Reject me twice (Kira and Theron) novel Chapter 105

The twins are eighteen months old, and their power is accelerating.

Castiel crouches beside the stone hearth, presses his small hands flat against the floor, and pulls. The flagstone cracks beneath his fingers with a sound like splitting wood — directed force applied with a precision that belongs to someone three times his age.

“Castiel, no,” his nurse says.

He looks up with his father’s dark eyes and releases the stone. The crack runs six inches through the floor. He’s not upset but curious, testing limits of a strength that has no limits.

When he’s angry, furniture splinters; when he’s calm, he stacks blocks with the focus of a stonemason. It’s Malik’s omega-born bloodline amplified by Bloodmoon magic, and the combination is staggering.

Lyra’s abilities are different — more volatile and frightening. She moves objects at a distance and disrupts wards.

Once, during a tantrum, she shattered every window in the nursery wing simultaneously. But her most unsettling ability is newer: she reads emotions. Not words, not thoughts — emotions.

She knows when someone near her is afraid, angry, lying. She toddles away from people who feel wrong and gravitates toward those who feel safe.

Together, they represent more raw power than any wolf in recorded history. The Silver Queen’s legacy merged with an omega-born’s strength, and the magic pulsing between their joined hands has no name because it has never existed before.

I convene the meeting that afternoon — Malik, guard captain Rowan, and the four wolves who rotate the nursery detail.

“The children’s abilities are accelerating beyond what we anticipated,” I say. “No one outside this room and the immediate family witnesses what they can do.”

“That requires restructuring nursery access,” Rowan says. “Seven servants currently have regular contact. We’d need to reduce to two.”

“Do it. Malik, I want the ward system reinforced. If Lyra can disrupt standard wards, we need containment-grade protections.”

“Elara’s archive research may have precedents for containment wards designed for gifted wolves. I’ll consult with her today,” he pauses. “We should also discuss training.”

“For eighteen-month-olds?” Rowan’s eyebrow rises.

“Structured guidance, age-appropriate but deliberate. Castiel needs restraint before his strength endangers himself and everyone around him. Lyra needs to understand that her abilities require control, not just instinct.”

“Who trains children with abilities that have no precedent?” Rowan asks. “We don’t exactly have a curriculum for telekinetic toddlers who crack flagstones.”

“We build one,” Malik says. “The people in this room, with Elara’s research to guide us. Nobody else can be trusted with what these children are becoming.”

“What about containment failures?” Rowan presses. “Last week’s window incident brought guards from three corridors. If Lyra has another episode in a public space, classification becomes meaningless — every wolf in the palace will know what she can do.”

“We ensure she doesn’t have episodes in public spaces. The nursery wing becomes a controlled environment: reinforced wards, limited access, structured routines that minimize the triggers for emotional surges.”

“She’s a toddler, Malik. Her entire existence is emotional surges.”

“The longer we wait, the wider the gap between her power and her control becomes,” Malik turns to me.

“Kira, I want your authorization for a dedicated training schedule. Mornings for Castiel — strength exercises disguised as play, teaching him graduated force. Afternoons for Lyra — object manipulation drills that build precision and restraint. Together only under supervision, with ward support in case their combined power produces another surge.”

“Good. Rowan, coordinate the nursery restructuring with Malik’s office. I want the new protocols in place by the end of the week.”

“Done,” the guards file out.

“Lyra’s emotional reading,” Malik says. “It has implications beyond the nursery.”

Her blue eyes fix on Magnus with an unblinking intensity that silences conversation one voice at a time until the entire table has gone quiet.

She stares for five seconds, then ten… Her small face carries an expression I’ve never seen on a child this young: assessment, the focused evaluation of someone measuring what she feels from the man across the table.

Then she does something she’s never done publicly.

Magnus’s wine goblet — heavy silver, and half-full — slides three inches across the polished table. Smooth, deliberate motion, wine barely rippling. No hand near it, just a goblet pushed by the will of an eighteen-month-old girl who hasn’t broken eye contact.

The room goes silent: absolute, crystalline silence.

Magnus stares at the goblet, then at Lyra. His amber eyes hold my daughter’s gaze, and the expression that crosses his face moves through surprise into something warmer, deeper — admiration that transcends diplomatic polish.

“She’s remarkable,” he says softly. The warmth is there in his eyes, genuine and real.

And beneath the warmth is something I can’t name but my daughter apparently can, because Lyra turns away from Magnus and presses her face into my shoulder, her small hands gripping my dress with a tightness that communicates more than any word she’s learned.

I hold her close and smile at Magnus, and the smile is flawless because queens learn to hold their faces steady when their children tell them things that make the blood run cold.

“She has her moments,” I say. “More wine, Alpha Ironridge?”

Lyra doesn’t look at Magnus again for the rest of the evening. Her face buried against my chest, her fingers locked in the fabric of my dress, holding on to her mother the way children hold on when the world contains something they don’t yet have words to warn you about.