[BL] Alpha, You've Got the Wrong Mate!

Chapter 342 — How Disappointing

Vincent stood by the Temple’s entrance, awaiting his mother’s return.

She had left early that morning. Now night had fallen, yet she still had not come back.

He paced anxiously along the asphalted path, back and forth, until he caught himself picking at his nails and gasped at his own action.

His mother had strictly forbidden him from doing so.

"What are you doing here?"

Vincent straightened at once, bowing promptly to the lady.

"I have been waiting for you—"

"What business do you have with me?" she asked, her tone cold and distant.

She had always been this way with him.

So why did it still sting?

Vincent swallowed hard, lowering his gaze.

"I have decided to go to Hianshu and find him by myself. Perhaps the reason they can’t find him is that they haven’t seen him. But I have," he explained, trying to sound as convincing as he could—yet secretly hoping his mother would stop him, tell him that he shouldn’t take such a risk.

But Vincent’s wishes were never granted by the Gods.

"Alright."

Her reply shattered his heart more than anything ever had.

Vincent hadn’t known a single word could hurt so deeply.

"What are you waiting for?" She glanced at him, seeing he was not moving at all.

"I-I... I was about to leave..." the young man murmured.

"Don’t contact me unless you find him. I wish to have nothing to do with a failure such as yourself."

Her voice was calm.

Too calm.

Not a trace of anger—only firmness. In her tone and expression.

Vincent felt the words settle into his bones, colder than the winter he had spent on the streets as punishment during his youth.

He couldn’t remember the reason his mother had given, but he recalled not being able to close his eyes, shivering. It was also the day it snowed in Hianshu for the first time in half a century.

This time, his mother meant it. In the past few years, she had granted him with chances, yet with distance—punishments that could still be mistaken for restraint.

But after High Priest Charles returned as nothing more than a corpse, whatever thin thread of tolerance she had left for him was severed.

The name Revhara had always unsettled her. It twisted her expression, sharpened her gaze, and her complexion shifted quicker than a chameleon’s colour. Yet now, it was no longer hatred alone that burned in her eyes—it was intent.

"Peace treaty or not," she had stated during the last meeting with the High Priests, her voice unwavering, "it is meaningless if we strike first. Prepare everything we need to annihilate them."

Since childhood, Vincent had tried to understand his mother—why her eyes slid past him as though he were mere decoration—meant to stand still—lifeless and fulfil its purpose, why praise was reserved for others while he was met only with punishments.

She had never struck him.

Nor did she ever shout at him.

She didn’t even consider him important enough for even a microscopic bit of her attention.

And... Abuse?

She didn’t need to do it herself.

She left him in the care of a sister at the temple who barely acknowledged his existence, who fed him only when he appeared as if he would faint, who looked through him the same way his mother did.

Hunger became familiar.

So was the silence between the pair of mother and son.

When he grew stronger, she murmured, "As expected."

When he grew weaker, she sighed, "How disappointing. To think I sacrificed the other one..."

Vincent often heard that.

The other one.

However, he had no idea who his mother was referring to.

From childhood, he learned early that affection was conditional, that worth was something to be earned and just as easily revoked. And now, standing before her, he understood the truth he had avoided for years—to her, he was not a son who had failed.

He was a failure who happened to be her son.

At first, the difference between the two could appear the same—or maybe it did not exist. But there was a difference: no matter what he did, she would never acknowledge him.

Hence, he swore to find the Grim Reaper, dead or alive, chain him as he had been all his life and bring him back to his mother’s feet. That was where he needed to be.

Even if it meant Vincent would need to fight for his mother’s attention—which was always focused on that omega.

He was willing to do anything to end this silent war with his mother. One day.

Maybe one day, he would succeed. With that hope, he turned his heels, heading to his bedchambers to prepare his departure.

"Have a good night, mother."

This time, his voice didn’t waver as it usually would, nor did his lips quiver.

