Stealing the Alpha’s Heritage

Chapter 3

"Please, I need to speak with Alpha Evander."

Rain slices down my face in icy sheets, plastering my hair against my skin as I stand at the massive iron gates of the Moonveil Pack territory.

My soaked dress clings to my body like a second skin, each gust of wind cutting through the thin fabric.

The guard's eyes narrow to slits, his gaze tracking over my disheveled appearance with calculated assessment. Water drips from my chin, pooling at my feet.

"The Alpha doesn't take refugees."

"Luna Rowena sent me." I force my spine straight despite the violent trembling in my legs. The exhaustion threatens to buckle my knees, but I lock them in place. "From the Bloodfang Pack. She said he would understand."

The guard's entire demeanor shifts, his shoulders tensing.

"Luna Rowena?" He takes a sharp step backward, his hand already reaching for the phone at his hip. "Wait here."

I wrap my arms around myself, trying to preserve what little warmth remains in my body. The cold penetrates deeper with each passing second, seeping through skin and muscle until it reaches bone.

What if he turns me away? Where else can I possibly go?

My hand drifts unconsciously to my stomach, a protective gesture I can't seem to control anymore.

Minutes stretch like hours while the rain continues its relentless assault. Finally, footsteps approach through the downpour—measured, unhurried, commanding attention without effort.

The man who emerges from the pack house moves with quiet authority.

Tall and broad-shouldered. His brown eyes hold a warmth that catches me off guard, so different from Thorne's predatory green gaze.

"You're Aria." The words carry certainty. His voice wraps around me like a blanket, warm despite the storm. "Rowena called ahead."

"She... she did?" My teeth chatter.

"Twenty minutes ago. Said you'd need sanctuary." He steps closer, and his scent reaches me through the rain—pine forests after a storm, earth and rain, somehow calming. "She also said you're carrying precious cargo."

Heat floods my cheeks despite the cold. "I can work. I'll contribute to the pack. I'm not asking for charity—"

"You're asking for safety." His interruption comes gentle but firm. "That's not charity. That's what packs are meant to provide."

I stare at this stranger who offers what my own mate never did. Protection without conditions, safety without payment. The contrast makes my chest tighten painfully.

"Come." He gestures toward the pack house, its windows glowing warm against the storm. "You need dry clothes and a hot meal. Everything else can wait."

We walk through the courtyard, my shoes squelching with each step. Pack members watch from windows and doorways—I catch glimpses of curious faces through rain-streaked glass.

No hostility colors their expressions, just mild interest. A female wolf with gentle features offers me a small, encouraging smile from beneath an awning.

"Your pack seems..." I search for the right word while we climb the front steps.

"Different?" Evander supplies, holding the door open for me. "We value strength here, but not the kind that comes from fear. Power protects in Moonveil. It doesn't punish."

The pack house interior radiates warmth that makes my frozen skin prickle painfully as sensation returns.

We enter a modest office—no ostentatious displays of dominance, no trophies or weapons mounted on walls. Just solid furniture, practical and well-made.

Evander pulls a towel from a closet and hands it to me without ceremony.

"The west wing has an empty suite." He moves to his desk with efficient movements, pulling out paperwork from a drawer. "It's yours for as long as you need it."

"Alpha Evander—"

"Just Evander." He slides the papers across the desk toward me. "I'll need you to formally request sanctuary. It provides protection under pack law—even your Alpha can't violate it without declaring war."

"I hope he won't do exactly that." My hands shake as I pick up the pen, water still dripping from my hair onto the documents. "I'm carrying his heirs."

The pen in Evander's hand stops moving. "Heirs?" His eyebrows rise slightly. "Plural?"

"Twins." The word still feels foreign on my tongue, too new, too fragile. "I haven't told anyone else except Rowena."

Evander sets down his pen with deliberate care, leaning back in his leather chair. The wood creaks softly under his weight.

"Let me be clear about something. Harboring you means risking war with Bloodfang. Protecting another Alpha's mate and heirs—"

"Former mate. I rejected him before I ran."

"That won't matter to him." He rises from his chair, pacing to the rain-lashed window with measured steps. "Thorne Blackwood's reputation precedes him. Possessive. Ruthless. Expanding his territory through violence."

"Which is why I need your protection."

"And you'll have it. But I need complete honesty." He turns from the window, his eyes studying my face with uncomfortable intensity. "Will he come for you?"

"No." The lie burns my tongue like acid, but I force it out anyway. "I'm nobody to him. Just another failed Luna. He has... other interests now."

"This Serena that Rowena mentioned?"

"His assistant." The word tastes bitter. "Though I suspect she's been more than that for months."

"And when he discovers you're pregnant?"

"I promise you, no one will come." My voice remains steady despite my heart hammering against my ribs hard enough to crack them. "I won't bring war to your door, Evander. I swear it."

He watches me for a long moment that stretches between us like a taut wire. I see the calculation in his eyes—weighing risk against compassion, duty against decency.

"If you're lying to me, if you bring danger to my pack—"

"I won't." I surge to my feet, desperation bleeding through. "Rowena said you were different. That you'd help. Was she wrong?"

Something shifts in his expression—not quite belief, but perhaps the decision to gamble on mercy. "My sister Elena is a nurse. She'll examine you tomorrow morning. Until then, you'll stay in the west wing under guard."

"Under guard?" My stomach plummets.

"A precaution." His voice softens marginally, though his stance remains firm. "For your safety as much as ours. If you're truly running from nothing, then you have nothing to fear."

He calls out, and a young warrior appears in the doorway within seconds—alert, professional, waiting for orders.

"Take Mrs. Blackwood to the west wing suite. Post someone outside her door tonight."

The warrior nods, gesturing for me to follow. As we leave Evander's office, I catch his final words, spoken quietly but clearly intended for my ears.

"Rowena vouched for you. That carries weight here. Don't make me regret trusting her judgment."

The west wing suite exceeds anything I expected—spacious, warm, with its own bathroom and a bed that looks like heaven after nights of running.

The guard takes position outside my door with quiet efficiency.

I peel off my soaked clothes and stand under the shower's hot spray until my skin turns pink and the trembling finally stops. Clean, dry clothes wait on the bed—simple but well-made, smelling of sage.

Everything I'm running from will find me, the thought whispers through my mind as I curl beneath the covers, my hands cradling my belly. But not tonight. Tonight, my babies are safe.