The Alpha King's Two Faced Mate

"Where the devil is my son?"

The snarl cut through the quiet hum of the refrigerator, a sound so violent it made Sharon’s hand slip on the doorknob. She had spent seven years running from that voice, seven years burying the memory of how it could command her very blood to stop. The magic she had sensed outside wasn't coming from the woods; it was radiating from the heart of her home.

Her hand shook so violently it took two tries to turn the knob. Every instinct screamed at her to flee, to grab Alexander and vanish into the mist, but Luthor Michaels was already inside. An Alpha’s presence was a physical weight, and through the wood of the door, Sharon felt the crushing gravity of his power. She was practically hyperventilating by the time the door creaked open, revealing the truth she had prayed was a hallucination.

Luthor Michaels sat at her small dining table, his large frame making the modest kitchen look like a dollhouse. He was her ex-Alpha, the father of her child, and the only man who had ever touched her. The moment their eyes met, every Omega instinct Sharon had suppressed for nearly a decade roared to life. Her body wanted to drop, to offer her throat, to beg for the favor of the man who had discarded her.

Screw that, she thought, her teeth grinding together. She hadn't spent seven years building a life out of scrap and magic just to roll over because a dominant wolf walked through her door.

"Sharon," Luthor rumbled, standing up. The movement was fluid, predatory, and entirely too close. "It’s been a long time."

Sharon took an instinctive step back, her knees threatening to give way. She forced her chin up, a futile attempt to look brave while her heart tried to hammer its way out of her ribs. "You shouldn't be here, Luthor. You have no right."

"I have every right," he countered, stepping toward her. "I’ll ask you one more time. Where is he?"

"I don't know what you're talking about," she stuttered. The lie was flimsy, a paper shield against a hurricane.

Up close, Luthor was still the most handsome man she had ever seen, a fact that felt like a betrayal to her own soul. Time had only sharpened him. His blond hair, usually a shade lighter than Alexander’s, was cut into a severe, military style that emphasized the harsh, beautiful lines of his face. His jaw was a ridge of granite, his lips full and sensual against his tanned skin. But it was his eyes that truly undid her—that bright, summer-sky blue that she saw every single morning when her son woke up.

Luthor watched the color rise in Sharon’s cheeks. She was flushed with a volatile mix of fear and fury, her dark chocolate hair stacked messily on her head with wisps curling around her neck. Her eyes—midnight black with flashes of moonlight silver—were wide and despairing. He had forgotten how beautiful she was. He had spent years convincing himself she was a plain, useless girl he’d made a mistake with, but the woman standing before him was a revelation. The shy awkwardness of her youth had been beaten away, leaving behind something tempered and sharp.

He was enraged, but beneath the fury, his wolf was howling in recognition, desperate to claim the Omega it had never truly forgotten. He’d been searching for seven years, nearly tearing the continent apart. When his scouts finally told him she was living a mere four hours away under a different name, he had nearly leveled the packhouse in his rage.

"Don't lie to me," Luthor hissed, his scent—that intoxicating cedar and woodsmoke—filling her lungs. "I smelled him the moment I crossed the porch. My blood. My son."

"He isn't yours," Sharon snapped, her voice gaining a jagged edge. "He’s mine. You made it very clear seven years ago that I wasn't worth your time. That makes him mine."

Luthor flinched, though he hid it behind a mask of cold arrogance. He remembered that night vividly, even if he tried to pretend otherwise. Back then, he was a newly minted Alpha, and Sharon Spark had been the pack’s ghost—a girl born of shifters who seemed to have no wolf and no magic. He had written her off as useless until her first heat hit. It was an Omega heat, rare and powerful, and it had undone him.

He had been gentle with her that night. He had mated her, bound her, and protected her like she was the highest-ranking member of the pack. But when the haze of the heat cleared, his rational, cold-blooded side had taken over. He needed a queen, a dominant mate to help him lead a warring pack, not a submissive, magic-less girl. He had convinced himself that mating her was a monumental error. He had been distant, then cold, and finally cruel, driving her away until she disappeared into the night.