The woman stared at her son. His back had grown broader; he had gained height—nothing like the child she barely remembered. He was no longer someone who should have needed her approval.

Yet, he kept seeking it.

She rolled her eyes and turned away, heading toward her bedchambers.

"So what?" she muttered. "He is still a failure."

Before she could reach the door, it swung open from the inside.

"Your Grace!" a man exclaimed brightly, wrapping his arms around her without hesitation.

"Let go of my Siye," another woman growled from the bed.

Siye laughed softly, patting the man’s back.

"Did you miss me?"

"Yes," they answered in unison.

Her smile widened as she stepped forward, dismissing the world she had just left behind. She moved to the bed where her other lover sat and rested her head in her lap, closing her eyes.

"Was it a long day?" the woman asked, fingers already threading through her hair.

"Very," Siye hummed.

"Let me massage your head."

"I can prepare your bath," the man offered.

Their gazes met—not tender, but territorial.

"Forget it," Siye said, cutting them off. "I only want to sleep."

They both nodded at once.

"Very well."

"Should we leave?" the man asked hesitantly, eyes lowered.

"No," Siye replied, impatience slipping into her tone. "Just lie beside me. Both of you."

She had no patience left—for arguments, for longing, or for a son who had been acting strange.

***

Having departed for the capital as soon as they could, Ren and Zayden rode alongside the carriage on their respective horses while Eiran watched from inside.

"Papa! Dad! I want to ride a horse too!" Eiran puffed his cheeks into a pout.

"No, son," Zayden refused immediately.

Ren shot him a look that clearly said: Don’t be so blunt.

Eiran lowered his head, visibly upset.

"I-I mean," Zayden coughed, hastily correcting himself. "You can’t ride a horse for such a long distance. You’re far too small."

The child slowly lifted his bright green eyes to him as the carriage continued forward, but Zayden didn’t increase his pace.

"I am not small," Eiran argued, his frown deepening.

"That’s not what I—" Zayden inhaled sharply, then shook his head. Just when he thought he had finally learned how to be a good father... he was realizing how clumsy he still was.

Ren gently patted the alpha’s shoulder—comforting, wordless.

"Eiran," Ren said softly, "he means that you might get sick if you ride at this speed without proper breaks. You’re still not used to it yet, right? The longest distance you’ve ridden is only half the forest near the mansion."

And even that was impressive for his age, Ren thought, but kept it to himself.

"The capital is nearly five times that distance."

"But—"

"Right," Zayden cut in gently this time, offering a small smile. "So... when you’re a bit older, alright?"

Eiran hesitated, then nodded and returned to his seat. He rested his chin against the carriage window, watching the scenery blur past.

There was no snow. The weather had improved, the cold barely brushing against one’s skin. Rather, the breeze turned warmer. Small plants sprouted from the once snow-covered fields.

However, instead of jumping in excitement as he would, the child blankly stared outside.

The enthusiasm he had felt moments ago slowly dulled, replaced by a quiet, thoughtful silence that made Ren glance back more than once his way.

The child wasn’t sulking anymore—he was thinking.

That somehow felt worse to the worried omega.

Zayden slowed his horse just enough to draw closer to the carriage, lowering his voice.

"Did I do something wrong?"

Ren hummed softly.

"You didn’t hurt him," he said. "But you didn’t explain yourself enough."

Zayden huffed. "I keep thinking I’ll say the wrong thing. That he’ll think I’m too strict."

Ren looked at him—at the rigid set of his shoulders, at how often his gaze flicked toward the carriage, as if afraid Eiran might vanish the moment he stopped watching.

"If you’re too harsh, he will misunderstand you," Ren said gently. "Did you see how quickly he argued back? If he starts believing we don’t love him, he might grow rebellious."

Zayden blinked. "...Is that supposed to reassure me?"

"It should," Ren replied, a faint smile touching his lips. "Children only argue with people they trust to listen. With people they believe will hear them."

"I shall trust you on that..."