My Alpha Tried to Steal My Daughter

The banquet droned on, a parade of endless toasts and hollow praises that made my teeth ache. I sat rigidly beside Thatcher, my hand resting on his knee beneath the tablecloth, grounding myself against the oppressive memories this hall held. Every stone, every shadow seemed to whisper of the girl I used to be—the weak, unwanted mate who scrubbed these floors while Briar laughed.

Lilyana, however, had no such reservations. Her patience, thin at the best of times, had evaporated entirely.

"Mama, down," she grumbled, wiggling in her chair.

I hesitated, glancing at the crowded room, but Thatcher gave a subtle nod. "Let her stretch her legs, love. No one here would dare harm a hair on her head."

He was right. The air in the room was thick with the scent of fear and submission, all directed at us. I lifted Lilyana down, and she immediately toddled off, her little velvet shoes silent on the stone floor.

I watched her like a hawk as she navigated the sea of legs, heading straight for the dais. The Alpha's throne sat there, currently occupied by a brooding Derek. He was swirling his wine, staring into the dark liquid as if it held the answers to his ruined evening.

Lilyana stopped right in front of him. She didn't bow. She didn't cower. She just stared, her golden eyes—so like Thatcher's—locking onto Derek's face with an intensity that was unsettling for a three-year-old.

Derek blinked, pulled from his misery. He looked down, his annoyance fading into confusion as he met her gaze. He leaned forward slightly, the glass in his hand halting halfway to his mouth.

"Who are you?" he murmured, almost to himself.

I saw his nostrils flare, taking in her scent. It was masked by the powerful odor of the Lycan King, but beneath that... there was something else. Strength. Raw, untamed power.

A flicker of desperate hope lit up Derek’s eyes. I saw the gears turning in his head—the mad, frantic calculation. *Could she be mine?* I could practically hear him thinking it. *The heir I lost? The power I craved?*

My stomach churned. Before I could stand, the intermission was announced. The heavy wooden doors to the garden were thrown open to let in the cool evening air. Thatcher was immediately surrounded by a group of nervous Elders hoping to curry favor, and for a split second, I lost sight of him.

"I need air," I whispered to no one, slipping away from the table. I needed to get away from Derek's hungry stare.

I stepped out into the garden. It was beautiful, filled with blooming night jasmine and roses, but to me, it was just another cage. This was where Derek used to make me wait for hours while he entertained guests, forbidden to enter the main house.

"Malia."

The voice was right behind me. I spun around, my heart leaping into my throat.

Derek stood there, blocking the path back to the hall. The desperation I had seen earlier was now a blazing fire in his eyes. He took a step closer, invading my personal space.

"How?" he demanded, his voice rough. "How are you alive? I saw the blood. I smelled the death on you."

"You saw what you wanted to see," I said, my voice trembling slightly despite my best efforts. The walls of the garden felt like they were closing in. The scent of him—musk and cruelty—triggered a wave of nausea. "Step back, Derek."

He didn't listen. He reached out, his hand clamping around my upper arm. His grip was hard, possessive. Just like before.

"And the child," he hissed, leaning down until his face was inches from mine. "She has power. Real power. Is she... did you save my heir? Is that my daughter?"

panic flared hot and bright. The sensation of being trapped, of being held against my will, sent a jolt of pure terror through me. The garden vanished. I was back in the dungeon. The silver chains were biting into my wrists. The walls were crushing me.

*No.*

I wasn't that girl anymore. Thatcher had taught me better.

*"Center yourself, Malia. Use his weight against him."*

I didn't pull away. I stepped *into* him, catching him off guard. With a sharp twist of my hips and a violent jerk of my arm against the weak point of his thumb, I broke his grip.

Derek stumbled back, more out of shock than pain.

"Don't you ever touch me," I snarled. The fear was still there, hammering in my chest, but the rage was stronger.

I shoved my sleeve up, thrusting my wrist toward his face. In the moonlight, the jagged, silvery scars from his shackles stood out in stark relief against my skin.

"Look at this, Derek!" I shouted, my voice cracking. "You put these here! You chained me like an animal! You killed your heir when you threw me in that cell!"

He stared at the scars, his face paling. "Malia, I... I had to do what was best for the pack. You were weak..."

"I was your mate!" I screamed, the tears finally spilling over. "And you destroyed me for a crown that doesn't even fit you!"

He reached for me again, his expression twisting into something ugly and entitled. "You belong to me. The Moon Goddess gave you to me first. That child—"

A low, vibrating sound cut through the air. It wasn't loud, but it shook the ground beneath our feet. The paving stones cracked with a sharp *snap*.

Derek froze. We both turned.

Thatcher stood at the edge of the garden path. He wasn't yelling. He wasn't running. He was simply standing there, his hands loose at his sides, but the air around him was distorting, rippling with heat and lethal intent. His eyes were no longer human; they were two pools of glowing, molten gold.

He took one step forward. The sound of his dress shoe hitting the stone sounded like a gunshot.

"Thatcher," I breathed, the relief nearly buckling my knees.

He didn't look at me. His gaze was fixed entirely on Derek. He moved with a terrifying, fluid grace, closing the distance between them in a blink. He didn't strike Derek. He didn't need to.

Thatcher leaned in close, his lips brushing Derek's ear. The Alpha of Shadow Creek was trembling, paralyzed by the sheer weight of the Lycan King's aura pressing down on his neck.

"If you ever," Thatcher whispered, his voice a deadly caress that made the hair on my arms stand up, "touch my Queen again... if you even look at her or my daughter with anything other than absolute submission... I will tear your throat out right here."

He pulled back, his golden eyes boring into Derek's soul. "I won't wait for the Council. I won't wait for a trial. I will paint this garden with your blood, and I will enjoy it."

Derek couldn't speak. He couldn't move. He just stared, eyes wide with the realization of just how small he truly was.

Thatcher turned to me, the monster receding instantly behind a mask of gentle concern. He held out his hand. "Come, Malia. The air out here is tainted."

I took his hand, leaving the ghost of my past shivering in the dark.