All Chapters of The Alpha King's Breeder: Chapter 961 - Chapter 970

FallonA few months later…The last of the season's golden leaves fall in a spiral toward the garden, dappling the benches and pathways weaving between wilting rose hedges. I press my fingertips to the windowsill, breathing deeply, drinking in wet, rainy late autumn air. It’ll be a while until I return to the mainland, especially this time of year. I can’t say I don’t mind seeing a real fall for the last time in a while.The bite in the air is chillier than I remember. I don’t think it ever gets this cold in KiloKilo. I haven’t needed to wear a cloak this thick in weeks. Murmured voices echo back and forth across the ballroom, where a group of people, nobles, a handful of high-ranking Alphas, and three Alpha Kings, gather around a table just out of sight. I look at them over my shoulder, catching my dad, the Alpha King of the Roguelands, and my uncle Aris, the Alpha King of Veiled Valley, deep in conversation with Ryan, Alpha King of the Deadlands. “The Alpha King of Tarsian didn’t

OakleyGrandma Freya doesn’t care about the hustle and bustle of the harvest season. The only thing that matters now, as the first leaves begin to yellow and crinkle on their edges, and the air has a sudden cold bite in the morning while still warm and toasty every evening, are the massive piles of wool that need to be tended–washed, brushed, dyed, and spun. Grandpa Andrew has spent the last two weeks ensuring all the looms are repaired, if necessary, and moving without a hitch. While the rest of Silverhide dips into the chaos of the harvest, our family settles into the thrum of preparedness for a long, dark winter ahead, spinning and weaving. I’m rather good at it. I make my own clothes. I weave the tapestries my mother and father bring to the harvest festival year after year. My woven creations are wrapped around babies minutes after they are born and cover the bodies of our elders while they rest atop their funeral pyres in wait for their grand journeys into the stars. My skills

Oakley“I’m not going that far,” I assure my mom, Ruth, who ignores me and continues checking every button on my wool coat. I wrap a woven mustard-yellow scarf around my neck, then my head, tucking locks of unruly hair behind the fabric to keep it from spiraling out of control in the gusty weather pouring off the mountains. “You should go far,” Mom protests, patting my cheeks in a lovely, but annoying, manner. “This is what is done, my dear. You must find your wolf.”Her accent is still deeply flavored with Endovan, the tribe she hails from. I’ve heard stories of how thrilled Grandma Freya was to learn my dad had found his mate at the Harvest Festival all those years ago, decades now, who came from the same tribe that she did. It’s not uncommon these days. The tribes still thrive, but the packs in the valleys–those tied inexplicably to King Ryan and his family–are a melting pot of cultures. I’m not the only one with a mom who rattles off curse words in a different language when she’s

OakleyThere’s an epidemic in Silverhide. It’s a slow creeping kind of affliction that takes hold of almost every young woman starting around the age of thirteen. It turns some into raging, spiteful monsters. Jealous gremlins with sharp teeth and even sharper tongues, to be honest. Lifelong friendships suffer endlessly during those long, overwhelming years of late girlhood, and there’s only one thing to blame. Men. Handsome, slightly sweaty, gleaming men. I have never been, to be fair, one to go all goo-goo eyed over the boys who work the fields while I run my errands and do my chores. I’ve never seen the need to let the straps of my tank tops, which I’m not even allowed to wear, fall off my shoulders while hanging laundry on the line. I listen to my friends purr and giggle over their crushes and let those same friends shed tears on my shoulders when those crushes went awry. But I’ve never caught the bug. The love bug. I am just… too busy. I’m sure that’s the reason.Granted, I’ve

Ian“Ian?”I haven’t even closed the front door to my childhood home before Mom’s voice rings out through the foyer. For a house in New Glade, it’s rather nice. The foyer connects to two front rooms and a wide staircase leading to the upper floor, where three bedrooms and a bathroom soak in late afternoon light. Downstairs, a small, seldom-used kitchen is tucked in the back, as well as another, larger room where my parents spend most of their free time. I find her there, at a worktable, priming arrows. Shelves line the walls, full of weapon-making supplies and little trinkets of past adventures. Family pictures hang on the wooden walls, alongside blades dangling from hooks. My toy box is still in the corner of the room collecting dust, but I used to sit here, at this very table, playing with little carved effigies of warriors and wolves while my parents talked in quiet tones about hunts and the occasional skirmish between packs and tribes. I can still feel that silver chain around