Page 25 of Pregnant, Rejected and Exiled By the Lycan King (Forbidden Alpha Kings #45)

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Rhea

Monday morning arrived with me jumping at every shadow.

The encounter with the rogue pack over the weekend had rewired my nervous system, turning every unexpected sound into a threat.

I’d spent Sunday holed up in my apartment, peeking through curtains at every car that passed, every person who walked by.

The gray leader’s yellow eyes haunted me, that predatory interest in my swollen sides replaying every time I closed my eyes.

I arrived at work an hour early, circling the parking lot three times before committing to a space.

The beat-up Honda next to Wayne’s truck could hide anyone.

The dumpster behind the building offered too many shadows.

Even the familiar creak of the office door made my shoulders tense, body coiled to run or fight despite knowing neither was a real option anymore.

My desk felt like a trap the moment I sat down.

Back to the door, no peripheral vision, nowhere to escape if they came through the entrance.

I stood up, then sat down, then stood again, anxiety making decisions impossible.

Finally, I dragged my chair to the corner, angling it so I could see both the door and window.

The computer monitor had to be adjusted, the phone cord stretched to its limit, but at least I could watch for threats.

The rearrangement took fifteen minutes of quiet furniture scraping.

I mapped escape routes while I worked, through Wayne’s office to the back exit, out the window if desperate enough, maybe through the bathroom’s small window if I could fit with my growing belly.

Each option seemed worse than the last, but having them catalogued made my racing heart slow fractionally.

Wayne’s truck door slammed at 7:55, his punctual arrival now part of my safety routine.

His heavy footsteps on the stairs, the jingle of keys, the particular way he cursed when the lock stuck, all of it had become the soundtrack of normal, safe, not-being-hunted life.

But today even his familiar presence made me tense, waiting for the door to burst open with violence instead of my employer’s tired morning shuffle.

“Morning,” he called out, same as every day. But then he stopped, coffee cup halfway to his lips, taking in my rearranged workspace. Those tired eyes that usually focused on crossword puzzles sharpened, scanning the changes I’d made.

“You’re twitchy as a cat in a thunderstorm,” he observed, setting a paper cup on my desk. The Wayne Garrett version of kindness, gas station coffee that tasted like burnt rubber but meant he’d thought of me during his morning stop.

I reached for it, grateful for the gesture, but my depth perception had gone haywire with stress. My fingers knocked the cup sideways, sending coffee flooding across the desk. I jumped back, heart hammering, hands shaking as brown liquid raced toward important papers.

“Shit, I’m sorry, I’m so sorry…” The words tumbled out as I grabbed tissues, trying to stem the tide. My reflexes had gotten worse since the pregnancy, slower physically even as my mind raced with hypervigilance. Every movement felt disconnected, like operating a body through remote control.

“Just coffee,” Wayne said mildly, producing a roll of paper towels from his desk drawer. He helped mop up the mess without further comment, but I caught him watching me from the corner of his eye.

The morning promised a parade of property viewings, each appointment marked in the leather-bound calendar Wayne refused to digitize. “Computer calendars are for people who like their lives hacked,” he’d told me once. Now I stared at the handwritten names, each one potentially hiding a threat.

Names that meant nothing but could mean everything. Were rogue wolves smart enough to use false identities? To pose as renters while hunting pregnant omegas? My rational mind said no, but my body had stopped listening to rationality sometime Saturday night.

The Harrison appointment arrived first, and my worst fears materialized in the form of a tall man in a dark suit.

Everything about him screamed security, the way he held himself, the systematic scan of our office, how his hand stayed near his hip where a weapon might rest. I forgot every word of my usual greeting, mouth dry as sandpaper.

“Good morning,” I managed, voice cracking. “You’re here about the efficiency unit?”

His eyes narrowed at my obvious distress. “Yes. The listing mentioned utilities included?”

A simple question that my scrambled brain couldn’t process. I shuffled through papers, looking for information I knew by heart, buying time while my body decided whether to run. Wayne materialized at my elbow, smooth as silk.

“I’ll handle Mr. Laughlin’s viewing,” he said, producing keys with practiced ease. “Rhea, why don’t you prepare the paperwork for the next appointment?”

The relief nearly buckled my knees. I nodded too eagerly, retreating to my desk while Wayne led the maybe-threat outside.

Through the window, I watched them walk to Wayne’s truck, noting how Laughlin moved, in a controlled, purposeful, definitely trained manner.

But Wayne chatted easily, gesturing at buildings, playing the part of small-town real estate agent without a care in the world.

A middle-aged woman with three kids in tow, looking for space after a divorce arrived next.

The normal kind of client with normal problems, but I still found myself analyzing every question.

Why did she need to know about the neighborhood at night?

Was her interest in security features suspicious?

The youngest child, maybe four years old, kept staring at my stomach with that unnerving directness kids possessed.

“Baby?” she asked, pointing with a juice-sticky finger.

Her mother shushed her, mortified, but the damage was done. I placed a protective hand over the small bump, then forced it back to the desk. “No, just... too many donuts.”

The lie tasted worse than usual. The mother hustled her children toward the rental listings, but not before I caught her knowing look. Women always knew. Especially mothers. Especially when the “donuts” moved independently during conversations.

By the time the last appointment for the morning arrived for the commercial space tour, my nerves were shredding like tissue paper.

