The Alpha King Threw His True Mate Off a Cliff

By the time I pushed the front door open last night, the guard was gone. So was the photograph.

My mother had wiped her face and gone to bed without a word.

I didn't sleep much.

---

I was up before the sun, cracking eggs into a pan and laying strips of pork in hot oil. In the Briar house, breakfast was my job. It had been since I was nine.

My father came down first. Orson Briar didn't say good morning. He sat, picked up his fork, and poked at the meat.

"It's burnt."

"It's crispy," I said. "You like it crispy."

"I like it the way I like it." He shoved the plate an inch away. "Not like shoe leather."

Grant thudded down the stairs, still yawning. He grabbed a strip off the platter with his fingers, chewed once, and grimaced.

"God, Maren. Are you trying to poison us?"

"It's the same as yesterday."

"Yeah? Then yesterday sucked too."

He swept his arm across the counter.

The plate shattered on the tile. Hot grease splashed across my bare feet, and I jumped back with a yelp. Shards of white china skidded under the table.

Grant laughed.

My mother appeared in the doorway, tying her robe. Celia looked at the mess, then at me, like I'd dropped it myself.

"Well? Make another one."

"Mom, my feet—"

"Your feet will heal. You have a wolf now, don't you?" She sat down beside my father. "Clean that up first. I'm not stepping on glass."

I knelt. The grease stung where it had landed. I gathered the bigger pieces into my palm, one by one.

A curved shard slipped. It sliced straight across the meat of my hand.

I hissed and closed my fist. Blood welled up between my fingers.

Nobody looked over.

I stared at the red dripping onto the tile, and something in me wanted, just once, for them to hear me.

"Mom," I said quietly. "Yesterday, the King—"

"Oh, here we go."

"He touched my wrist. I have a mark. He has one too. He's my fated mate."

For a second, the kitchen was silent.

Then my mother laughed. A short, ugly sound through her nose.

"Maren. Sweetheart." She buttered her toast. "You shifted *yesterday*. Your wolf barely has fur. And you think the Alpha King looked at you and saw a *queen*?"

"I saw his mark. It glowed."

"You saw what you wanted to see." She didn't even lift her eyes. "Dreams are free. Eggs aren't. Get moving."

Grant snorted into his coffee. "Cinderella of the dish rack."

I pressed my bleeding hand against my sweater and stood up.

That was when someone knocked on the front door.

---

My father answered it, annoyed. Then I heard his voice change.

"Your—Your Majesty. What an honor."

My mother was on her feet in half a second. She yanked off her robe sash, smoothed her hair, and hissed at me without moving her lips.

"Get that glass under the cabinet. *Now.*"

I kicked the shards out of sight just as Ronan stepped into our kitchen.

He had to duck under the doorframe. He was wearing the same ash-gray coat, and the whole room seemed to shrink around him.

"Please, sit, sit." My father pulled out his own chair. "Celia, the bottle. The good one."

My mother was already reaching for the top shelf. The whiskey we'd been saving since Grant made warrior rank. She poured a glass with both hands and set it in front of Ronan.

"From our private stock, Your Majesty."

Ronan didn't touch it.

His gray eyes moved across the room. The grease on the floor. The burnt pan. Me, standing by the sink with my arm pressed against my stomach.

Grant cleared his throat and leaned on the counter, all charm.

"Sorry about the mess, sir. My sister's a little distracted. She's out late a lot." He smiled. "Most nights, actually. We never know who she's with."

My face went hot. "That's not true."

"Isn't it?" Grant shrugged. "Just saying. You might want to be careful."

Ronan didn't answer him. He didn't even turn his head.

He walked straight to me.

"Your hand."

"It's nothing."

"Show me."

I opened my fist. The cut ran deep, still oozing. My palm was a sticky red mess.

Something flickered across his face, gone before I could name it. He pulled a folded handkerchief from his inside pocket. Dark blue linen, a silver crest stitched in one corner.

He took my wrist, gentler than yesterday, and wrapped the cloth around my palm. Twice. He tied it off with a small, tight knot.

"Keep pressure on it," he said.

My throat closed up. I nodded.

Behind me, I heard my mother's teacup rattle against its saucer.

Ronan turned to face my family. He didn't raise his voice. He didn't need to.

"I'm here for Maren."

My father's mouth opened and shut. My mother's knuckles went white around the bottle. Grant straightened off the counter like someone had kicked him.

I had spent twenty-three years in this kitchen. I had never once seen them afraid of something because of *me*.

"Of course," my father stammered. "Of course, Your Majesty. Anything you need. Our daughter is—she's a wonderful girl."

*Wonderful.* I almost laughed.

Ronan looked at me one more time. Long enough that my mark began to pulse.

"I'll be in touch."

Then he left. The whiskey sat full on the table.

---

The front door clicked shut.

I turned around, still smiling, and my father was right there.

He grabbed my wrapped hand and squeezed.

Pain shot up my arm. I gasped and tried to pull back, but he didn't budge.

"Listen to me." His voice was low and flat. "Whatever happens in this house stays in this house. You understand?"

"Dad, you're hurting—"

"The plate. The cooking. The chores. Your little crying fits on the floor." His thumb dug into the cut. "None of it leaves your mouth. Not to him. Not to anyone."

Blood soaked through the blue linen.

"Promise me, Maren."

"I promise," I whispered. "I promise. Please."

He let go. Then he picked up the whiskey Ronan hadn't touched and drank it himself.

---

That night, my mother came into my room without knocking.

She sat on the edge of my bed. She'd never done that before. I didn't know what to do with my hands.

"You think he loves you," she said.

"He's my mate."

"He's a King." She tucked a strand of hair behind my ear, and her fingers were cold. "Royal men don't love weak women, Maren. They use them. And when they're done, they throw them back."

"You don't know that."

"I know more than you think."

Grant leaned in the doorway, arms folded.

"Here's the part she's being nice about," he said. "You say one wrong thing to him, one, and this whole family goes down. Dad's position. My rank. Everything." He tilted his head. "You want that on you?"

I looked at my mother. She didn't argue with him.

My eyes burned. I blinked hard and stared at the ceiling until it passed.

"I won't say anything."

"Good girl." Celia stood and smoothed her skirt. "Get some sleep."

They left. The hall light went off.

I waited until the house was quiet. Then I crept to the bathroom, unwound the handkerchief, and held it under cold water. I scrubbed until my blood came out of the linen, until only the silver crest remained.

I wrung it out and laid it flat beside my pillow.

My mark gave one slow, warm pulse.

Then my wolf spoke, so softly I almost missed it.

*Maren. Why did your mother say she knows?*