Chapter 263 Protective Without Performance - Aleksandr’s POV

Chapter 263 Protective Without Performance - Aleksandr’s POV
“Ladies and gentlemen of the kingdom,” I said, my voice carrying across the ballroom with the quiet authority that had ended rebellions before they began. “My wife and I have an announcement to make.”
The room held its breath. Crystal glasses paused halfway to lips. Several hundred werewolves waited with the stillness of people who already knew but needed to hear it confirmed from the throne.
Amelia stood beside me with her chin level and one hand resting over the small curve of her abdomen. The gesture was instinctive now, protective without performance. Burgundy silk caught the chandelier light, and pride moved through me, fierce enough without needing to become possession.
“It is with the greatest joy,” I continued, choosing each word carefully because royal announcements became historical record, “that we confirm what many of you have already suspected. Queen Amelia is expecting. Not one pup, but two. Twins, confirmed at twelve weeks, with strong heartbeats and perfect development.”
The reaction travelled through the room in waves. Gasps came first, genuine despite the rumours. Then applause built from scattered pockets until it filled the vaulted ceiling and rang against the crystal. Older wolves wiped at tears. Younger nobles applauded with the careful enthusiasm of people already calculating political advantage. Beneath both was the warmth of a kingdom that had waited a century for an heir and had just been promised two.
I raised my flute. Amelia raised hers. We drank together, the champagne sharp on my tongue and the alcohol-free sparkling sweet on hers, and when our glasses lowered, the applause continued long enough that protocol suggested I should probably let it.
Skoll lifted his head in our shared mind, satisfaction rolling from him in a quiet, territorial wave. He did not need to pace or roar. The kingdom was applauding his mate and pups; for once, the wolf understood ceremony perfectly.
‘Our pups,’ he rumbled. ‘Mate strong. Pups strong. Good.’
The small curve beneath Amelia’s dress held two future princes of the Brecc line. The fact no longer felt abstract. It sat beside me wearing burgundy and trying not to look overwhelmed by applause.
We stepped down from the dais. Formalwear shifted to create a corridor of bowed heads and murmured congratulations. Amelia linked her fingers with mine, and we entered the crowd at the measured pace expected of monarchs who understood that mingling was ceremony, diplomacy and intelligence gathering in equal measure.
An older alpha from the northern territories reached us first. Silver-haired and broad-shouldered, he had the weathered face of a man who had earned his rank through winters rather than politics. He bowed deeply, without theatricality, and straightened with genuine warmth.
“Congratulations, Your Majesties. The kingdom has waited a long time for this news. Two healthy pups is more blessing than any of us dared hope for.”
“Thank you, Alpha Thorne,” I said, remembering his name from the agricultural briefings because agricultural briefings mattered when you fed several thousand people. “We’re grateful for your support.”
He turned to Amelia, his posture shifting into something gentler. “And you, my Queen. Carrying twins is no small feat. My mate carried our second the same way. If you need anything at all, any advice, any comfort, my pack’s healers are at your disposal.”
She smiled, tired but sincere. Kindness still caught her off guard after twenty-one years of being taught she deserved none, yet she accepted it without retreating.
“That’s very kind, Alpha Thorne. I may take you up on that.”
We moved on. A young beta from the eastern districts delivered congratulations polished by rehearsal. A council member’s wife mentioned lineage three times in thirty seconds before I redirected us towards an elderly healer from the western border. She enclosed Amelia’s hands between her own and spoke quietly enough that the surrounding conversation blurred.
“The first trimester is the hardest, my dear. It gets easier. Not easy, but easier. Remember that when the nights are long.”
Amelia returned the old woman’s hold. “Thank you,” she said, and the unguarded note in her voice made the gratitude unmistakable.
I remained at Amelia’s side without turning myself into a wall. My attention mapped the room: approaches, exits, Dominic’s position and every unfamiliar face within reach. She deserved a partner, not another perimeter.
Skoll watched through my senses, alert but no longer crowding the bond. The guards were in position, Amelia was beside me, and the wolf had reluctantly accepted that vigilance did not require baring his teeth at every guest.
Food began to circulate. Servants crossed the ballroom with silver trays of pastries, smoked meats and carefully arranged cheeses. Everything offered to us had passed through the separate kitchen line, been logged, tasted and escorted from preparation to service. After the past week, even a canapé possessed a chain of custody.
Amelia’s stomach growled loudly enough to compete with the quartet. She covered her abdomen and stared down anyone close enough to have heard. Affection caught me off guard, uncomplicated and entirely hers.
“Someone’s hungry,” I murmured against her ear.
“Someone is hosting two future royals who have opinions about my caloric intake,” she replied, and the dry humour in her voice was so thoroughly Amelia that Skoll’s tail wagged without permission.
We continued through the crowd, collecting congratulations, handshakes and bows that ranged from sincere to strategic. The quartet recovered its rhythm. Conversation rose around us, and the ballroom shifted from official announcement to celebration.
After another fifteen minutes, Amelia began leaning into me between greetings. The change was slight enough that most guests missed it. I did not. Her smile remained composed, but fatigue softened her posture and slowed her answers.
For one brief stretch of music and applause, the evening belonged to us.