Fated and knocked up by the Alpha King (Elara) novel Chapter 2

Elara’s POV

It started with a lost suitcase.

Technically, my lost suitcase.

Cassia and I had been up since before dawn, flying from Minneapolis to Paris with one stop in New York. Somewhere between Minnesota and France, my luggage decided it deserved a vacation of its own. The airline clerk at Charles de Gaulle Airport shrugged like this was a personal inconvenience to him and mumbled, “Peut-être demain.” Maybe tomorrow.

I was standing there in leggings, an oversized Valemont hoodie, and sneakers that had seen better days. Cassia, of course, was immaculate — her red hair spilling out of a chic scarf, tailored coat belted at the waist, boots that probably cost more than my laptop. Her rolling luggage glided behind her like it had a personal butler.

“Cheer up, El,” she said as we wrestled our way toward the RER train into the city. “You’re in Paris. This is an excuse to shop.”

“With what money?” I asked, eyeing her smug reflection in the train window.

“With mine,” she said breezily. “I consider it a public service. Also, I refuse to let you go out looking like an American backpacker who got lost on the way to a hiking trail.”

By the time we reached our hotel in the Marais district, I’d been awake for twenty-one hours and was starting to hallucinate baguettes in every shadow. The street was a postcard — cobblestones, flower boxes spilling green onto wrought-iron balconies, the air warm with the scent of butter and espresso from the café next door.

Inside, the lobby was all gold accents and velvet chairs. The receptionist, a chic brunette in a silk blouse, handed over our keys with a soft “Bienvenue, mesdames.” Cassia answered in fluent French that made her sound like she’d been raised on champagne and private tutors.

“You do realize,” I said as we took the elevator up, “that my French consists of ‘bonjour,’ ‘merci,’ and ‘pain au chocolat.’”

“Those are the only ones you need,” she said. “Hello, thank you, and chocolate bread. You’re set for life.”

Our rooms were small but charming — slanted ceilings, windows that opened onto a narrow street, a little table with a vase of fresh tulips. Cassia tossed a garment bag onto my bed.

“Wear that tonight,” she said.

I unzipped it and frowned. “Cassia… this is… this is a belt pretending to be a dress.”

“That’s because it’s a statement,” she said, flipping her hair. “You have the legs for it, and tonight, you’re going to use them.”

“Is this the part where you tell me we’re just getting dinner and then somehow I wake up in another country?”

She grinned. “Close. We’re going to a little bar I read about in a travel blog. Allegedly, the best cocktails in Paris and… a very interesting clientele.”

Two Hours Later…

We stepped into the bar and I immediately understood why she’d picked it.

It was narrow, candlelit, the air thick with music and low conversation. The crowd was a mix of stylish Parisians and travelers who looked like they’d taken a wrong turn on the way to a film set.

Cassia swanned up to the bar like she owned it and ordered in French that made the bartender smile — and maybe blush. I took the stool next to her, trying not to look like a sleep-deprived Midwesterner who’d lost her luggage.

“You’re staring at the wine list like it’s written in runes,” Cassia said, passing me a drink. “Relax. You’re in Paris. No one cares if you pronounce things wrong. You’re exotic.”

I snorted. “You mean foreign.”

“Exactly,” she said.

We sipped, we people-watched. Cassia narrated our fellow patrons under her breath: “That guy’s on his third date with the blonde — she’s going to ghost him. The couple in the corner? Definitely spies. Oh, and that man by the door? Ten out of ten, would risk an international incident.”

I laughed into my drink. “You’re impossible.”

That’s when I felt it.

The prickle on the back of my neck. The weight of a gaze that felt like it could strip me down to the bone and still want more.

I turned.

He was standing half in shadow near the far wall. Tall — easily over six feet — with broad shoulders that strained the fit of his black shirt. His hair was dark, cut close at the sides, his jaw sharp enough to make my fingers itch. But it was his eyes that stopped me cold.

Golden.

Not amber, not brown — molten gold.

They locked on mine, and the world went muffled, the bass of the music beating in my chest like a second heart. My wolf stirred, sharp and alert.

Cassia followed my line of sight and let out a slow, delighted, “Oh… yes.”

I swallowed. “Cassia—”

“Don’t you dare chicken out,” she said. “That man is staring at you like you’re the last glass of whiskey on earth.”

“I don’t even know his name.”

She smirked. “Then go find out.”

And before I could argue, she gave me a gentle shove forward — right as he began to move toward me.

I didn’t plan to walk toward him.

My feet just… moved.

One step.

Then another.

The crowd in the bar shifted like the tide, parting just enough for me to see him again — and feel the weight of his gaze like it had a physical hold on me. The music thumped low and steady, but my own heartbeat was louder.

