Page 2 of Pregnant, Rejected and Exiled By the Lycan King (Forbidden Alpha Kings #45)

Downstairs, my father waited in his best formal wear, the omega spokesperson badge gleaming on his lapel.

Magnus Thornback cut an impressive figure for an omega, tall and distinguished with silver just beginning to thread through his dark hair.

He’d aged well, carrying himself with the quiet dignity that had earned him respect in a world that wanted to dismiss him for his designation.

“You look lovely,” he said, though his eyes held the same concern as my mother’s. “Are you feeling alright?”

“I’m fine,” I said for what felt like the hundredth time. “Just ready to get this over with.”

He nodded, understanding the sentiment even if he couldn’t approve of it publicly. “The car is ready. We should leave soon to account for the security protocols.”

The security protocols. Because nothing said celebration like treating every guest as a potential threat. But then, considering the number of enemies an Lycan King accumulated, perhaps the paranoia was justified. Damon’s paranoia or perhaps his efficiency, depending on who you asked.

We made our way to the car, my parents flanking me like guards.

Or perhaps like handlers, making sure their investment didn’t bolt at the last minute.

The thought was uncharitable but not entirely wrong.

I was an investment. An unmated omega daughter of the right age and breeding, a potential alliance waiting to be made.

The fact that I had my own thoughts and ambitions mattered less than my potential value to the right alpha.

The Thornback car joined the procession heading toward the Kildare estate.

Through tinted windows, I watched familiar streets transform into something else.

Security checkpoints had been erected at every major intersection, guards checking invitations and scanning vehicles.

The new protocols spoke volumes about what kind of leader Damon would be.

His father had ruled through charm and strategic alliances.

The son seemed to prefer walls and weapons.

Either way, the compound looks like a fortress preparing for war rather than a celebration. Guard towers that hadn’t been staffed in years now bristled with activity. The aesthetic spoke of function over form, security over comfort. A new age indeed.

“They’ve tripled the guard since Dominic’s funeral,” my father observed, his tone carefully neutral. “Damon seems to be taking no chances.”

“Can you blame him?” my mother responded. “His father died under mysterious circumstances. Some say poison, though the official report claims natural causes.”

“Neva.” My father’s warning was gentle but clear. We didn’t speculate about such things. Not out loud, not even in the privacy of our own car. Walls had ears in pack politics. Sometimes literally.

I tried to focus on their conversation, on the political implications of the heightened security, on anything except the way my body felt like it was slowly catching fire from the inside out.

Each mile closer to the compound made it worse.

My skin prickled with awareness, every nerve ending hypersensitive.

“Be careful when you interact with the Kildare. Especially Laziel,” Magnus said, breaking the tense silence that had fallen.

His tone carried careful neutrality, but I heard the warning underneath.

“He’s always been... fond. We don’t want anybody to get a wrong impression of your friendship. It could be dangerous for you.”

Fond. Such a careful word for the way the younger Kildare brother looked at me.

We were friends, that was it. We were closer in age than his older brother.

And Laziel was easy, kinder and sweet. Where Damon ignored my existence entirely, Laziel seemed determined to claim my notice at every opportunity. Two extremes.

“I’ll be polite,” I managed, though another wave of heat rolling through me made it hard to focus on words. The ache that had been building all morning intensified, settling low in my belly like a living thing.

I bit back the urge to say I’d been navigating pack politics since I could walk. That I knew how to play the game even if I hated every second of it. But the fever was making me irritable, and irritability led to the kind of sharp responses my mother worried about.

“I’ve survived twenty-five years of their politics, Father,” I said instead, trying to be reassuring. “I can manage one more night.”

But even as the words left my mouth, I wondered if they were true.

This burning grows worse with each mile closer to our destination.

The pounding in my skull had spread down my neck, into my shoulders.

My breasts ached inside the new lingerie, nipples hard and sensitive against the lace.

And between my legs… No. I wouldn’t think about that.

Wouldn’t acknowledge the empty ache that made me want to squirm in my seat. This was stress. Nothing more.

The final security checkpoint required us to exit the vehicle for inspection.

I stood on shaking legs while guards ran mirrors under the car and dogs sniffed for explosives or contraband.

The October evening air should have been cool, but I felt like I was standing in front of an open furnace.

Every breath brought new scents, pine from the forest surrounding the compound, expensive perfumes from other arriving guests, and underneath it all, something muskier that made my stomach clench.

My parents chatted about who they expected to see, which alliances needed renewing, which rivals to avoid. I tried to pay attention, but my body had other concerns.

The fever spiked as we neared the estate.

I dug my nails into my palms hard enough to leave crescents, using the pain to stay focused.

Whatever illness plagued me chose the worst possible timing.

I counted my breaths, a meditation technique learned years ago, and forced my body to obey my will.

In through the nose, hold for four, out through the mouth. Again. And again.

But each breath brought new torture. The scents grew stronger as we approached the main entrance. Alpha scents. Dozens of them. Maybe hundreds. All gathered in one place for the ceremony. My body responded like I’d been struck by lightning, every cell suddenly alive and screaming.

“Here we are,” my father announced as we joined the line of vehicles waiting to discharge passengers at the main entrance. “Remember, we enter through the omega entrance on the side. I’ll go ahead to meet with the other spokespersons. You two follow when ready.”

I nodded, not trusting my voice. Through the window, I could see the grand entrance where alphas and their families swept inside. The separate omega entrance was smaller, less grand, but no less busy. We knew our place in the hierarchy. Separate but essential. Less than the others, but necessary.

“Rhea?” My mother’s voice seemed to come from very far away. “Rhea, you’re breathing strangely.”

I was. Quick, shallow pants that did nothing to satisfy my body’s sudden desperate need for oxygen. Or maybe it wasn’t oxygen I needed. Maybe it was...

As our car entered the main gates, my entire body flushed with heat so intense I gasped.

The sound escaped before I could stop it, my spine arching as wave after wave of liquid fire raced through my veins.

This wasn’t an illness. Wasn’t stress or anxiety or any normal response to a high-pressure situation.

I was going into heat. Here. Now. Surrounded by every unmated alpha in the territory.

My mother’s eyes widened as understanding dawned. The scent would be subtle still, but growing stronger with each passing second. Soon every alpha within fifty feet would know. Would scent an unmated omega in heat and respond accordingly.

“Oh, Rhea,” she breathed, and for the first time in my life, I heard fear in my mother’s voice. “What have you done?”

But I hadn’t done anything. My body had chosen this moment, this worst possible moment, to remind me exactly what I was beneath all the careful politics and practiced smiles.

An omega. In heat. And completely, utterly fucked.