Carrying the Alpha’s Heir, Claimed by the Vampire King Chapter 13

Carrying the Alpha’s Heir, Claimed by the Vampire King Chapter 13

Rowan was born on a Wednesday, under a waning moon.

Twelve hours of labor. Maeve held my hand through every one of them, never flinching, even when I crushed her fingers hard enough to bruise.

And Lucien waited.

Not in the delivery room. He hadn’t asked. We weren’t there yet.

He waited in the hallway.

For twelve hours. Same plastic chair. Refusing everything, refusing to leave.

The sun rose halfway through. The hallway had windows. Dr. Wren told me later that he’d moved his chair into the one sliver of shadow beside the supply closet and stayed there while daylight crept across the floor inches from his shoes, and his skin smoked where it touched, and he didn’t move.

His second-in-command told me something else. A territorial crisis broke out in Boston that morning. Lucien handled it entirely by phone. Low voice. Lethal calm. Without leaving that chair.

When Rowan arrived, screaming, furious, tiny fists clenched like he was ready to fight the whole world, the

nurse laid him on my chest.

And suddenly I understood.

Every cold dinner. Every empty bed. Every unanswered call.

It had all led here. To him.

“He’s perfect,” Maeve wept.

He was. Dark hair. Ten fingers. Ten toes. A howl of a cry that rattled the windows. When he opened his

eyes for one second, they flashed pure gold.

Once I was settled, Maeve leaned in.

“There’s a very patient vampire in the hallway who’s been sitting in sunlight for you. Should I let him in before he catches fire?”

My heart swelled until it hurt. Send him in.”

Lucien entered the way he did everything. Slowly. Carefully. As if the room required reverence.

His eyes went straight to the bundle in my arms.

He stopped.

And the King who ruled half of New England, who made ancient killers bow their heads, couldn’t speak.

“Come meet him,” I said softly.

He came to the bed. Looked down at Rowan, asleep now, one ting fist curled against his cheek.

Lucien’s face broke open.

Not cracked. Broke. Into something raw and unguarded and impossibly tender.

“I’ve listened to his heart for seven months,” he whispered. “It’s different. Hearing it out here. In the world.”

“Do you want to hold him?”

Fear flashed across his face. Real fear. “My hands are cold. What if he-”

“Lucien. Hold him.”

I placed Rowan in his arms.

Rowan stirred. Frowned. Then turned his little face into Lucien’s chest and let out a long, contented sigh, as if cold arms were exactly what he’d been waiting for.

Lucien went completely still. Barely breathing, though he didn’t need to. Cradling my son like he was made

of glass and starlight.

And then, for the first time in three hundred years, Lucien Draven cried.

Silent tears, sliding down his sharp jaw, falling into Rowan’s dark hair.

“Thank you,” he whispered. “For letting me be here.”

I reached up and brushed a tear from his cheek. It was the only warm thing about him.

“Thank you for waiting.”

He looked at me. Really looked. With those dark eyes that had watched over me for months without ever asking for a single thing.

“I would have waited forever,” he said. “And I have forever to give.”

I believed him.

Not because the words were beautiful.

Because every olive jar, every first edition, every night under a streetlight, every hour in a hallway with sunlight burning his skin had already proved them true.

“Lucien.”

“Yes?”

“I’m done being afraid.”

He searched my face. “Are you sure?”

I looked at my son asleep in his arms. At this man who had never demanded anything from me. Who had

only ever given.

“I’m sure.”

He bent down slowly, giving me every chance to pull away, and rested his forehead against mine.

We stayed like that. Rowan sleeping between us.

And then, quietly, against my skin, I felt it.

One single, impossible beat inside his chest.

He went rigid.

“Elara,” he breathed. “That was mine.”