Novels by aladumpeter

Reylap’s POVThe sharp, rhythmic rapping against the bedroom door cut through the haze of my sleep like a blade. I bolted upright, my heart hammering against my ribs, the instinct to flee still raw and jagged in my chest. "Elliott?" I hissed, clutching the duvet to my collarbone.Elliott groaned, his large frame shifting beside me. He looked at the door, then back at me, his eyes softening despite the intrusion. "It’s just one of the guards, Reylap. Relax.""Don't open it," I whispered, my voice trembling. "Not while I'm here. Please."The knocking came again, louder this time. "Alpha? We have news regarding the visitor."Elliott sat up, his bare shoulders bronzing in the morning light. Instead of reaching for his shirt to hide me, he reached for my hand. "I’m not hiding you anymore. I’m going to open that door, and I’m going to show them exactly who you are to me.""No!" I scrambled back toward the headboard, my eyes wide. "Elliott, look at me. My hair is a mess, I’m wearing your ov

Reylap’s POVI stared at the half-empty pickle jar in my hand, the brine sloshing slightly as my fingers trembled. The air in the kitchen was thick, charged with the confession Elliott had just laid bare between us. My heart felt like a bird trapped in a cage, fluttering against my ribs with a frantic, hopeful rhythm. I looked up at him, my eyes burning with the remnants of the tears I’d shed only moments ago. "Is this really it, then?" I asked, my voice cracking before I forced a dry, half-jesting tone into it. "Is this what you imagined when you thought about acknowledging the bond? Be honest with me, Elliott."He didn't move from his position between my knees. His hands remained braced on the counter, caging me in, but it didn't feel like a prison. It felt like an anchor. "What do you mean?""The glamour of the Alpha's mate," I said, gesturing vaguely with a pickle spear. "Did you imagine the middle-of-the-night emergencies? The 3:00 AM pickle raids? Did you picture a woman who cr

Reylap’s POV"I need pickles," I said, my voice cutting through the heavy silence of the bedroom.Eliott groaned, the sound muffled by his pillow. He shifted beside me, the heat of his body a sharp contrast to the chill in the air. "Reylap? It’s three in the morning. Are you okay? Is the baby kicking again?""The baby is fine. The baby wants vinegar and crunch," I insisted, propping myself up on my elbows. My back ached, and my stomach felt like a lead weight, but the craving was a physical itch I couldn't scratch. "Please, Eliott. The big jar. The ones with the garlic cloves at the bottom."He sat up slowly, rubbing his face with both hands. His hair was a chaotic nest of dark strands, and he looked entirely disoriented. "Pickles. At three. Right. Okay.""You don't have to," I said, though my eyes were wide and pleading."No, I’m going," he muttered, swinging his legs over the side of the bed. He was half-dressed, wearing only his lounge pants, his bare torso glowing faintly in the m

Elliott’s POVThe warmth of her skin under my palm felt like a brand, a heavy, tethering weight that made my wolf purr with a dangerous kind of contentment. Underneath my hand, the pup kicked again—a sharp, rhythmic thud against my palm. My heart stuttered. It wasn’t my blood. It wasn't my legacy. But in the quiet of the study, with the scent of old parchment and Reylap’s lavender soap surrounding us, that distinction felt thinner than it ever had before.I started to pull my hand away, my fingers twitching as I forced myself to break the contact. "I should let you get some actual rest, Reylap," I said, my voice sounding more strained than I intended.Her hand instantly clamped over mine, pinning it back against the swell of her stomach. "No," she whispered, her eyes wide and pleading in the dim light. "Don't leave yet. Just stay close. Please.""Rey," I said, trying to maintain a shred of discipline. "If you stay curled up on this study couch until morning, you’re going to wake up ve

Elliott's POV The halogen lamp on my desk hummed, a low-frequency buzz that grated against my ears as I flipped through the land deeds. The scents of old parchment and printer ink filled the air, mixing with the cooling mountain breeze drifting through the open window. We needed more territory, not for hunting, but for survival in a world that was rapidly encroaching on our borders. "Borders won't matter if we can't feed the lower ranks during the winter," I muttered to the empty room, my thumb tracing the agricultural yield projections for the northern valley. The neighboring packs—the Silver Glade and the Iron Peak—were hesitant. They were old school, obsessed with territory lines and ancestral burial grounds. I needed a way to convince them that a joint business venture, a massive scale-up of farming and land acquisition, was the only way to keep the humans from buying it all up first. A floorboard creaked in the hallway. I didn't look up, my nose catching the scent of van

Reylap's POV "Yellow is not a neutral, Reylap. It’s an assault on the senses," Eliott said, his voice echoing against the bare floorboards of the nursery. He held the lid of the paint can between two fingers like it was a piece of evidence from a crime scene.I leaned back against the doorframe of the spare room he’d cleared out for me weeks ago, crossing my arms over the slight but firm curve of my stomach. "It’s not 'assault yellow.' Camille called it 'Summer Harvest.' It’s warm. It’s cheerful. It doesn't look like the inside of a sterile pack clinic, which is clearly what you’re gunning for with that depressing slate grey.""Grey is sophisticated," he countered, though his gaze softened as it drifted toward my waist. "And Camille has questionable taste in decor. She once tried to convince the Council that neon orange was the color of 'authority'.""She was right about the yellow," I insisted, stepping into the room. "The sunlight hits this corner in the morning. If we paint it you