Fated to the Mad Alpha, Pregnant with His Twins

The storm had been screaming for hours.

I’d lost count somewhere around two in the morning, curled into a velvet armchair that was probably worth more than every piece of furniture I’d ever owned combined, watching lightning split the sky through floor- to-ceiling windows. The fireplace had dwindled to orange embers. The bed—that massive expanse of black silk and silver pillows—sat untouched behind me like an accusation.

Get in the bed, Elara.

Kira’s voice was a needle in my skull, sharp and insistent. She’d been at this for an hour.

That bed is soaked in his scent. It’s the closest thing to rolling around in our Alpha’s arms that we’re going to get tonight, and you’re wasting it on a CHAIR.

“I’m not sleeping in a stranger’s bed,” I muttered aloud.

He’s not a stranger. He’s our Mate. His hand was on our thigh four hours ago and you’re acting like—

“That was an accident. I fell.”

You didn’t fall. Your body knew exactly what it was doing. And so did his.

My thighs pressed together at the memory. I hated that she could feel that. I hated that she purred every time it happened.

Before I could argue, the door lock clicked.

I bolted upright. My bare feet hit the cold floor as the heavy doors swung open and Kael walked through—no, limped through—his silhouette backlit by the hallway’s dim sconces. Rain plastered his dark hair to his forehead. His suit jacket was gone. His black shirt hung open at the collar, torn from shoulder to ribcage in a jagged gash that revealed a stripe of blood-slicked skin beneath.

The scent hit me next. Cold pine. Dark chocolate. And underneath it all, the hot-copper tang of fresh blood.

A black medical kit thudded onto the carpet at my feet. The royal insignia gleamed in the firelight.

“Sit,” Kael commanded. Not to me—to himself. He dropped onto the leather ottoman near the armchair, his massive frame folding with a weariness that looked entirely wrong on him. His golden eyes found mine in the dark, and they were tired, yes, but still sharp enough to cut.

“Come here. Treat the wound.”

My mouth opened. Closed. “Your Majesty—I should call your doctor. I’m not a medic. I don’t know how to—”

“There are traitors in this estate.” His voice was a low rumble, roughened by blood loss and exhaustion. “I trust no one. Except you.” A pause. His lips curved into something that wasn’t quite a smile. “You’re too pathetic to kill a man. That makes you the safest pair of hands in this building. Unless you’d prefer I bleed out in front of you?”

He TRUSTS us, Kira whispered, and the word vibrated through my chest like a plucked string. He said he trusts us. Elara. ELA—

I grabbed the medical kit and knelt between his legs before Kira’s keening could short-circuit what was left of my rational brain.

The carpet was thick enough to cushion my knees. The fire popped. Rain lashed the windows. I unlatched the kit with trembling fingers and found antiseptic, gauze, surgical tape, a curved needle and thread I prayed I wouldn’t need. My hands were shaking so badly the iodine bottle rattled against the tray.

“Steady,” Kael murmured.

Not a command. Something softer. Something that made my stomach clench.

I reached for his shirt. The buttons were cold and wet, and my knuckles brushed the inferno of his skin with every one I freed. His chest emerged inch by inch—ridged muscle, silver scars tracing old battles, a trail of dark hair that disappeared beneath his belt. The wound was on his left side, just above the hip. A knife slash.

Shallow but long, still oozing.

Look at him, Kira breathed. Look at what we’re touching. That’s not a Beta’s gym body. That’s centuries of violence carved into perfection. Put your palm on his stomach. Right now. DO IT.

I poured iodine onto a gauze pad instead, my face burning. “This might sting.”

“It already stings.”

But when I pressed the gauze to his wound, his abdominal muscles went rigid. Not from pain. His breath caught—a hitch so slight I would have missed it if I weren’t kneeling close enough to count his eyelashes. His throat moved. A swallow.

He’s not breathing right, Kira observed, delight thick in her mental voice. He’s not breathing right because your fingers are on his skin. Do it again. Press harder. Or better yet, lean down and use your tongue.

Wolves clean wounds with their tongues, Elara. It would be perfectly natural.

I nearly dropped the iodine.

“Stop squirming,” I hissed—whether at Kira or at my own shaking hands, I wasn’t sure.

Kael’s eyes narrowed. “I didn’t move.”

“I wasn’t talking to you.”