He was a construction worker seeking temporary housing, built like someone who threw rebar around for fun.

When he extended his hand to shake, I saw Damon’s fingers, same broad palms, same calluses from training too hard, same casual strength that could snap bones or stroke skin with equal ease.

The bathroom door slammed behind me before conscious thought engaged.

I bent over the toilet, dry heaving while my body confused past and present danger.

The client’s hands weren’t Damon’s. His voice didn’t carry that particular rumble.

But my hormones and fear had created a cocktail that turned every tall, strong man into a ghost of my mate.

When I emerged, Wayne had already taken the man to view properties. I was grateful for his quick wit. He’d been running interference all morning, taking the male clients while leaving me the females. Adjusting our showing schedule without comment, creating buffers between me and perceived threats.

The kindness of it made my throat tight. This rumpled beta in his coffee-stained ties and crossword puzzle addiction had noticed my distress and quietly rearranged his entire morning to accommodate it. No questions, no demands for explanation, just practical protection offered without strings.

By lunch, I’d accomplished almost nothing productive, jumping every time the door opened, checking windows obsessively, mapping and remapping escape routes that grew more elaborate and less practical with each revision.

“Why don’t you handle the paperwork today? I’ll do the showings.” Wayne didn’t look up from his crossword when he made the suggestion, casual as discussing weather.

“I can manage…” The protest came automatically. I couldn’t afford to seem weak, to lose this job that kept me fed and sheltered.

“I know you can. But you don’t have to.” He filled in twelve down with careful letters. “Sometimes managing means knowing when to accept help.”

The simple wisdom of it threatened my composure more than any threat could. When had anyone last offered help without wanting something in return? When had anyone noticed my struggle and moved to ease it without demanding explanations I couldn’t give?

By afternoon, exhaustion warred with paranoia in a battle that left me swaying in my chair.

The weekend’s adrenaline crash combined with pregnancy fatigue and emotional upheaval into a cocktail that made basic functions feel mountainous.

The twins had been active all day, responding to my stress with their own restlessness.

Every few minutes they’d shift or kick, visible now through my shirt if anyone looked closely.

I caught myself rubbing my stomach after a particularly strong movement, the gesture unconscious and instinctive.

My hand froze halfway through the soothing circle, darting back to the keyboard like it had touched fire.

But damage done, I’d shown weakness, given any watching eyes confirmation of what the rogue wolves had smelled.

Wayne kept working his puzzle, but something in his posture had shifted.

He’d noticed the gesture, filed it away with all the other tells I’d been dropping all day.

The bathroom breaks. The way certain smells made me turn green.

How I’d started carrying crackers in my desk drawer.

A thousand tiny pregnancies announcing themselves to anyone who knew how to look.

“April wants you for dinner Sunday,” he said, pencil scratching against the newspaper. His tone stayed conversational, like he was discussing weather rather than detonating bombs. “She says I can’t keep feeding you tuna sandwiches, especially with the way how much your kid hates it.”

The words hung between us like a physical presence.

My fingers stilled on the keyboard, my brain struggling to process what he’d just said.

He knows. This rumpled beta with his crossword puzzles and coffee addiction had puzzled out my secret.

All the careful hiding, the baggy clothes, the lies about the smells, useless against someone who’d been paying attention.

“I don’t... how did you...” The words tangled on my tongue, too many questions fighting for priority.

He finally looked up, meeting my panicked gaze with steady calm. “Omega wife for thirty years. I know the signs.”

Of course. April. I’d heard him mention her but never connected the dots. An omega wife meant he’d lived through heats, through all the particular vulnerabilities of our kind. He’d learned to read the subtle signals, the careful movements, the protective gestures we couldn’t quite suppress.

“Does anyone else know?”

“Just me. And I’m good at keeping my mouth shut.” He returned to his puzzle, giving me space to process. “April lost two before we finally stopped trying. Complications from being an omega, doctor said. Like her body wasn’t designed for what nature demands of them.”

The casual revelation hit like a slap. He understood more than just the physical signs. He knew the fear, the uncertainty, the way pregnancy felt like borrowed time when you were omega. His wife had lived it. He’d watched her live it.

“I can’t, Wayne, if anyone finds out, I would be in danger.”

“Then they won’t.” Simple as that, like keeping explosive secrets was just another daily task. “But you need proper food. Real nutrition, not gas station sandwiches. April makes a pot roast that could raise the dead.”

Did I trust him? Could I afford to? And worst of all, could I afford not to?

The questions churned while Wayne calmly filled in another answer. Seven across: REFUGE. The word stared up at me from his puzzle, accidentally profound. Maybe that’s what this was, not just a job but a refuge. Not just a boss but an ally.

“Sunday then?” he asked, like my whole world hadn’t just tilted on its axis.

I nodded, not trusting my voice.

“Good. April will be thrilled. Fair warning though, she’s going to try to feed you until you pop.”

The normalcy of it, the casual acceptance of what I was and what I carried, broke something loose in my chest. Not quite trust, given that I’d lost the ability to trust completely. But maybe something adjacent to it. An emotion that felt like the first deep breath I had taken since Saturday night.

Outside, the afternoon sun slanted through windows I’d checked obsessively all day. But for the first time since the rogue encounter, the movements looked less threatening.

Wayne Garrett, my boss, old enough to be my father, knew my secret. And somehow, impossibly, that made me feel safer than I’d felt in months.