"I was young, and I had a pack to secure," Luthor said, his voice dropping into a low, dangerous register. "But I don't leave my blood in the wilderness, Sharon. You stole an heir from the Tenzclaw. That’s a death sentence for anyone else."

"Is that what this is? An execution?" Sharon challenged, stepping deeper into the kitchen, placing herself between Luthor and the hallway leading to Alexander’s room.

"It's a reclamation," Luthor corrected. He looked at her, his gaze lingering on the pulse jumping in her neck. He wanted to be angry—he was angry—but the lust was a secondary fire, burning just as hot. He could smell her magic now, too. It was different, stronger than it should be. "You've changed. You're not the girl who used to hide in the corners of the dining hall."

"That girl died the day she realized her Alpha was a coward who was afraid of a little girl’s heart," she said.

Luthor’s eyes flashed gold. He moved so fast she didn't have time to blink, pinning her against the counter. His hands didn't touch her, but he boxed her in, his heat radiating through her clothes. "Careful, Sharon. I’ve spent seven years being angry. Don't push me to show you exactly how much of a 'coward' I am."

"Mama?"

The small, sleepy voice from the hallway shattered the tension like a stone through glass. Both Sharon and Luthor froze.

Alexander stood at the end of the hall, clutching a stuffed wolf—a cruel irony Sharon hadn't noticed until this exact moment. He rubbed his eyes, his messy sandy-blond hair catching the kitchen light. He looked from his mother to the giant man looming over her.

"Who's that?" Alexander asked, his voice small but curious.

Luthor stepped back from Sharon, his entire posture shifting. The predator didn't disappear, but it became still, hushed. He stared at the boy, his sky-blue eyes wide with a shock that looked dangerously like pain. He saw the chin, the shoulders, the height—it was like looking into a mirror that showed him a better version of himself.

"Alexander," Sharon breathed, moving quickly to her son’s side. She gathered him into her arms, her magic flaring instinctively, a soft violet shimmer dancing around her fingertips.

Luthor’s eyebrows shot up. "Magic? You’ve been hiding more than just a child."

"I've been learning to protect what’s mine," Sharon said, her voice steady now that she was holding her son. "Now get out of my house."

Luthor didn't move. He kept his eyes on Alexander, who was staring back at him with a strange, fearless intensity. "He doesn't know who I am, does he?"

"He knows he has a mother who loves him. That’s all he needs to know."

Luthor let out a dry, dark chuckle. He walked to the door, but he didn't leave. He paused with his hand on the frame, looking back at the two of them—the Omega he had thrown away and the son he hadn't known he needed.

"You’ve done well, Sharon. Better than I expected," Luthor said, his voice carrying the weight of an Alpha’s decree. "But this little cottage isn't a fortress. The Tenzclaw are coming. I’m not leaving this town without my son. And since you're so fond of him, I imagine you'll be coming too."

"I'll die first," Sharon vowed.

"We'll see," Luthor replied, his gaze dropping to her lips for one agonizing second. "Get some rest, Sharon. You're going to need your strength for what comes next."

He stepped out into the night, the heavy fog swallowing him whole. Sharon immediately collapsed against the wall, sliding down until she was sitting on the floor, pulling Alexander into her lap. She was shaking, her magic flickering out like a dying candle.

"Mama, why was that man crying?" Alexander asked softly.

Sharon froze. "He wasn't crying, baby. Men like that don't cry."

"He was," Alexander insisted, tucking his head under her chin. "I saw his eyes. They looked like the ocean when it's sad."

Sharon held him tighter, staring at the closed door. The Alpha had found them, and the seven years of peace had ended in a single breath. She knew Luthor Michaels. He didn't ask; he took. And she knew that the fire between them—the anger, the guilt, and the devastating attraction—was about to burn her entire world down.