Up close, he was worse.

Worse in the best possible way.

Tall enough that I had to tilt my chin, shoulders broad enough to block out the flickering candlelight behind him. His jaw was carved and strong, shadowed just enough to make me wonder if he’d forgotten to shave or just didn’t care to. And those eyes — golden, molten, unblinking — studied me like I was both a puzzle and a problem he intended to solve tonight.

“Bonsoir,” he said, his voice a deep, smooth rasp that curled around the French word like it belonged there.

“Hi,” I answered.

Just “hi.”

My brain was clearly useless under direct eye contact.

The corner of his mouth lifted, not quite a smile. “Not from here.”

“Was it my accent or the way I looked at the menu like it was a cryptic prophecy?”

“Both,” he said without hesitation. “But mostly… the way you don’t belong to this room, yet everyone notices you.”

Heat licked at my cheeks. “That’s a line.”

His head tilted slightly. “Only if it works.”

Somewhere behind me, I could practically hear Cassia straining not to interrupt, which meant she was absolutely eavesdropping.

I tried to gather myself. “Do you talk to all the women in this bar like this?”

“No,” he said, and there was no hesitation, no smirk this time — just certainty. “Just the one who makes my blood feel like fire.”

My stomach dropped, heat curling low. My wolf shifted inside me, ears pricked, tail twitching, leaning toward him as if pulled by an invisible thread.

“You’re staring,” I managed.

Someone jostled past, brushing my arm, but neither of us moved. The air between us was heavy, charged, humming with something I didn’t have a name for yet but could feel in my bones.

Every wolf instinct I had leaned forward and whispered: Go.

Cassia winked at me and drifted away, but not before pantomiming he’s hot behind his back.

My mind scrambled. Not Minnesota. Definitely not Valemont. I wasn’t about to hand a stranger the keys to my life. “Pacific Northwest,” I said smoothly. “Small town. You’ve never heard of it.”

Something flickered in his golden eyes. Interest… or disbelief. “I’ve been through that part of the world,” he said slowly. “Beautiful. Is that why you carry yourself like the forest’s still under your skin?”

I blinked. “That’s… an oddly specific observation.”

“Maybe I notice more than most.”

It was the way he said it — not bragging, not flirtatious — that made the hairs on my arms lift. I took a sip of wine to cover the fact that my senses were quietly screaming something about him is not normal.

The waiter arrived with a small plate of cheese and fruit. Thorne reached for a slice of pear at the same time I did, and his fingers brushed mine.

Heat. Not just skin warmth — heat. A spark that shot up my arm and into my chest.

His nostrils flared, subtly, but enough that my wolf jerked to attention.

I knew that reflex. I’d done it a thousand times — testing the air for scent.

He covered it with a smooth movement, setting the pear onto my plate, but my pulse was already kicking faster. Did he smell me? Could he tell I wasn’t human?

And… could I smell him?

I inhaled without meaning to — not deep enough to be obvious, but enough to catch it.

The faintest trace of cedar and rain and something wilder underneath. It made my mouth go dry.

“You travel a lot?” I asked, trying to sound casual.

“Often enough,” he said. “Though lately, I find myself in places I didn’t expect to be.” His eyes caught mine. “Like here.”

The air between us thickened. I wanted to ask more, to press him, but then Cassia appeared, swooping in like a hawk spotting prey.

“So,” she said to Thorne, sliding into the empty chair beside me, “do you dance?”

“Sometimes,” he said without missing a beat.

“Perfect,” she said, already waving toward the dance floor. “Because Elara does, and she’s not allowed to leave Paris without dancing at least once.”

Before I could protest, Thorne stood and held out his hand. “Shall we?”

I hesitated for three seconds. My instincts — human and wolf alike — whispered danger. But the warm weight of his hand promised something else entirely.

I let him lead me.

On the dance floor, the crowd pressed close, the music a pulse under our feet. Thorne moved easily, his presence wrapping around me without actually touching more than my waist.

Once, his palm slid just slightly higher, and my wolf reacted instantly — a shiver, a flash of heat.

He bent his head to speak, his breath brushing my ear. “You’re not from the Pacific Northwest.”

I stiffened. “Excuse me?”

“You smell like…” He paused, then smiled, as if he’d decided not to finish. “Something else.”

My heartbeat stumbled. “Do you say that to all the girls you dance with?”

“Only the ones lying about where they’re from.”

The song shifted, but neither of us moved away. The air between us hummed, the question unspoken but hanging heavy: What are you?

And for the first time all night, I wanted to know his answer just as badly.