My Alpha Tried to Steal My Daughter

The tinted glass of the limousine was cool against my forehead, a sharp contrast to the fire burning in my veins. Outside, the familiar trees of the Shadow Creek territory blurred past—oaks and pines that had once witnessed my happiest childhood memories and my darkest nightmares. My heart hammered a frantic rhythm against my ribs, not out of fear, but anticipation.

Beside me, a large, warm hand covered my trembling one. I turned to look at Thatcher. My mate. My King. His golden eyes, usually so fierce they could bring Alphas to their knees, were soft as they studied my face.

"You don't have to do this, Malia," he murmured, his voice a low rumble that vibrated through the car's plush interior. "I can burn this pack to the ground without you ever stepping foot on this cursed soil."

I squeezed his hand, drawing strength from the bond that hummed between us—a connection far deeper, far purer than the twisted tether I had once shared with Derek.

"No," I whispered, glancing down at the sleeping toddler in the seat between us. Lilyana's dark curls were a mess, her small chest rising and falling in a peaceful rhythm. "They need to see. He needs to see."

Thatcher nodded once, respecting my choice, though I saw the lethal promise in his eyes. He shifted, adjusting the blanket over our daughter. "Then let them see a Queen."

We were approaching the pack house. Even through the soundproofing of the armored SUV, I could hear the faint murmur of a gathering crowd. Today was the Grand Alpha Summit. Today was the day Derek intended to mark Briar as his Luna, cementing a stolen legacy on the grave of my supposed death.

Three years. It had been three years since he dragged me to the border in a thunderstorm, bleeding and broken, my womb empty and my heart shattered. He thought the river had taken me. He thought the rogue lands had swallowed my bones.

He was wrong.

The motorcade slowed to a halt. The gravel crunched beneath the heavy tires, a sound that triggered a flash of memory—the sound of boots dragging me toward the dungeon. I took a sharp breath, the phantom sensation of silver chains burning my wrists.

"Breathe, love," Thatcher's voice cut through the panic, his scent—cedar and rain—wrapping around me like a shield.

I exhaled, pushing the memory back into the dark box where it belonged. I wasn't that weak, wolfless girl anymore. I was the Lycan Queen.

Through the window, I saw them. The Shadow Creek wolves were lined up in submission, heads bowed low. And there, standing on the steps of the grand entrance, was Derek.

He looked… older. The lines around his eyes were deeper, his posture stiff in his ceremonial Alpha robes. Beside him stood Briar, preening in a white dress that looked ridiculous against her sharp, ambitious features. She was whispering something to him, looking annoyed, likely complaining about the dust kicked up by our