When the Alpha’s Daughter Stole My Place

I found out I was pregnant on a Tuesday.

Clara confirmed it with a quiet smile and a hand pressed briefly over mine—the kind of touch that said she understood exactly what this meant. Two years of hoping. Two years of watching other pack females round with pups while I smiled and said the right things and pressed my palm flat against my own stomach in the dark, willing it to mean something.

Now it did.

I walked back to the Alpha suite with my hand resting low on my abdomen, the way it always did when I was anxious. Except this time I wasn't anxious. I was full—so full I didn't trust myself to speak it out loud yet, not even to the empty hallway.

Neil was due back from the Lycan summit by evening. I had time.

I lit the candles he never asked for but always noticed. I set out the good wine—his, not mine, not anymore—and left a single glass. I let my scent settle into the room the way it does when I'm calm and unhurried, that soft floral warmth that Neil once told me he could find in a crowd of a thousand wolves. I wanted him to walk through that door and know, before I said a single word, that something had shifted.

I sat on the edge of the bed and waited.

I felt him before I heard him.

That's the thing about a mate bond—it doesn't announce itself, it just changes the air. The packhouse always feels different when Neil is in it, like the walls straighten slightly. I stood, smoothing my dress, and turned toward the door with the news already rising in my throat.

Then I caught his scent.

Woodsy, familiar—but wrong. Threaded through with something tight and anxious, the particular edge he carries when he's already decided something and doesn't want to be questioned about it. I'd learned that scent during pack disputes, during hard decisions about territory and rank. I had never smelled it directed at me.

The door opened.

Neil walked in. He was still in his summit clothes, jacket slightly rumpled, jaw set in that way that meant his mind was already three steps ahead of the conversation. He looked at me—really looked, for just a second—and something moved across his face that I couldn't name.

Then I saw the girl.

She was holding his hand. Eight years old, maybe, with dark hair pulled back unevenly and eyes that were too still for a child's. She stood slightly behind Neil's shoulder, but her gaze was already moving around the room—cataloguing it, the way a wolf does when it enters unfamiliar territory.

When her eyes landed on me, they stopped.

They didn't soften. They didn't do what a child's eyes usually do when they meet a stranger—that flicker of uncertainty, that instinctive reach for reassurance. She just looked at me, flat and assessing, and I felt something cold move through the mate bond.

"Neil." My voice