Fated and knocked up by the Alpha King (Elara) novel Chapter 5

Thorne’s POV

The sheets were cold.

Thorne knew before he opened his eyes that she was gone.

“Elara?” His voice rasped the empty room. No answer.

Only silence answered.

His chest constricted, an ache so sharp it nearly stole his breath. He didn’t need anyone to tell him what it meant — his wolf already knew. The bond had snapped into place last night with terrifying certainty.

He had found her.

His mate.

And now she was gone.

She’d slipped through his fingers like smoke, leaving nothing but the echo of her name on his lips.

“Elara,” he whispered again, a vow and a plea all at once.

He launched from the bed, the wolf inside him already snarling. Her scent lingered — sweet and sharp, burned into his lungs — but the trail was faint, fading fast. Clothes gone. Bag gone. No note. Nothing.

His chest constricted, claws scraping against his ribs from the inside. He had found her. His mate. After years of wondering if fate had passed him by — she was here, real, undeniable. And now she was gone.

He stormed out into the hallway, golden eyes blazing. Staff froze in their tracks as he descended on the concierge desk, his aura crackling like a storm.

“The woman,” he demanded. “Where did she go?”

The concierge nearly fumbled the register in his hands. “She—she left, monsieur. Very early. Around dawn.”

“Did she check out?”

The man swallowed hard. “N-no, Alpha. The suite is under your name. There was… nothing to process.”

Thorne’s jaw flexed, fury simmering in his chest. No note. No number. No trace. She hadn’t just left — she had erased herself.

Julian Renard appeared at his shoulder, as unruffled as ever, though his eyes were sharp. “Looks like your mystery girl slipped out without a sound,” he said, his tone almost amused.

Thorne rounded on him, his voice a growl. “Not a mystery. My mate.”

For once, Julian’s easy smirk faltered.

But Thorne was already moving again, snapping orders into his phone. “Track the airports. The trains. The bus stations. I want eyes everywhere. Sweep CCTV feeds. She couldn’t have gotten far.”

“Yes, Alpha,” came the swift replies.

Still, every second stretched like a blade against his skin. She was already gone, disappearing into the veins of Paris.

He clenched his fists, the wolf inside him clawing to break free.

“Elara,” he murmured, voice low and lethal, a vow carried into the empty air.

“I will find you. No matter how long it takes.”

Elara’s POV

The second I stumbled into Charles de Gaulle, the place seemed louder, brighter, and far too judgmental. My bag wobbled dangerously on its squeaky wheel, my blouse clung where sweat dampened it, and my curls were—let’s just say Paris humidity had staged a coup on my head.

But worse than that was my phone.

It buzzed so violently in my pocket I half-expected smoke to start pouring out. Groaning, I fished it out and unlocked the screen.

Cassia. Dozens of messages stacked on top of each other like a digital wall of doom.

Cassia: WHERE ARE YOU.

Cassia: You’re not answering. Suspicious.

Cassia: If you died, I’m gonna be so mad.

Cassia: Wait. You didn’t DIE. You HOOKED UP.

Cassia: That’s it, isn’t it? OHHH.

Cassia: Tell me you didn’t just ditch me for a Parisian fling. Actually, no, tell me everything.

Cassia: If you don’t respond in 3 mins, I’m calling your mom.

Attached: an aggressively unflattering selfie of Cassia fake-crying with mascara streaks drawn on her face in eyeliner.

I stuffed the phone back in my pocket like it was radioactive. “I hate her,” I muttered.

Unfortunately, the universe had no mercy.

Because there she was.

Cassia Valemont — my cousin, my best friend, my personal chaos incarnate — stood at the gate like she was the star of a drama. Blonde bun perched high, oversized sunglasses covering half her face, and a scarf so long it could double as a noose. Her arms were crossed, her boot tapped a menacing beat, and the second she spotted me, her mouth dropped into a triumphant O.

“Elara Quinn,” she boomed, loud enough for the entire gate to hear, “do you know what TIME it is?”

I winced. “Hi, Cass.”

“‘Hi, Cass?’” she repeated, scandalized. “‘Hi, Cass?!’ Do you have any idea how worried I was? I sent you fifty-three texts, two voice notes, and a very moving obituary draft. I was about to commission your headstone!”

“I overslept,” I muttered, dragging my suitcase toward the line.

Cassia gasped like I’d insulted the moon goddess. “Lies.”

“It’s not—”

“Oh, it IS.” She whipped off her sunglasses, narrowing her eyes at me. “Because oversleeping is drool and mismatched socks. Oversleeping is not—” she circled me with a finger, “—the ‘I just spent the night with Mr. Tall-Dark-and-Holy-Hell’ glow.”

Heat flamed my cheeks. “Cassia—”

“Oh my goddess.” Her grin widened, evil and gleeful. “It was him, wasn’t it? The broody guy at the bar. The one with shoulders so wide they should’ve had their own zip code.”

My stomach dropped. “You don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“I absolutely do,” she said smugly, fanning herself with her boarding pass. “I told you he was looking at you like you were dessert. And now you’re glowing like a crème brûlée someone set on fire.”

I shoved her forward as the line moved, praying the ground would swallow me whole. “Can we not broadcast this to the entire airport?”

Just one night, I told myself again. That’s all it was.

Elara’s POV

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