Page 37 of Pregnant, Rejected and Exiled By the Lycan King (Forbidden Alpha Kings #45)

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Rhea

I was almost at twenty weeks now, and my feet had started to swell. I could barely remember the days or nights. Everything was a huge blur to me.

Morning sunlight streamed through the gauze curtains, painting golden stripes across the silk sheets.

I woke to the sound of dishes clinking, a domestic melody that had become strangely familiar over the past few days.

Through sleep-heavy eyes, I watched Damon arrange a breakfast tray on the sitting area table, his movements careful, as if the placement of each item carried monumental importance.

The Lycan King, who commanded armies and controlled territories, was personally selecting which berries looked freshest, which pastries were still warm from the oven.

He’d traded his usual commanding presence for something softer, almost uncertain, like a man learning a new language through careful practice.

The transformation was jarring. This was the same man who’d carved my throat in front of the council, who’d banished my family to the outbacks without blinking.

Now he studied a pregnancy nutrition guide propped against the teapot, occasionally glancing between its pages and the food selections, making adjustments with the focus he usually reserved for battle strategies.

His hair was still damp from his morning run, dark strands curling at his neck in a way that made him look younger, less like the feared Lycan King and more like the man I’d glimpsed so briefly during our heat-driven night.

The charcoal Henley stretched across his shoulders as he reached for a plate, the fabric outlining muscles that spoke of predawn training sessions he still maintained despite everything else demanding his attention.

The scene felt surreal, like walking through someone else’s dream.

Each morning for the past few days, he’d arrived with breakfast personally selected from the kitchen’s offerings.

Yesterday it had been fresh strawberries because he’d noticed me eyeing them at dinner.

The day before, it was croissants still warm from the oven because I’d mentioned missing French pastries during my exile.

Today, the aroma of cinnamon rolls made my traitorous stomach growl, announcing my waking state.

He turned at the sound, and for a moment, neither of us spoke.

The light caught his features, highlighting the exhaustion he couldn’t quite hide, the new lines that months of bond sickness had carved into his face.

But there was more to his expression now; a tentative hope that made my chest tight with emotions I couldn’t afford to examine.

“You need to eat more. The pup needs nutrients.” His voice carried none of its usual command, instead holding an uncertainty that didn’t suit him.

I pushed myself up against the pillows, acutely aware of how the nightgown clung to my changed body. “Since when do you care about my eating habits?”

“Since always. I just... lost sight of that for a while.” He carried the tray over, setting it on the bedside table with movements that spoke of practiced care. The china didn’t even clink, each piece placed with precision that seemed at odds with his large hands.

The tray held enough food for three people: scrambled eggs with herbs, whole grain toast with various spreads, fresh fruit arranged in a colorful array, yogurt with granola, herbal tea, orange juice, and the cinnamon rolls whose scent had betrayed my consciousness.

Small dishes held prenatal vitamins, arranged like an offering beside a note in his handwriting listing their benefits.

“This is too much,” I protested, even as my mouth watered at the spread.

“Dr. Mira said variety is important. That pregnancy cravings can change daily.” He settled into the chair beside the bed, a leather-bound journal appearing in his hands. “I’ve been keeping track of what you actually eat versus what you leave.”

The admission sent an unexpected flutter through my chest. The Lycan King had been cataloguing my breakfast preferences like vital intelligence.

“That’s... disturbing and sweet in equal measure,” I admitted, reaching for a piece of toast.

“I have a lot to make up for.” The words came out rough, weighted with meanings we weren’t ready to address. “This seems like a place to start.”

I ate in silence while he watched, occasionally making notes in his journal.

The normalcy of it all made my defenses waver, threatening to crack the anger I’d worn like armor since returning to this gilded prison.

It would be so easy to let this become real, to pretend we were just expectant parents sharing quiet mornings.

But the scar on my throat ached with phantom pain, reminding me why I couldn’t afford such fantasies.

“The tea is ginger-based,” he offered when I reached for the cup. “The healer said ginger tea helps with morning sickness.”

