Page 27 of Fated Alpha Baby

“Yes, Mommy,” she murmurs at my side, staring across the expanse of the van at Conan while she speaks to me. Her brown eyes, big and bright, watch him warily. The only explanation I gave her was that I was marrying the werewolf to secure ties in the alliance—a fact everyone knows.

She doesn’t understand what it means to be a werewolf’s fated mate. And even I no longer care what it means, when being Conan’s fated mate has been my downfall in the past.

And it was all because he agreed with his grandfather that I wasn’t fit to be his luna when he became alpha.

What a sick twist of fate this is!

Chapter 7 - Conan

There’s an hour left until we get to Bitterroot, and the little girl hasn’t said a word. But she hasn’t stopped staring at me with eyes as curious as Hannah’s once were, and as fierce as she portrays herself now.

There’s a depth to the little girl’s curious stare, but I can’t make out what it means. I have many questions, though, like if she knew her father, who he is, what he is, and what happened to him.

Questions that plague me in the silence where Hannah has fallen asleep against her hand on the window.

It infuriates me that she moved on in the blink of an eye, that she disregarded the promise I made to her that night, eight years ago. What was she playing at, anyway? Except acting like the damsel in distress, being chased by a mob of bullies, but for what? So she could get my sympathy? So I could lay myself bare, just for her to destroy me when she left?

I curl my hands into fists, troubled but not forgetting that she is my luna now, tied to me by the mating ritual performed by the High Priestess.

There’s no going back. And it’s what my inner wolf seems content with, even if that contentment is doused with jealousy. It’s hard to be angry when the little girl doesn’t stop staring at me, and all I’m reminded of is Hannah at that same age, when we first became friends.

I remembered what it was like to be her friend. How determined I was to become her friend when I was eight, and pack politics and hierarchies didn’t matter to my innocent mind. How we’d grown so close after one game of dominoes, and across the years, my feelings developed into much more than platonic love.

It took one moment of weakness, of doubt, for her to throw it all away, and it still hurts like a bitch after all these years.

Especially now, breathing the same air as her.

Sighing irritably, I turn to the window behind me, but without leaving the little girl’s eyes. I can’t fault her when none of this pain is hers to account for. Opening my hand where I’d cut my palm for the mating ritual earlier tonight, I decide that making a friend again won’t be such a bad idea.

After all, she’s only a kid.

So I reach up to the window—the metal sheets with sigils and wards that kept Marcus Hale as a prisoner from Bitterroot to Augusta have been removed and used to keep him locked in the witches’ cell—and I let out a breath that fogs the glass. I draw lines in the misted window for a game of X’s and O’s, drawing one X in the top left corner.

The little girl catches on quickly, her lips playing into a smile as she glances at her mother to make sure she’s still asleep before joining me on the bench. She plays along, and within seconds, before the fog on the window can disappear, she emerges victorious in the game.

“Nice one, kiddo,” I whisper with a grin, holding out a fist that she bumps triumphantly.

She’s beaming with pride and skepticism in her eyes as she tilts her chin. “So, you’re Mommy’s husband now…” she comments as she stares at me squarely. “What does that mean for me?”

“Well, it depends on what you want it to mean. Have you ever met your father?”

“No,” she shrugs. “Mommy never said anything about him.”

“Are you not curious?”

She shrugs again. “I trust Mommy to tell me whatever I need to know. If she didn’t say anything about him, there was a good reason. She will tell me when the time is right.”

“Right,” I nod thoughtfully, trying not to let my mind wander too far off or I’ll become enraged by the thought of whoever Hannah made a child with. I sigh as I glance at her before returning my attention to the little girl.

She’s still watching me with that curiosity and fierceness that feels too familiar. She reminds me so much of Hannah, but that ferocity…

Hannah wasn’t like that when she was younger. Curious, yes. But not fierce.

Perhaps it’s circumstance that shaped the young girl, but I can’t help but feel like I know that ferocity as if it were my own.

“So, what is your name, kiddo? Surely it’s not Bug.”

She giggles under her breath and shakes her head. “No. My name is Clarissa.”