Fated and knocked up by the Alpha King (Elara) novel Chapter 11

Chapter Eleven Little Wolf, Big Trouble

Elara’s POV

Three years later, I had two constants in life: a looming deadline, and a toddler who thought bedtime was a personal attack.

The cursor blinked at me from my laptop like it’was mocking me. I’d written the same sentence three times and deleted it four. My editor’s last email was full of encouraging phrases like “gentle reminder” and “please stop ignoring me.” My coffee had gone cold, Cassia’s “writing fuel” pie had started sliding off the plate onto my notes, and under my chair was the reason my productivity had been murdered in broad daylight.

Aeron.

My three-year-old wedge of chaos. My fearless, golden-eyed, curly-haired son, who currently crouched under my desk with a plastic sword raised like he was about to slay a dragon.

“Sweetheart,” I whispered, nudging him with my knee. “Didn’t I ask you to play in the yard with Caius?”

“No,” he said simply, his small voice determined, before grinning like a tiny conqueror. “Monster!”

Before I could blink, Aeron launched out from under the desk, let out a shriek that rattled the windowpanes, and tore out the door.

A crash followed. Then a yelp. Then Alpha Darius’s growl booming through the house: “Who unleashed the beast again?!”

I buried my face in my hands. “This is why my editor thinks I write comedy.”

Sure enough, Aeron’s little warpath had led him straight to the Alpha’s office. His shrill battle cry echoed through the halls, followed by Cassia’s delighted scream.

“AHH! He stabbed me! With plastic! My cousin has raised a tyrant!”

From somewhere nearby, Caius’s flat voice followed: “If he breaks another lamp, I’m not fixing it this time.”

I pushed away from my desk and padded down the hall, my blouse streaked with ink stains, my curls piled in a lopsided bun. Valemont Packhouse was large enough to host strategy councils and banquets, but Aeron had turned it into his personal racetrack.

When I reached the kitchen, I found Cassia dramatically sprawled across the table, one hand clutched to her chest where Aeron had “stabbed” her with his toy sword.

“Tell my story,” she wheezed to Caius, who leaned against the counter sipping tea. “Tell the world how I fell bravely in battle.”

“You tripped over your own scarf,” Caius said dryly.

“Don’t ruin my legacy!” Cassia cried, flinging an arm.

Meanwhile, Aeron climbed onto the table, planted a foot on Cassia’s stomach, and raised his sword. “I win!” he declared, curls bouncing as he let out another shrill laugh.

Cassia groaned. “You’ve created a monster, Elara.”

I crossed my arms. “Funny, he looks like an angel to me.”

“Angel?” Caius snorted. “More like tiny Alpha.”

Behind us, Alpha Darius entered the kitchen, broad shoulders filling the doorway. His gray eyes swept the scene-the toppled chair, Cassia pinned dramatically under Aeron, Caius sipping tea like he’d paid admission. His gaze finally landed on me.

“Elara,” he said, voice full of Alpha authority and exasperation. “Control your pup before he conquers the packhouse.”

Aeron stood tall, sword still raised. “My house!” he shouted.

Cassia clutched him like a proud general holding her commander. “Our house,” she corrected, gasping. “We claim it in the name of chaos!”

I groaned. “You’re encouraging him.”

“Encouraging?” Cassia said, affronted. “I’m training him.”

Alpha Darius pinched the bridge of his nose. “Three years, and already the boy has conquered my household. At this rate, he’ll be Alpha by next week.”

“Next week?” Caius drawled. “Generous. I’d give him until Thursday.”

Laughter bubbled in my chest despite the fatigue pressing behind my eyes. This was my life now. Writing deadlines that slipped, family dinners full of noise and arguments, and a son who ruled Valemont Pack with plastic weapons and a grin that could melt iron.

When Aeron spotted me in the doorway, he leapt off the table, sword clattering to the floor. He ran full speed into my legs, his arms wrapping tight around me.

“Mine,” he whispered against my knees.

And for all the chaos, all the exhaustion, all the secrets I still carried like stones in my chest-he was right. He was mine.

