Fated and knocked up by the Alpha King (Elara) novel Chapter 3

Paris at night was exactly what people said it was — a city dipped in gold. The streetlamps cast warm halos over cobblestones polished smooth by centuries of footsteps. Every block smelled different: baked bread, strong coffee, roses spilling over a balcony, the faint metallic tang of rain even though the sky was clear.

Cassia had excused herself from the bar with a very suspicious grin, muttering about “letting us have our moment” and “scouting dessert places.” Which translated to: she was going to tail us for exactly fifteen minutes before finding something shiny to distract her.

Thorne walked beside me, close enough that I could feel the heat radiating from him. It wasn’t the normal kind of warmth. It clung. It pulled. My wolf pressed at the edges of my control, restless and alert.

“You let your cousin boss you around a lot,” he said after a moment, voice pitched casual but with a thread of amusement.

“It’s easier than fighting her,” I said. “Cassia’s like a dog with a bone when she decides something needs to happen.”

“Persistent,” he murmured. “Sounds familiar.”

I glanced up at him. “Was that a dig at me?”

He smiled — barely — and didn’t answer.

We passed a tiny bakery still open, the windows fogged from the ovens. The smell hit me like a blanket: butter, sugar, warm dough. My stomach growled loudly enough for him to hear.

Thorne stopped without a word, ducked inside, and came back out less than a minute later with a paper bag. He handed me a warm croissant and kept the other for himself.

I bit into it and groaned. “Oh, wow. This is indecent.”

He raised a brow. “Is that a review of the pastry, or…?”

I shot him a look but kept chewing, flakes scattering down my fingers. “The pastry. For now.”

The corner of his mouth curved. “For now.”

We walked on, weaving past couples arm in arm, tourists clutching cameras, street musicians staking their corners. Thorne’s gaze seemed to catch on everything but linger on me. And every time I met his eyes, there was that low hum of recognition again, like we were two magnets dancing on the edge of snapping together.

“You still haven’t told me why you’re here,” he said, breaking the silence.

“I told you — girls’ trip.”

His expression didn’t change, but something in his tone sharpened. “And I told you you’re lying about where you’re from.”

I smirked. “Maybe I like my secrets.”

“I like unlocking them,” he said simply.

My wolf gave a low, quiet growl in the back of my mind, not of warning but of agreement. I didn’t like how much that unsettled me.

We turned down a smaller street, less crowded, the lamps throwing long shadows on the walls. 

A violinist played under one of the lights, the sound threading through the quiet. Thorne slowed, head tilting in a way that was painfully familiar. Wolves listened like that — with their whole body, every muscle tuned to the sound.

“You ever notice,” he said softly, “how some sounds… cut deeper?”

“Yes,” I said before I could stop myself.

Our eyes met. For a second, neither of us looked away. My chest felt tight.

Then: Bzzzz.

My phone vibrated in my pocket. Cassia.

Cassia: Is he cute up close or just bar lighting cute?

Cassia:  Blink twice if you need rescuing.

Cassia:  If he’s a serial killer I’m not paying for the funeral.

I stifled a laugh. “My cousin is checking in.”

“I’m sure she is,” he said, sounding entirely unsurprised.

I typed back: Stop spying. Go to bed.

Before I could pocket my phone, a shout echoed from the far end of the street. A man — drunk, swaying — was staggering toward us, muttering in rapid French.

Thorne moved before I could process it. One smooth step in front of me, his shoulders squaring, every line of his body broadcasting danger. His head lowered just slightly — not human body language, not even remotely subtle.

The drunk froze mid-step, eyes going wide. His muttering trailed off into silence. Then he turned and stumbled in the opposite direction without another word.

I stared at Thorne. “What… was that?”

“Just a look,” he said lightly, but there was a faint glint in his eyes.

No. That wasn’t just a look. That was wolf.

I swallowed, my own instincts still buzzing from the shift in his presence. The air between us was suddenly thicker, heavier.

We started walking again, slower this time. The night sounds pressed close: the faint scrape of shoes on stone, the whisper of leaves in a courtyard, the steady rhythm of his breathing beside mine.

And for the first time all night, I was certain — whatever he was, so was I.

The street curved toward the river, the glow of the lamps stretching long across the pavement. The Seine shimmered below, dark and silver at once. Somewhere down the embankment, a couple was dancing to a tinny speaker, their laughter carrying on the wind.

“You know,” Thorne said, glancing at me, “for someone who claims to be on a girls’ trip, you spend a lot of time alone.”

“Cassia’s definition of a girls’ trip is finding me a man and then disappearing to find herself dessert,” I said.

“Efficient,” he murmured.

My phone buzzed again. I didn’t need to check to know who it was.

Cassia:Do you have his ID? Did you check for weapons? Ask him if he likes puppies.

Cassia:And for the love of the moon, DO NOT tell him your real pack if he is a werewolf. Or your real last name.

Cassia:Send me the address if you’re going somewhere. I will literally hire a PI.

Thorne’s brow arched. “Persistent, isn’t she?”

“She’s… thorough,” I said, texting back Alive. Not kidnapped. No weapons. Probably likes puppies.

His mouth twitched. “Probably?”

“Well, I haven’t asked yet,” I said.

“Do you want to?”

I tilted my head. “Do you like puppies?”

He didn’t blink. “I like wolves better.”

Something in my chest tightened. “Specific.”

“I have… history,” he said, his gaze sliding to mine.

That sounded like a thread I should pull on, but before I could, Cassia struck again.

Cassia: If he’s too hot, it’s a red flag. That’s a predator tactic.

I burst out laughing, which earned me a puzzled look from Thorne. “She says you’re too hot to trust.”

He actually smiled at that — slow, deliberate. “She’s probably right.”

Cassia: Send me the safe word if you’re alive but compromised.

Cassia: Like… banana. No, too weird. Pineapple. Send me pineapple if you’re in danger.

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