Carrying the Alpha’s Heir, Claimed by the Vampire King Chapter 10

Carrying the Alpha’s Heir, Claimed by the Vampire King Chapter 10

I didn’t call Lucien,

He didn’t call me.

But every morning, without fail, something waited on the bakery step.

Monday: a first edition of Pride and Prejudice, bookmarked at Chapter 34. Darcy’s first proposal.

Tuesday: a jar of Sicilian olives. I’d mentioned craving them exactly once.

Wednesday: a hand-knitted baby blanket in soft midnight-blue wool.

Thursday: nothing.

I was unreasonably, humiliatingly disappointed on Thursday.

Friday: two jars of olives, and a note. “Thursday’s delivery was intercepted by your aunt’s cat. Consider this

restitution.-L.”

I laughed so hard Maeve came running out of the kitchen with a spatula.

Saturday: dark chocolate from a Florentine chocolatier I’d never heard of.

Sunday: a text from an unknown number.

“The cat has been bribed with tuna to prevent future incidents.”

I saved the number.

That night, I typed: “You don’t have to keep sending things.”

His reply came in eight seconds.

“I know.”

Then, a minute later:

“But I want to.”

So we started texting. Never about feelings. About books. He recommended Dostoevsky. I countered with

Nora Ephron. Fie sent hack three paragraphs arguing that romantic comedies were structurally superior to

Russian literature.

I told him I was framing it above the register.

“Please don’t.”

“Too late.”

I sent a photo. I wasn’t bluffing.

Ten minutes of silence. Then:

“You’re extraordinary.”

I set the phone down, pressed my palms to my burning cheeks, and whispered to the empty room: “I am in

so much trouble.”

Because here was the thing about Lucien Draven.

He wasn’t charming.

Kieran was charming. Kieran dazzled you. Swept you off your feet. Made you forget to ask questions until

it was too late.

Lucien was quiet where Kieran was loud. Steady where Kieran was wildfire. He didn’t promise me the moon. He just showed up, night after night, with olives and first editions and the patience of a man who

understood that trust was built in inches, not miles.

And that terrified me.

Because Kieran had taught me that love was a trap with a pretty door.

I couldn’t afford to bleed again. Not with a son to protect.

So I kept my distance. Smiled at the espresso visits. Thanked him for the gifts. Kept the wall up.

But walls crack.

And every jar, every book, every eight-second reply widened the cracks.

At twenty weeks, iny son kicked for the first tirne.

I was rolling dough when I felt it. A flutter. Then a firm, unmistakable push against my ribs.

I gasped. Flour everywhere.

Maeve came sprinting from the back with a rolling pin raised like a club. “What? Who? Where?”

“He kicked. Maeve, he kicked.”

She dropped the pin, pressed both hands to my belly, and burst into tears,

That night, I texted Lucien.

“He kicked today.”

Immediate reply.

“He?”

I’d never told him.

“It’s a boy.”

A long pause. Then:

“A boy.”

Then:

“I know. I’ve heard him every evening for months. I just didn’t want to ruin your surprise,”

Then:

“He’ll be remarkable.”

Then:

“Like his mother.”

I held the phone against my chest.

And my wall, that careful, exhausting, necessary wall, cracked wide open.

I fell asleep smiling.

I woke at three in the morning screaming.

The moonstone around my neck had gone ice-cold. The broken bond in my chest was burning like someone had poured fire into it, pulling, pulling, pulling toward the forest behind the bakery.

Not north. Not New York.

Close.

So close I could smell pine and snow and a scent I’d once loved more than my own life.

Kieran was inside Hollow Creek.