I Accepted My Alpha’s Rejection While Carrying His Pup Chapter 14

I Accepted My Alpha’s Rejection While Carrying His Pup Chapter 14

One year later.

Wren took her first steps on a Sunday morning-wobbling across the diner floor and crashing face-first

into Caspian’s legs.

He caught her, swung her up over his head, and she shrieked with laughter. A sound so bright it made the

whole diner glow.

“She WALKED!” Grandma screamed from behind the counter, nearly dropping an entire tray of pies.

“Technically, that was a controlled fall,” Caspian said.

But his smile-wide, open, the one he only wore at home-gave him away completely.

I watched from the kitchen doorway, my heart so full it ached.

This was my life now.

Not the one I’d planned. Not the one I’d been promised.

Something so much better.

We had our mating ceremony three months after Wren was born. No ballroom. No three hundred guests. No silver garlands.

Just Grandma’s backyard, the Silverpine regulars, Barbara the goat wearing a flower crown, and a cake I’d

baked myself. Lopsided. Over-frosted. Absolutely perfect.

Under the full moon, Caspian marked me. Gently. And the whole horthern territory felt their new queen’s

bond settle into place.

That same night, I shifted for the first time.

Nova came pouring out of me like she’d been waiting her whole life, and suddenly I was running through

the pines on four silver paws, faster than I’d ever moved, the cold air singing past my ears.

A huge black wolf ran beside me the whole way.

Never ahead. Never behind.

Beside me.

“I’m not going to make you promises,” Caspian told me later, his forehead against mine. “Promises are just words. I’d rather show you. Every day.”

And he had.

He adopted Wren. Not because I asked him to Because he wanted her to grow up knowing, without a single doubt, that she was chosen.

The first time she called him “Dada,” he went silent for a full minute. He just sat on the floor holding her,

breathing through it.

Later, in bed, he whispered, “I didn’t know you could love someone this much after five months.”

“Wait until she’s two,” I said. “You’ll love her more and want to hide in your library.”

He laughed-that deep, real laugh I would never get tired of-and pulled me close.

Kane survived.

The silver left scars across his ribs that will never fade. But he lived.

He signed every paper. He never contested anything,/He rebuilt Blackridge slowly, and I heard his pack finally respected him-not for his strength, but for what he’d done in that diner.

When Wren was born, a letter arrived. Not for me. For her. One page, handwritten, sealed in an envelope.

For Wren. When she’s old enough.

I didn’t open it. I put it in a box in her closet, where it will wait until she’s ready.

Every year on her birthday, a gift arrives. Thoughtful. Unsigned. Always with a deposit into a trust fund I

never asked for.

I don’t acknowledge them. I don’t send them back.

Some wounds don’t heal. But some people learn to stop making new ones.

Lydia left Redmoon after her father died. She moved to the coast and opened a bookshop. Every few

months, a postcard arrives with no return address and two words on the back: I’m sorry.

I hope she finds peace. Not for frer sake. For mine. Hatred is heavy, and I have much better things to carry.

Like Wren, smearing frosting into Caspian’s hair until he wore it to a council meeting because she said it

made him “pretty.”

Like Grandma teaching Wren to roll pie dough and Wren eating more of it than she rolled.

Like the nights Caspian comes home late from whatever kingly thing he had to handle-I’ve learned not to

ask-and Wren toddles to the door screaming “DADA!” so loud that every ounce of tension leaves his body

before he’s even through the door.

Like right now. Sunday morning. Flour on the counter. Sunlight in the windows. My daughter giggling in my

husband’s arms. Grandma arguing with Barbara about personal boundaries.

I used to think love meant holding on. Gripping so tight your knuckles went white. Waiting a minute that

turned into three years.

I was wrong.

Love was letting go.

Letting go of the man who hurt you. Letting go of the woman who drank the poison and smiled. Letting go of the fear that happiness was something you only got to borrow.

And then-once your hands were finally open-

Letting someone worthy fill them.

Caspian caught my eye across the diner. Wren on his hip. Frosting in his hair.

“What?” he asked.

“Nothing,” I said. “Everything.”

He raised an eyebrow. But his gold eyes were soft.

“Come here,” he murmured.

I crossed the room and leaned into him, resting my head on his shoulder while Wren babbled about pie and goats and the moon.

And there, in the flour dust and the laughter and the Susung by fight-

was home.

Not a place.

Never a place.

A person. Two people.

My mate. My daughter.er.

My second chance.e

And this time, nobody woulti en ever have to wait a minute for my love.