Chapter 92: Alpha-Dad

Chapter 92: Alpha-Dad
The morning had started soft.
There were so few of those in Iron Hollow—mornings that didn’t sting the skin or startle you awake with the sound of wind like a war cry. Most days here were hard, cold things, edged with frost and silence, where the snow didn't fall so much as hurl itself sideways, carving white scars through the sky. The kind of weather that wore down bone and patience alike.
But not this morning.
This morning, the wind had lost its teeth. It drifted slow through the trees, lazy and tame, and the snow came down like feathers, light and aimless, not in any hurry to land. The fire in the hearth hadn’t needed coaxing. It caught easily, burning warm and even, as though the world had finally exhaled and let the day begin in peace.
Talon and I had left the stronghold just after first light, before the kitchens stirred and before the warriors began their drills in the training ring. He was curled against my chest in his sling, wrapped tight in furs, a small bundle of warmth that shifted every so often, just to remind me he was still awake, still listening to the world with that wide-eyed curiosity he hadn't yet grown out of.
The guards at the gate didn’t stop me anymore.
They had learned my habits by now, learned that when I went walking like this, it wasn’t to escape or to spy. Just to breathe. Just to be. They glanced at the boy on my chest, no longer suspicious, no longer watching for the twitch of something dangerous in his too-quiet nature, and gave me the smallest nods. Half-bows of respect that no longer felt begrudging. One of them sniffed the air behind me out of habit, then gestured for me to pass.
The clearing beyond the walls was silent, the hush of early winter wrapped around it like a spell. The ground was frozen firm but not slick with ice, and the frost beneath our boots was soft and dry, whispering as we moved. Trees stood tall and solemn around us, their bare branches tangled against the pale sky.
And Talon was humming.
It wasn’t a tune I recognized, not really a tune at all. Just soft, half-formed sounds, the contented hum of a child not thinking about anything except how warm he was, how close, how loved. His small fingers curled in the edge of my cloak, and every so often, I felt the puff of his breath against the side of my throat, wet and hot and sweet with the milk he’d insisted on before we left.
“You’re spoiled,” I murmured.
He giggled, a bright, delighted sound, and tugged gently on the end of my braid, like he knew exactly what I meant and didn’t care in the slightest.
I crouched beside a narrow trail of tracks that cut through the edge of the clearing, tracing their path with my eyes. They were light, two-toed. Deer, most likely. But one of the sets was uneven, dragging slightly on the left side. Wounded. Older. Maybe alone. The wolves would find it soon if they hadn’t already.
I didn’t hear the boots behind me at first.
Not because they were silent, but because something about the air changed. The way the cold paused. The way the stillness gained weight. The presence of someone who moved through the world like a knife sheathed in velvet.
Roran.
I didn’t need to turn. I knew it was him. Knew it from the firm, measured rhythm of his steps. The shift in the energy behind me. The way the ground seemed to settle under his weight like it was used to bearing it.
“You’re out early,” he said, his voice low and even, like it always was. A little rough around the edges, like he didn’t often waste breath on talking, but knew how to make every word land.
I rose slowly, brushing frost from my gloves. Talon peeked out over my shoulder, blinking sleepy eyes, and let out a soft yip of recognition. I felt his little body go tense with excitement, legs kicking once against my sides.
Roran’s gaze flicked to him—quick, assessing—and then back to me.
“I needed air,” I said simply. “He was restless.”
“And you didn’t think to bring a guard?”
I arched a brow. “He doesn’t bite. Much.”
That earned a twitch at the corner of his mouth, just the barest pull of muscle. Not a smile, not quite. But something close. He didn’t answer. Just stepped past me, his attention shifting to the tracks I’d been watching.
“They’re deer,” I said. “One of them’s dragging a back leg. Wolves will take it by nightfall.”
Roran crouched beside the prints, his hand hovering above one without touching. He studied it with a sharpness I’d come to recognize. Thoughtful. Precise.
“You tracking something?”
I shrugged. “Habit.”
“You’ve got a sharp eye.”
I didn’t respond. It wasn’t a compliment I wanted to swallow too eagerly, even if it landed hard in my chest, warm and unwanted. He knew I had a sharp eye. I wouldn’t be here if he hadn’t seen it before anyone else had.
Talon murmured something soft and incomprehensible, wriggling against me. I shifted my arms, readjusting the sling so he wouldn’t slide.
Then Roran held out his hands.
“I’ll take him.”
I hesitated. Only a breath. But he noticed. Of course he noticed.
“I’m not going to drop him,” he said evenly.
“I didn’t say you would.”
“Then hand him over.”
I looked down at Talon, expecting him to protest. But he was already leaning forward, arms reaching, like he’d been waiting for this exact moment. Like this was familiar. Like it had happened before, maybe more than once, and I hadn’t known.
Roran gathered him easily, one arm under his legs, the other across his back, holding him with the unconscious grace of a man who understood the fragility of small things. Talon made a pleased sound and tucked his face against Roran’s neck.
“Warm,” he mumbled.
Roran adjusted his grip without thinking, just enough to keep the boy supported. His hand settled between Talon’s shoulder blades, broad and steady, fingers curling slightly against the thick fur of his cloak.
It was so casual.
So effortless.
So intimate.
Like this wasn’t strange at all. Like this brutal, guarded Alpha could hold my son as if he’d done it a thousand times. As if Talon was his. Or like he wanted him to be.
Talon yawned against his skin, the sound wet and soft. “Alpha-dad warm.”
The words dropped into the quiet like stones into still water.
Roran didn’t move. Didn’t flinch. But I saw it. The tension that rippled through him was so subtle it would’ve gone unnoticed by anyone else. His shoulders stiffened, not with shock, but something worse. Bracing. As if he had been waiting to hear it and didn’t know what to do now that it had arrived.
I felt my heart leap into my throat.
“He doesn’t know what he’s saying,” I said quickly, stepping closer. “He’s a baby. He hears the others call you Alpha, and he’s just putting things together. He doesn’t understand.”
Still, Roran said nothing. His face stayed still, eyes fixed straight ahead, not daring to meet mine.
“He doesn’t remember Kael,” I whispered. “He doesn’t remember his father.”
At that, Roran finally looked down. Not at me. At Talon. His jaw worked, a muscle ticking as his expression softened by degrees. Just barely.
“He’s lucky,” he said.
The words hit harder than they should have.
I didn’t know what to say. My mouth opened, then closed again. Roran’s voice didn’t carry heat. It wasn’t meant to hurt. But something in it—something quiet—felt like grief.
A grief that wasn’t his.
After a moment, he shifted Talon gently and passed him back to me. His movements were slow and careful. Reverent, almost. Like he was handing over something he hadn’t meant to hold for long. Like giving him back hurt.
“He’s safe here,” he said, not looking at me.
I nodded, arms tightening instinctively around Talon’s body. I could feel the steady beat of his little heart against my own, the way he sighed again and melted into my chest like he belonged there.
“Thank you,” I said softly.
Roran turned and walked away, boots crunching through the frost. He didn’t look back.
But I saw his hands.
They were curled into fists.
And I stood there in the rising cold, snow beginning to fall again in slow, silent spirals, wondering if what had just passed between us had meant nothing.
Or everything.