Page 36 of Pregnant, Rejected and Exiled By the Lycan King (Forbidden Alpha Kings #45)

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Rhea

Morning arrived with a soft knock that definitely wasn’t Damon he never knocked.

The sound pulled me from the edge of sleep where I’d been drifting, still wrapped in his scent from the night before.

I grabbed the silk robe he’d left draped over a chair, wrapping it around myself with fingers that fumbled at the tie.

The fabric whispered against skin marked by last night’s activities, tender spots where his mouth had been particularly thorough, sensitive places that made me shiver with remembered pleasure.

I opened the door expecting Nathan or another guard.

Instead, my parents stood in the hallway like ghosts from another life.

My mother held a breakfast tray laden with more food than I’d seen in months, while my father looked everywhere but at me the walls, the floor, the ceiling with its crown molding that probably cost more than we’d ever owned.

“Damon arranged for us to visit,” my father said stiffly, still not meeting my eyes. His voice carried the same careful neutrality he’d used in political meetings, but underneath I heard the strain. “Supervised, of course.”

The subtext was clear: they were allowed this kindness only because the King permitted it. We were all here on his sufferance, dancing to his tune. Behind my parents, I noticed a guard stationed at the corner, far enough to give the illusion of privacy but close enough to intervene if necessary.

My mother pushed past the awkwardness with the determination that had carried her through twenty-five years of marriage to a political climber.

She swept into the room without invitation, setting the tray on the sitting area table with practiced efficiency.

The china rattled slightly, the only sign of her nervousness.

“You need to eat,” she said, turning to study me with sharp maternal eyes. “You’re looking thin despite the pregnancy. That’s not healthy for you or the babies.”

Of course she’d noticed what others might miss. My mother had helped deliver enough children to recognize the particular exhaustion of carrying multiples.

The maternal fussing felt surreal after everything that had happened. Three months ago, we’d been torn apart in disgrace, dragged to the outbacks, me fleeing into the night. Now we were having breakfast like it was normal, like we weren’t all prisoners of different kinds.

“How are the outbacks?” I asked as we settled around the small table. The question felt inadequate for the magnitude of what I’d put them through.

“Survivable.” My mother poured tea with steady hands, the familiar motion probably comforting. “Your father has established some order among the exiles there. Amazing what twenty years of political experience can accomplish, even in reduced circumstances.”

New lines mapped my father’s face like territories of suffering. My mother’s hands showed calluses that spoke of manual labor, something she’d never had to do in our old life. Her hair, always perfectly styled, now hung in a simple braid with gray threading through like silver accusations.

The breakfast spread clearly came from the main kitchen, not the simple fare my parents would have access to in the outbacks.

Fresh fruit glistened with morning dew. Pastries still steamed from the oven.

Protein options suitable for pregnancy filled small plates.

Damon’s hand in this arrangement was obvious, every detail calculated to provide what I needed while reminding us who controlled the provision.

“The compound looks the same,” my father observed, finally risking a glance at me. “As if nothing changed that night.”

But everything had changed. We all knew it. The three of us sat here by permission, not right. Our family had been shattered and poorly glued back together for this supervised visit.

Conversation stayed safely neutral, the weather, the food, carefully edited stories of outback life that wouldn’t violate whatever agreement they’d made for this visit.

My mother poured more tea with hands that trembled when she thought no one was looking.

My father pushed food around his plate without eating, the gesture achingly familiar from stressful political dinners in our past life.

Then my mother’s sharp intake of breath cut through our careful performance.

“Rhea, your neck.”

The robe had shifted when I reached for a pastry, revealing not just the healed scar from the bond removal, but fresh marks.

Bite marks bloomed purple against my pale skin.

Bruises from Damon’s fingers painted a map of last night’s complicated encounter.

Evidence of violence that couldn’t be explained away as anything, the placement too careful, too obvious.

My mother’s eyes narrowed with maternal fury quickly suppressed. She knew better than to show too much emotion here, but I caught the flash of protective rage before she shuttered it.

“Did he hurt you?” The question carried layers of physical hurt, emotional hurt, the hurt of our entire situation. The hurt of seeing her daughter marked by the man who’d destroyed their lives.

“It’s not... what you think. Trust me.” The explanation tangled on my tongue, inadequate for the reality of what Damon and I had become.

“Men always are when they want something without paying the price.” My mother’s voice could have cut glass. She set down her teacup with a precise click that somehow conveyed entire paragraphs of disapproval.

How could I tell my mother that despite everything despite the banishment, the public humiliation, the months of suffering my body still craved his touch?

That last night I’d let him worship me with his mouth while guards stood outside?

That I’d bitten my pillow to muffle his name when release crashed through me?

And how could I even begin to explain his nightmares when I could barely understand them.

My father finally looked directly at me, and I saw the conflict in his eyes. “He rejected you publicly,” he said, voice level but vibrating with suppressed rage. “Tore our family apart. Carved the mark from your throat while the council watched.”

Damon appeared in the doorway like a summoned demon, dressed for the day in a charcoal suit that emphasized his broad shoulders.

His hair was still damp from showering, and I caught myself remembering how it had felt under my fingers last night.

He took in the scene with one comprehensive glance, my parents’ rigid posture, my visible marks, the tension thick enough to choke on.

“I trust breakfast is satisfactory?” He addressed my parents with cool courtesy, but his eyes lingered on me. Checking on me. On them. Making sure the conversation stayed within whatever bounds he’d set for this visit.

“More than we deserve, according to you.” My father’s response walked the line between gratitude and insult with the skill of a man who’d spent decades in politics.

The pause stretched too long, filled with unspoken truths and careful calculations. My mother reached for another pastry she wouldn’t eat. My father straightened in his seat, his posture turning rigid. And Damon stood in the doorway like a guardian or a jailer, I couldn’t decide which.

“Perhaps we should discuss the baby’s health,” my mother said finally, voice bright with false cheer.

Damon moved into the room properly, claiming space with the casual authority of someone who owned everything in it. “The healer will examine her this afternoon,” he said, answering my mother’s redirected concern. “Every precaution will be taken for the pregnancy.”

The possession in his voice made my parents exchange another look. Their daughter, back in the King’s hands, marked and monitored and controlled. The careful distance they’d maintained began to crack, showing the pain beneath.

“More tea?” my mother asked, reaching for the pot with hands that barely trembled.

And so we continued our careful breakfast, all of us pretending we weren’t broken people in a broken situation, held together by threads of biology and need and secrets nobody was ready to speak aloud.

But I didn’t miss the way my father’s eyes kept returning to my marks, or how my mother gripped her teacup like a weapon.