THE KING'S SLEEPING MATE

POV: Harolin

Harolin Draycott had faced down armies at the peak of winter, stared straight into the dead eyes of rebel alphas with their claws to his throat, and survived more assassination attempts than he could count on both hands. He knew how to bleed, how to bark orders that shook Astengard’s walls, and how to keep a ruthless kingdom from tearing itself apart.

Nothing, absolutely nothing could had prepared him for the royal healer looking up from the bed with wide, unblinking eyes to announce that the unconscious woman who had just tried to slit his throat was carrying his child.

The silence in the private healing chambers was so thick it felt like a physical weight pressing against Harolin's chest.

"Say that again," Harolin said, his voice dropping an octave into a low, dangerous rumble that made the silver pendants on the chamber walls rattle.

Jemisha didn't flinch, though she gripped her herbal pouch a little tighter. She was an old wolf who had served three different kings, but even her hands trembled slightly as she pulled her palm away from Anatolia’s abdomen.

"There is no mistake, Your Majesty," Jemisha replied, her voice steadying as she met his blazing golden gaze. "She has been unconscious for days, yes. Her body is severely weakened from the shock of the forbidden curse, and the heavy traces of wolfsbane lingering in her system are astonishingly high."

Harolin frowned, stepping closer. His bare feet dragging against the cold stone floor. "Wolfsbane? She is human, Jemisha. Wolfsbane is lethal to our kind, but it is nothing more than a bitter plant to humans. Why would it affect her like this?"

"Because of the sheer, unnatural quantity, My King," Jemisha explained, gently tracing a finger over the faint purple veins along Anatolia's neck. "She has spent years consuming large amounts of wolfsbane and steeping her weapons in concentrated toxins so that her very skin and blood carry the poison. To an ordinary human, a small dose does nothing. But Anatolia has soaked her body in it for over a decade. In such massive amounts, the toxicity builds up and pulls heavily on the human organs—especially now, while her body is fighting the strain of the spell."

Harolin stared down at Anatolia’s pale, lifeless-looking face. Her dark hair was splayed across the embroidered pillows, and her breath came in slow, shallow puffs.

"She is an assassin," Harolin muttered, his jaw tightening so hard a muscle twitched. "A human slayer who spent the last twelve years hunting my pack. And now you're telling me she's..."

He couldn't even bring himself to finish the sentence. Jemisha reached out and traced a careful finger over Anatolia’s stomach once more, her fingertips glowing with the healing magic.

A small gasp escaped the healer’s throat and Harolin frowned, his gaze dropping to Jemisha’s palm still on Anatolia's flat stomach.

 "Something else?"

“I must make sure,” Jemisha pressed her hands back down over Anatolia's lower abdomen, closing her eyes as she concentrated. A faint, silvery-blue glow danced across her fingertips.

"Not just one life, Your Highness," Jemisha whispered, her eyes snapping open with a mixture of awe and disbelief. "There are two heartbeats. Its Twins."

Harolin froze. The breath completely vanished from his lungs. Half-human, half-royal wolf children, carried by the empire's most lethal slayer—a woman who was currently trapped in a magical coma because she would rather stop her own heart than accept him as her mate.

He could still hear Jemisha in the background. “Her body was already fighting the pregnancy when she cast that second spell to sever your connection. The shock of her heart stopping threw her into this coma, but the life inside her survived, the twins saved her."

Inside his chest, a dark, heavy force stirred.

Mine, a deep, terrifying growl echoed through the back of his mind.

Rhenar, pushed against Harolin's consciousness with enough force to make his vision flash gold at the edges. His beast didn't care about human politics, imperial wars, or the fact that the woman lying before them had nearly severed his shoulder with a silver blade a few nights ago. Rhenar caught the faint, dual scent of their unborn blood.

It was fragrant, fierce, and undeniably theirs—and he went wild with possessive fury.

Protect them, Rhenar snarled, clawing at Harolin's control. Go to her. Wrap our scent around her. Protect our mate. Protect our pups.

She is an enemy slayer, Harolin shot back internally, battling his own beast to keep his face completely neutral before Jemisha. She tried to kill us twice. She cast a forbidden curse on us, Rhenar! If she wakes up tomorrow, her first thought will be driving a silver dagger into our ribs.

I do not care! Rhenar roared, baring his spiritual fangs against Harolin’s mind, his tail thrashing in absolute stubbornness. She carries our blood! She belongs to us! You touch her, you feed her, you tear apart anyone who looks at her wrong! If you do not shield her, I will take control and tear this castle down myself!

Harolin slammed a mental wall down, forcing the beast back into the shadows of his mind, though Rhenar continued to pace and growl just beneath his skin. Harolin swallowed hard, dragging his composure back into place with brute force. He looked at Jemisha, his expression turning cold, hard, and absolute.

"Listen to me," Harolin commanded, his voice carrying the full weight of the Alpha King. "Summon every master healer in Astengard. Bring the high elixirs from the eastern vaults. I want a constant rotation of magic safeguarding this room every second of every day."

"Your Majesty, her condition is complicated—"

"I expect you to eliminate it," Harolin cut her off fiercely. "She lives, and my children live. If even a single hair on their heads is harmed, I will hold every healer in this castle personally responsible. Do you understand me?"

Jemisha bowed her head deeply. "Yes, Your Majesty. I will begin the preservation wards immediately."

News of the human slayer’s pregnancy did not stay within the stone walls of the private chambers. By morning, it swept through Astengard Castle like wildfire, and the royal court reacted with an explosion of absolute horror.

The grand royal hall was packed to the brim with furious regional alphas, high-ranking lords, and matriarchs who looked ready to tear down the stronghold with their bare hands. At the center of the platform stood Lord Lorcan Draycott, his face bottled with pure rage, his fists clenched so tightly his knuckles turned white.

"Are you entirely mad, Harolin?" Lorcan’s voice boomed across the hall, echoing off the high ceiling. "A human! A blood-soaked assassin who has slaughtered hundreds of our kin, including my own son—carrying the royal bloodline? It is an abomination!"

"She is an enemy of Astengard!" shouted a noble from the back, prompting a chorus of angry growls and roars from the assembly. "Terminate the bond! Execute the human before she gives birth to children who might threaten the purity of our bloodline!"

"Silence!"

The single word cracked through the air like a lightning strike. Harolin did not raise his voice to the max, but the sheer, crushing weight of his Alpha pressure slammed down upon the entire hall. Every growl died instantly in their throats. The lords stepped back, wide-eyed and sweating, as Harolin descended the obsidian steps from his throne.

His golden eyes swept across the crowd, freezing each man in place.

"Let me make this entirely clear," Harolin said, his tone dangerously smooth, carrying a terrifying promise of violence. "Anatolia Snow is my fated mate. The children she carries are my blood, and they are the legitimate heirs to the throne of Astengard. Anyone here who speaks of harming a hair on their heads, or who dares to question my decree again, will find themselves swinging from the eastern gallows before sunset."

He stopped directly in front of Lorcan, towering over his uncle by half a foot.

"Do we understand each other, Uncle?"

Lorcan’s jaw worked furiously, his chest heaving with barely contained hatred. He looked up into Harolin’s cold, unyielding eyes and realized he had no allies brave enough to back him at this exact moment.

Lorcan forced a tight, rigid bow. "Perfectly, Your Majesty. We bow to your... wisdom."

"See that you do." Harolin turned his back on him.

Yet, as Harolin walked away, he caught the briefest flicker of a cold, venomous glint crossing Lorcan’s eyes before the old wolf lowered his head. The warning had been delivered, but Harolin knew his uncle too well. Lorcan wasn’t going to bow down easily.