim. And the smell… instead of the clean scent of treated cedar and fresh concrete, the air reeked of cheap perfume and something musky.

I stepped through the open framing of the side entrance, my boots silent on the subfloor. My heart gave a strange, uneven thud.

"What in the name of the Goddess…" I whispered.

The main hallway, which I had designed to be an airy, minimalist gallery with floor-to-ceiling windows to let in the moonlight, was unrecognizable. The walls, which were supposed to be a calming slate grey, had been slapped with a coat of aggressive, garish crimson paint. It looked less like a home and more like the inside of a cheap heart.

I reached out and touched a roll of carpet leaning against the wall. It wasn't the high-traffic, sustainable wool blend I had ordered from Italy. It was synthetic shag. Deep, tacky red shag.

My stomach churned. Tate knew my style. He knew I hated clutter, hated excess. Why would he approve this? I had signed the checks for the marble and the glass. Where were they?

I moved deeper into the house, my Beta instincts flaring. The silence of the construction site was heavy. It was late afternoon, and the crew should have been wrapping up, yet the place was empty. Empty, except for voices drifting from the master suite at the end of the hall.

The double doors to the master