“Since when do you listen to healers about omega care?”

“Since I realized I have a lot to learn.”

After I’d eaten what felt like half the tray’s contents, Damon didn’t leave as expected.

Instead, he pulled out a worn leather journal different from the one he’d been writing in earlier.

This one looked older, its pages yellowed and edges soft from handling.

He opened it carefully, like it contained something precious and fragile.

“I’ve been... researching,” he began, his voice carrying an uncertainty I’d never heard from him before. “About pregnancy, about omega health, about all the things I should have known but never bothered to learn.”

The journal’s pages were filled with his handwriting, neat and precise despite being clearly rushed.

Notes about nutritional requirements, exercise recommendations, warning signs to watch for.

Sketches of furniture arrangements, lists of baby supplies, questions marked with asterisks for further investigation.

It was the notebook of a man desperately trying to understand a world he’d previously ignored.

“Did you know,” he read from one page, “that omega pregnancies require thirty percent more folic acid than beta pregnancies? Or that the sound of the father’s voice in utero can affect pup development?”

His finger traced down the page, finding another notation. “Stress hormones from the carrier can impact fetal growth. Particularly in cases of...” he paused, swallowing hard, “trauma or rejection during pregnancy.”

The weight of those words hung between us.

We both knew what trauma and rejection I’d endured, and who had inflicted it.

His research had clearly led him to uncomfortable truths about the damage he might have caused not just to me, but to the children I carried.

God I had to tell him about the twins soon.

I could not hide it any longer. Dr. Mira had agreed to keep it quiet and had feigned ignorance when he had asked for an ultrasound by saying the fluid made it too blurry so he could not spot them.

But now, it seemed unfair. He was trying so hard and I was still keeping a part of myself from him.

“I’ve been staying up late,” he admitted, closing that journal and pulling out another. “Reading medical texts, omega care guides, anything I could find. Did you know there are seventeen different schools of thought on optimal nest construction? I’ve been trying to synthesize the best approaches.”

He flipped open the second journal, revealing architectural sketches.

Floor plans drawn with an engineer’s precision showed various nursery configurations.

Each design had notes about window placement for natural light, ventilation patterns, proximity to both our room and guard stations.

He’d considered angles of morning sun, afternoon shade, the flow of air that would keep a pup comfortable in summer heat.

“This design,” he pointed to one particularly detailed sketch, “incorporates elements from traditional omega nesting practices with modern security features. The eastern exposure would give morning light without being too harsh. See how the windows are high enough to prevent direct sun on the crib area?”

His enthusiasm was almost boyish, so at odds with the commanding Lycan King persona that I found myself leaning forward to look more closely. The sketches were actually quite good, showing an understanding of space and comfort I wouldn’t have expected.

“You drew these yourself?” I couldn’t hide my surprise.

“I had to do something with the sleepless nights.” A rueful smile crossed his features. “Turns out insomnia is productive for architectural planning.”

He turned the page, showing color swatches and fabric samples carefully taped beside notes about sensory development.

“The color theory research suggests soft blues and greens for calming effects, but some studies indicate warm yellows promote cognitive development. I thought maybe a combination? If you approve, of course.”

“You’re planning nurseries now?” The question came out more wondering than accusatory.

“I’m trying to plan for a future I almost destroyed. Will you look at them?” His eyes met mine, vulnerable in a way that made my chest tight. “Your opinion... it matters. It should have always mattered.”

“It always mattered. I was just too proud to show it.” He set the journal on the bed between us, pages spread open like an offering. “I know I can’t undo the past. But maybe I can build something better going forward. Starting with a space where our pup will feel safe and loved.”

I found myself studying the sketches more seriously, seeing the thought he’d put into every detail.

Temperature controls positioned for easy access but out of reach of curious pups.

Soft corners on all furniture. Multiple light sources for different needs.

He’d even researched paint types, noting which were safest for omega sensitivities during pregnancy.

“These are... actually very thoughtful,” I admitted reluctantly.