Life in Valemont moved in rhythm with the seasons: hunts and harvests, festivals under the moon, and the endless chatter of pack business that hummed through the house like bees in a hive. Somewhere in the middle of it all, I carved out a space to be mother, daughter, niece, cousin and somehow, a writer.

It wasn’t glamorous. It was Aeron shoving crayons into my notebooks and calling them “dragon stories.” It was Cassia sneaking into my room at night to read over my drafts and inserting terrible romance one-liners just to see if I noticed. (“Kiss me like I’m your tax return” had somehow survived three editing passes.) It was Caius quietly swapping my cold coffee for hot tea when deadlines pressed too heavy, pretending he’d just “happened to walk by.”

And always, it was Aeron.

He’d grown like wildfire-two and a half years had turned my squirming newborn into a whirlwind of energy with golden-flecked eyes that saw more than I wanted to admit. He had Darius’s stubborn jaw, Seraphina’s sharp curiosity, and Cassia’s knack for causing trouble. Which meant I spent most of my time chasing him through halls he’d long since claimed as his kingdom.

“Mommy!” he shouted one afternoon, barrelling through the garden with a crown of dandelions jammed lopsided on his head. “Look! I’m king!”

“You’re muddy,” I said, catching him mid-sprint before he could track half the lawn through the house.

“King muddy!” Aeron declared proudly, squirming in my arms.

From the porch, Alpha Darius rumbled with laughter. “Better than half the kings I’ve met.”

Cassia snorted from her chair. “Careful, Father. Give him a week and he’ll start taxing the pack.”

“I tax!” Aeron shouted, seizing the word with dangerous enthusiasm.

Seraphina appeared then, hands on her hips, a towel slung over one arm. “Not before bath,” she said, sweeping Aeron from my arms with ease only grandmothers possessed. He wriggled and shrieked, but she gave me a look- one that said go breathe, I’ll handle him.

Inside, Caius leaned against the counter with a book in one hand, smirking at the noise outside. “You realize he already listens to no one but himself,” he murmured.

I flopped into the chair opposite him. “Remind you of anyone?”

“Half this family,” he said, sipping his tea.

Dinner was always the same: chaos and love braided together. Aeron on Cassia’s lap one minute, crawling under the table the next. Alpha Darius carving roast with one hand while swatting away Cassia’s attempts to sneak the best cuts. Seraphina quietly watching me, her healer’s eyes missing nothing-the exhaustion in my posture, the secret shadows when Aeron’s golden eyes caught the light just so.

But then Aeron would climb onto the bench beside me, curl into my side, and whisper, “I love you, Mommy,” with sticky fingers and a crooked smile. And every fear, every weight, melted just a little.

Being a single mother wasn’t easy. But here, in Valemont, with this messy, maddening, wonderful family-I wasn’t alone.

And I told myself that was enough.

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Thorne’s POV

Three years. Three winters, three summers, three turns of the moon since Paris-and still the memory burned.

Thorne Valen stood on the balcony of the fortress keep, the Northern Crescent sprawled below him. Snow glittered across the ridges, rivers cut like veins of silver, and banners whipped in the wind. It should have felt like triumph. It always did to other men. But to him, it was just… weight.

“Your Majesty,” Julian Renard said behind him, voice threaded with that insufferable mix of loyalty and sarcasm. “You’re brooding again. Very kingly. I almost brought you a crown to twirl for emphasis.”

Thorne didn’t turn. “Report.”

Julian’s boots clicked across the stone. He handed over a folio. “Treaties signed with Barrenfang. Rogues pressing in from the east border. And the council is pressing for an Ashthorne match again. Lady Sera is… accommodating.”

At that, the wolf under Thorne’s skin bristled. Ashthorne. Alliance. Marriage. All politics and cages, polished and perfumed, as if they didn’t realize he’d already been caught-by a woman who slipped out before dawn with no name, no trail, nothing but a scent that still haunted his every breath.

“Tell the council no,” Thorne said flatly.

Julian sighed. “You know how well that goes. They’ll call another session, drink too much wine, and remind you the King doesn’t live for himself.”

Thorne’s jaw tightened. “The King lives for his people.”

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