Page 8 of The CEO Alpha’s Substitute Mate

“Who are you?”

“Callum Vance.”

The name does nothing. Her pulse doesn’t shift by a beat, so she’s never heard it in her life.

“Who?”

A few seconds pass before I answer her.

“I’m Luca’s father.”

I hear her heartbeat kick up, and when she doesn’t respond, a wave of anger rears inside me.

“Open the door, Miss Reyes, or I will break it down.”

“Are you threatening me?” Her voice is sharp, but I can sense something else underneath, a hint of panic. “That’s a crime. I can have you arrested for that.”

“And I can have you arrested for kidnapping my son!” I snap.

The chain comes off, and she pulls the door wide open. Whatever else I was about to say dies on my lips. Light brown eyes come up at me out of a face that’s nothing like the picture I just saw. High cheekbones, a full mouth, olive skin flushed along the jaw from whatever she’s been doing for the last two hours. Her hair is coming loose from whatever’s holding it, dark and heavy against her neck, and the collar of her T-shirt has gone soft and slipped off one shoulder. She’s five foot five and has to tip her head back to hold my gaze, but she holds it. My wolf surges forward, suddenly wanting her scent, needing to roll around in it. The reaction is so unexpected that it takes me a few seconds to wrestle it into submission.

“Say that again. I don’t think I heard you right.” Her voice is sharp, but there’s something low underneath it, and my wolf turns toward the sound before I do.

“I’m Luca’s father.” I look past her shoulder into the room. “Where is he?”

“Wait, now hold on—”

But I’m already through the doorway. Behind me, she’s shouting. I look around the front room, and none of it fits the woman I expected to find. Everything in here is secondhand, and every piece of it has been mended. The ratty sofa is covered with a brightly colored throw. One table leg is shimmed with a takeout menu folded into quarters. Despite the quality of the furniture, the place is clean and well maintained.

On the wall by the kitchen arch, there are photographs, and in one of them, two women stand with their arms around each other. The taller one wears her dark hair short, and her features are sharper. Both women have the same wide mouth, though, and the eyes sit the same in both faces. It isn’t a subtle resemblance from where I’m standing. Above the television, there’s a pair of pointe shoes, satin worn through at the platform, ribbons wound and tucked with more care than anything else in this building has been given.

My wolf wants to rush forward and find our child, but I believe in assessing the situation first rather than being led by my beast’s emotions.

“You called a healer tonight.”

She stops halfway across her own carpet. “I did what?” Her voice climbs, realization dawning on her. “That was over an hour ago. How do you know about it? Who gave you this address?”

I don’t bother replying. Past the kitchen arch, there’s a short hall, and I follow the boy’s scent down it.

“Hey! You can’t just walk into somebody’s home!”

The bedroom door is open halfway. She gets around me at the threshold, quicker than I’d have credited, and puts herself between me and the bed with both arms out.

“Don’t even think about touching him.”

I stop where I am and look at her properly for the first time. She’s shaking, but her eyes are fierce, like a female wolf protecting her young. Her T-shirt has been soaked through and half dried on her twice tonight. The clothes underneath are not in the best condition. Behind her, a boy is lying under a quilt washed a hundred times and repaired at one corner in stitching that matches nothing else on it.

“That child is my blood,” I answer. “Why would I hurt him?”

“I don’t know you.” Her arms don’t come down. “That’s the whole problem. I don’t know one single thing about you. You can’t just barge in here and start claiming paternity!”

I take her by the shoulders and push her aside. It requires no effort whatsoever. Her jaw sets, and she’s back at my shoulder before I’ve reached the bed.

Relief fills me at the sight of him.

Mine. My child.

The boy is on his back with one arm thrown up over his head, six years old and small for it, hair stuck down and wet at the temples. Along the shelf above the bed there are toy wolves lined up in an order somebody decided a long time ago. I go down on one knee beside him and put my hand across his forehead. He’s burning. His wolf is coming up years before his body can survive it, and he doesn’t know the first thing about how to control it.