6. SIENNA

“What do you mean yours?” I chuckled, but there was no humor in it. “These are my children. Austin, take them inside. I’ll be there in a minute.”

Austin led them in, the door closing softly behind them. Cassius’s eyes stayed fixed on it, like he expected them to come running back out.

When he finally looked at me, I almost smiled at my own naivety. There was a time I loved getting lost in his eyes — the way his wolf fought for control just to be closer to me. Now, all I felt was pity for the girl I used to be. The one who expected too much from him.

“They are mine, Selena. My wolf would recognize their scent anywhere. They are our pups.” His eyes bled into gold as his wolf pushed forward.

“You lost them the day you chose another wolf as your mate and disowned me.” My voice stayed calm. Steady. “They are mine. You are nothing more than the wolf I gave my virginity to. And it was a good night.”

His growl deepened, his body almost shifting.

“Keep it down,” I warned. “Unless you want to scare them. They don’t even recognize you yet. Don’t make them hate you too.”

That pulled him back. His eyes faded to brown. His human side won — barely.

“You can’t do this. You can’t separate them from me.”

The anger rolled off him in suffocating waves. The air felt heavy with it, charged with his wolf straining for control.

“I didn’t separate them from you, Cassius,” I said quietly. “You decided a long time ago that you didn’t want us.”

“What?” His voice dropped to a whisper.

“The day you became Alpha, I tried to tell you. I wanted to tell you I was pregnant. That we were going to be parents.” I inhaled slowly. “But you decided your position mattered more. Securing it mattered more. And I’m glad I didn’t tell you. No child deserves to feel unwanted. Or like their father will always choose something else first.”

He sucked in a sharp breath. “I would never do that. If I had known—”

“They say Alphas have the strongest instincts,” I said. “But that day you were so drunk on power you didn’t even notice my scent had changed.”

Cassius went completely still.

Even his wolf quieted, like my words had hit somewhere deeper than bone.

“That’s not…” His voice came out hoarse. “That’s not possible. I would have known.”

“You didn’t.”

His jaw flexed.

“When?” he asked.

“Does it matter?”

“It matters to me.”

I let out a slow breath. “It didn’t then.”

His nostrils flared. His wolf pushed forward again — angry, cornered, hurting.

“You should have told me. You should have come to me.”

“I did.”

His head snapped up.

“You just didn’t notice.”

Silence stretched between us.

His fingers slowly curled into fists. “You’re saying… you tried to tell me?”

“I’m saying you were too busy deciding which woman would secure your throne to notice the one carrying your children.”

His eyes shut. His chest rose once — hard, controlled.

“I was securing the pack.”

“You were securing yourself.”

“That’s not fair.”

“I wasn’t trying to be fair.”

His eyes opened again, gold flickering beneath brown before fading.

“I never stopped loving you.”

I tilted my head. “That stopped mattering the day you made it conditional.”

“It was never conditional,” he said sharply.

“You chose someone else. In front of everyone.” My voice stayed calm. “There’s nothing more conditional than that.”

His breath faltered.

“I thought I could fix it later.”

“That sounds like a you problem.”

His head jerked slightly, like he hadn’t expected that.

“I was nineteen.”

“I was pregnant.”

That silenced him completely.

“You don’t get to rewrite that memory to make yourself feel better,” I said quietly.

His throat worked.

“I would have chosen you.”

“You already chose. That’s how choices work.”

The wind shifted, carrying his scent stronger now — regret, fury, and something dangerously close to panic.

“They are mine,” he said again, softer this time. Less command. More plea.

“They are mine,” I repeated.

“You can’t erase me.”

“I didn’t erase you. You made yourself irrelevant.”

I saw the hit land. The slight drop in his shoulders. The way his wolf retreated like it had touched fire.

“I have a right to know them.”

“You had a right to me. You traded it.”

His eyes flashed. “They are my blood.”

“And?” I asked.

The word hung there — cold, final.

“They are my responsibility,” he said finally.

“You forfeited that responsibility.”

“I didn’t even know they existed.”

“You didn’t need to. I did.”

His hands trembled — barely noticeable unless you knew him.

“You don’t get to decide that.”

“I already did.”

His wolf surged hard enough that his eyes went fully gold for two seconds.

“You are not taking them from me,” he growled.

I stepped closer.

Not aggressive.

Not afraid.

Just certain.

“I’m not taking anything from you,” I said softly. “There was nothing there to take.”

His chest heaved.

“You don’t get to walk into their lives because your wolf suddenly remembers us,” I continued. “You don’t get to claim fatherhood because you smelled them.”

“They are mine,” he repeated, voice breaking.

“You were supposed to be.”

Silence fell again. Heavy. Final.

“You don’t even hate me,” he said suddenly, like the realization hit him all at once.

I studied him for a long moment.

“No.”

That seemed to hurt him more than anything.

“Hate would mean you still matter enough to affect me.”

His face drained of color.

“I built a life,” I continued. “A safe one. A quiet one. One where my children never wonder if they come second to a title.”

“I would never make them feel second.”

“You already did.”

His eyes shut again, like he physically couldn’t hold my gaze anymore.

“I want to know them,” he said quietly.

I said nothing.

“I’m not asking to take them,” he added quickly. “I’m not asking to claim them publicly. I just… want to know them.”

I studied him. Measured. Weighed.

Then I spoke.

“That is not your decision.”

His jaw tightened. “Then whose is it?”

“Mine.”

The word landed like law.

“If I decide they should know you, they will. If I decide they shouldn’t, they won’t.”

“You would really do that?”

“Yes.”

No hesitation.

No softness.

Just truth.

He nodded slowly. Like he believed me.

Good.

“This conversation is over,” I said.

I turned and walked toward the house. Reached the gate. Opened it. Stepped inside.

Behind me, his voice came — quieter. Almost hollow.

“Happy birthday, Sienna.”

I didn’t turn.

I didn’t answer.

I just closed the gate.

And left him standing outside a life he was five years too late to be part of.