The corner of his mouth twitched. He knew. He knew I was arguing with my inner wolf, and the knowledge seemed to amuse him in some dark, private way.

I worked in silence after that. Cleaned the wound. Taped the edges closed. My fingertips traced the ridges of his ribs, the hard plane of his stomach, the way his skin burned under my touch like he was running a fever or a fire. Every time I breathed in, I got pine and chocolate and blood. Every time I breathed out, Kira made a sound in my head that was frankly indecent.

We could climb into his lap right now. He’s injured. He wouldn’t stop us. He’d probably—

My phone buzzed.

The sound was so sudden, so jarring in the fire-lit quiet, that I flinched. My old phone—the one I’d been doom-scrolling on yesterday, the one I’d left on the side table—vibrated against the wood like an angry insect. The screen glowed.

A text notification.

From Ethan.

The air in the room changed.

I didn’t see Kael move. I only felt the displacement—the shift of weight, the sudden cold where his body heat had been—and then my phone was in his hand. His black-gloved hand. His golden eyes scanning the screen with an expression that started as contempt and curdled rapidly into something murderous.

“No,” I gasped, lunging forward. “Give it back, that’s my only—”

Crunch.

The phone shattered in his grip. Not cracked. Shattered. Glass and plastic crumbled between his leather-clad fingers like dried leaves. Tiny fragments tinkled onto the carpet. The screen flickered once and died.

Kael’s eyes lifted to mine. They were no longer gold. They were molten copper, bleeding toward crimson at the edges, and the weight of his Alpha Aura slammed into me so hard the fireplace behind him roared to life, flames licking up the chimney like terrified animals.

His hand found my jaw. Leather on skin. Grip like iron.

“Has that Beta’s cheap cologne rotted your brain?” His voice was barely above a whisper, but every syllable vibrated with rage. “He told you to be his scapegoat. He ordered you to take the fall for him. And you kept his number?”

“I didn’t—I forgot to delete—”

“You forgot.” He said the word like it was a personal betrayal. “You forgot to erase a man who publicly discarded you on a livestream. A man who left you crying in the rain. A man who touched you for three years while I—” He stopped himself. His jaw locked so hard I heard his teeth grind.

---

In Kael’s skull, Bane was roaring.

She tried to take the phone back. She reached for it. That dead wolf’s name was on her screen, and she reached for it. TEAR HIS HEAD OFF. Mount it on a spike. Put it in her room so she never forgets who her

Alpha is.

Kael’s free hand—the one not gripping his Mate’s delicate jaw—curled into a fist at his side. His knuckles ached. His veins burned. The beast was clawing at the inside of his ribs, demanding blood, demanding destruction, demanding he hunt down this Ethan creature and rip the spine from his body while the whole

PackNet watched.

She wore his shirt tonight, Bane snarled. OUR shirt. And she was thinking about HIM. End him. End him

NOW.

But Kael looked down at the woman trembling in his grip—her eyes wide, her lips parted, her pulse fluttering wild against his thumb—and something else cut through the bloodlust. Something older. Colder. More strategic.

If he killed Ethan tonight, she’d never stop fearing him. She’d never stop seeing the monster. And Kael needed her to see him. The king. The protector. The man who would burn the world down for her, yes, but who would also kneel at her feet and let her stitch his wounds with shaking hands.

He released her jaw. Slowly. Deliberately. His fingers left faint pink marks on her skin, and Bane howled with possessive satisfaction.

Kael leaned down. His palm slid around the back of her neck—bare skin, no glove—and he pulled her toward him with a gentleness that cost him more than any battle wound ever had.

His lips brushed her cheek. Her temple. The shell of her ear. He felt her shiver. He felt her breath catch and hold.

“I’ll buy you a new phone,” he murmured, voice rough as gravel. “But from this day forward, your world holds no voice except mine. Do you understand?”

She didn’t answer. Couldn’t, maybe. Her hands were gripping the front of his ruined shirt like she didn’t know whether to push him away or pull him closer.

“Tomorrow morning,” Kael continued, his thumb stroking the delicate bones of her nape, “you’ll dress in something appropriate. You’ll walk into the Senate chamber at my side. As my personal assistant. As my—”

He caught himself before the word mate escaped. “As my charge. And everyone who ever laughed at you will kneel.”

He pulled back just far enough to meet her eyes.

“That’s an order.”