What He Wants

The packhouse is exactly as I left it this morning. Immaculate, beautiful and quiet.

It's always quiet.

I've tried, once or twice, to make it feel like a home. I bought the furniture I liked. I added small touches of myself wherever I could. And Kael allowed all of it without complaint, but the feeling of 'home' never quite stuck, no matter what I did.

I wonder, for the first time, if that might change with a child running around. Maybe I should try harder now. Because it would be way too sad for a kid to grow up in a house that feels more like a show home than a real one.

I sigh and move through the halls with ease, my steps light despite the weight settled in my chest. Servants greet me as I pass and I smile back at each of them.

When I reach Kael’s office, I stop. My hand hovers over the door handle.

For one moment I consider turning around and coming back later. Finding a better time. I could try to catch Kael in a vulnerable moment—he does have them, occasionally, though he'd sooner die than admit it. They happen mostly in bed, right before sleep or after waking up, when his defenses are still offline and he's just... a person. Not an Alpha or a political candidate, just a man.

But no.

I straighten my spine.

This is a serious conversation and it needs to be treated as one. There's no time to lose, and I'm not going to spend what little courage I've gathered hovering in a hallway.

I push the door open.

And then I stop.

Seraphine Gail—Kael's trusted adviser, his best friend, and the woman he is absolutely sleeping with—is perched on the edge of his desk, long dark hair flowing down her back, her long legs crossed and commanding his full attention in the way she always does.

Nothing new there.

I've known about his affair with Seraphine for a while now. I don't know exactly when it started, and I've found I don't particularly want to.

Kael is sitting behind his desk, as composed as ever, comfortable in his every-day formal wear. Cold demeanor firmly in place.

He looks like he was carved from something expensive and entirely impractical.

He's just like the packhouse, I think. Beautiful on the outside, empty inside. Big and cold and elegant and hollow.

Beta Rowan Gail—Seraphine's brother—stands near them like a disgruntled piece of furniture. He turns the moment I step through the door, and his expression pinches.

"What are you doing?" he says, sharp, "We're in the middle of something important, Luna. You have no business here."

I should be used to words like that—Beta Rowan often treats me with disrespect, something my husband has allowed by never putting a stop to it. But not today.

Today, I need to be here.

So I ignore him entirely. I close the door behind me with a quiet click and walk straight toward Kael.

"I need to speak with my husband," I say, keeping my voice perfectly even. I will not raise it. I refuse to give anyone in this room an excuse to call me emotional, hysterical or difficult—any of the words that get used against women like me the moment we stop being convenient, "Alone. It's a private matter."

Rowan's frown deepens. He draws breath to argue.

But Kael speaks first.

"Leave us,” he orders, knowing I would not barge in like this for no reason.

Rowan blinks like he's been splashed with cold water. Seraphine's expression flickers, something unpleasant crossing her face before she smooths it back into neutrality. Neither of them argues, they simply leave.

The door clicks shut behind them.

And then it's just the two of us.

I stand there for a moment, simply looking at Kael.

He has thick dark hair, long enough to brush back and fall perfectly into place every time, like even his hair knows better than to misbehave around him. He has an Alpha's body—muscular, tall, built like something designed specifically for intimidation—but a face of a model. So gorgeous that it still catches me off guard sometimes, even after five years.

And not only that. Kael is truly a work of art. With perfectly shaped lips, a strong nose, a jaw that could cut glass and light blue eyes that people (me included) always describe as cold. Because they are.

This cold, gorgeous, infuriating man is my fated mate. Undeniably so.

The bond between us is real—I can feel it even now, a low hum beneath everything, like a frequency I can never quite tune out. Our chemistry is real too, so strong that it occasionally breaks through his carefully constructed exterior.

He is my fated mate. My Alpha. My husband.

And yet, he still feels like a complete stranger.

It has been five years of living in the same house, sleeping in the same bed, attending the same events with our hands placed just so for photographs — yet I am closer to the woman who does our laundry than I have ever been to him.

And he is, as far as I can tell, completely at peace with that.

I learned a long time ago not to ask for more. To keep my mouth shut and my head down and my expectations somewhere manageable.

But there is a child now. A child who needs something I can't give it on my own.

So I meet those cold blue eyes and I hold them, and then I open my mouth to say the words before the courage drains out of me entirely.

“Elara, what is it? You know I’ve been busy lately,” he says, annoyed and impatient as always. And despite being hurt by his instant dismissiveness, I still gather my courage and speak.

"I'm pregnant."