Carrying the Alpha’s Heir, Claimed by the Vampire King Chapter 07

Carrying the Alpha’s Heir, Claimed by the Vampire King Chapter 07

Weeks became months.

My belly grew. My strength came back. The bakery became my whole world.

Maeve and I found our rhythm. Up at four, baking through the morning rush, prepping all afternoon. Regulars learned my name. The mailman made extra trips for free samples. A one-eyed stray cat adopted the back step, and Maeve pretended to hate him while secretly feeding him cream.

Small. Ordinary.

Perfect.

But I couldn’t escape Lucien Draven.

Not because he chased me. He didn’t.

He simply kept appearing. Always after dark.

At the hardware store when Maeve needed shelves mounted. (“My people will handle it.” “We don’t need your people.” The shelves were up by morning, perfectly level.)

At the night market in the town square, nodding at me with that unreadable face while buying fresh basil

he had no reason to eat.

At the bakery, once a week, just after sunset. Espresso at the counter. Never sitting. Never staying more

than ten minutes.

He spoke to Maeve more than to me.

But I caught him looking.

Quick glances that vanished the moment I noticed. Small things. Stepping aside so I could pass. Holding a door without a word. Tilting his head, just slightly, when I laughed, like he was listening to music.

Invisible to anyone not paying attention.

I was paying attention.

It happened on a Tuesday.

I was in the storage room reaching for a sack of flour on the top shelf, stupidly, because I was sixteen

Weeks pregnant, when a pale hand appeared above mine and lifted it down like a feather.

I turned. Lucien. Holding twenty pounds of flour in one hand.

“You shouldn’t reach above your head.”

“I’m pregnant, not helpless.”

“You’re short.”

I blinked. “Excuse me?”

“The shelf is seven feet. You are five-four.”

“Five-five.”

Something shifted in his face. Not a smile. Lucien Draven did not smile. But the ghost of one haunted the

corner of his mouth.

“Five-five,” he repeated, as if filing it away for the next thousand years. “My apologies.”

He set the flour on the counter. Turned to go.

“Wait,” I heard myself say. “Do you want a cinnamon roll? Can you even-”

“We can eat. We simply don’t need to.”

“They’re not as good as Maeve’s.”

“I’d like one.”

He sat at the counter. Actually sat, for the first time, and ate in silence.

When he finished: “It’s better than Maeve’s.”

“I never lie. After three centuries, it becomes inefficient.”

I laughed. And his dark eyes warmed, like the first light touching black water.

“You laugh like it costs you something.” he said quietly.

“If used to.”

“And now?”

“Now I’m relearning.”

He looked at me for a long moment. Then he stood, left a hundred dollar bill for a three-dollar roll, and walked out into the night.

I stood behind the counter with my heart pounding and told myself a hundred reasons this couldn’t

happen.

The next evening a delivery truck arrived. Ten sacks of imported Italian flour. The expensive kirid Maeve had wanted for years and never let herself buy.

No note.

None needed.

Maeve stood on the sidewalk, sipping her tea, looking at the flour.

“I’m still not saying anything,” she murmured.

I threw a dish towel at her.

But that night, I lay awake with my hand on my stomach and said the biggest reason out loud, to no one.

“Wolves and vampires don’t fall in love.”

Maeve’s voice floated through the wall.

“They did once, sweetheart.”

I sat up. “What happened?”

A long silence.

“It started a war that lasted a hundred years.”