Chapter Thirty-Three

Chapter Thirty-Three
SIX MONTHS AGO

“Niklath,” I whisper, my hand reaching for him instinctively.

But he does not look at me. His eyes remain locked on the other supposed Alpha’s, their gazes taut like pulled wire.

A sharper growl answers the tension.

Then Niklath’s father steps forward, voice sharp as thunder.

“Enough.”

His command slices through the room. The growling ceases instantly, both men holding still. The elder Alpha’s tone turns grave.

“This is a human home. There will be no posturing. No dominance displays. No challenges laid beneath another’s roof.”

The words settle into the room with quiet force. They speak of more than rules—they carry the weight of tradition, of ancient ways that still shape the strongest among them. Even now, in a human home, those old truths hold firm.

Angelica lingers near the edge of the room, her posture relaxed but calculated. A faint smile pulls at her lips, as if she already knows what will come next. She watches Niklath with a spark of satisfaction in her eyes, like someone who has set something in motion and is content to let it run wild. There was intent behind her decision to bring that man here. She understands the past they share, whatever it is, and she clearly came to stoke the tension already smoldering between them.
I step closer to Niklath, my hand resting gently at the center of his back. I feel the slow rise and fall of his breath beneath my palm. His muscles are still coiled, but the storm inside him begins to ease. He turns his head slightly, just enough for our eyes to meet.

I do not say anything. I don’t need to.

The moment my hand finds his, the tension in his shoulders begins to ease. My touch settles something in him, just as it always has.
We move toward the dining room, the tension trailing behind us like smoke. No one speaks as we take our seats around the long table. The candles flicker, their golden glow throwing shadows across faces that hold carefully measured expressions.

Niklath’s parents sit at the far end, poised and unreadable. The strangerthis other Alpha, takes the seat directly across from my husband. His movements are calm, but there is something in the way he folds his napkin, the way his eyes sweep the room, that speaks of intense calculation.

Angelica settles into the seat beside him, her posture casual, one leg elegantly draped over the other. Her chin lifts with practiced detachment, as if nothing here holds her attention. Yet her gaze remains fixedshifting between Niklath and me with an intensity she makes little effort to disguise.

A server pours wine into the crystal glasses. Plates are placed before us~an elegant arrangement of roasted game, winter root vegetables, and warm spiced bread, but no one lifts their utensils.

The conversation begins with courtesy. Brief comments about the weather, the road conditions, the wine vintage. But each word is a thread stretched too tight. Each smile feels practiced. Hollow.

I watch the man seated across from Niklath as he leans toward Polenya, speaking in French-accented German. He compliments her choice of centerpiece, gestures lightly toward the painting above the mantel, offering a remark about its brushwork. She responds with gracious ease, but I can feel it—something restrained in the air, something unresolved that passes between him and Niklath without a single word exchanged.

I cannot help but wonder. Who is he, really? What old fracture lies between them?

Luckily, dinner passes without incident. I keep my head tilted just enough to suggest discomfort, one hand resting on my temple while the other gently strokes my belly. I murmur something about the baby kicking more than usual and offer a faint smile when Julian rises to excuse us. No one argues. Perhaps they feel the tension simmering beneath every clink of cutlery and polite word. Perhaps they are simply relieved.

We step outside into the night air, the lights from the foyer casting long shadows across the circular stone drive that curls in front of the estate. Our driver waits at the far end, just stepping out to open the door.

That is when I sense him.

The man. He has followed us out. His presence carries the same deliberate weight it did all evening, only now it feels more pointed. More dangerous.

“Niklath,” he says, his tone laced with mock concern, “if I were you, I would start watching my back. Strange things happen all the time. Even to Alphas.”

I feel Niklath tense beside me. His shoulders square. That ancient stillness settles into his frame, that means violence is not far behind. I reach for him immediately, sliding my hand over his forearm and guiding his palm to rest against my belly.

She kicks again and his breath shifts. He looks down, then presses his hand more firmly across the curve of my stomach, grounding himself in the rhythm of our daughter. His heartbeat slows. I feel it in the way his jaw begins to unclench.

The car pulls into place at the front of the circular drive, headlights sweeping the gravel in perfect timing. Our driver steps forward, the back door already open. We get in without another word. The estate gates roll open behind us with a slow groan. The moment we cross through them, I turn toward him.

“Who is he?” I ask quietly.

Niklath does not answer immediately. His gaze stays on the road ahead, sharp, unreadable. Then he exhales through his nose, voice low and taut.

“A stranger from the past,” he says. “Do not worry about it, Miara. We are just enemies. It is common in our world. Don’t stress about it.”

But the look in his eyes tells me this is anything but common. And whoever that man is, he has stirred something old inside the Alpha beside me.