Page 39 of Pregnant, Rejected and Exiled By the Lycan King (Forbidden Alpha Kings #45)

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Damon

My private study had served as a sanctuary for three generations of Kildare alphas.

Dark mahogany panels absorbed secrets, while soundproofing ensured conversations remained private.

Now Carlton spread evidence across the centuries-old desk with the careful precision of a man handling explosives.

Each photograph, each document, represented a piece of the nightmare I’d lived with for months.

The security chief’s usual stoicism cracked slightly as he arranged the forensic photos.

He’d served our family since before I was born, had taught me to fight when my father was too busy with pack politics.

Now he laid out evidence that suggested everything I believed about my brother’s death was wrong.

“I’ve been investigating, again, and whatever I could find,” Carlton began, his weathered hands steady despite the gravity of what he was presenting.

“Using resources typically reserved for external threats. What I found...” He paused, selecting his words carefully.

“The official investigation was rushed, and you know it too. Conclusions were drawn before evidence was properly examined.”

The photos showed Laziel’s wounds in clinical detail.

I’d seen them before, burned into my memory from that terrible morning.

But now Carlton produced a ruler, laying it against specific injury patterns with methodical care.

The measurements were precise, documented with the kind of attention that came from decades of investigative experience.

“The claw spacing measures 4.2 inches at the widest point.” Carlton’s finger traced the photographed wounds without touching them, maintaining the reverence due to evidence of death. “We have Miss Thornback’s measurements from her pack registration, required for all omegas when they come of age.”

He produced another document, official pack records with Rhea’s biometric data.

The comparison was damning in its simplicity.

Her hand measurements, taken years ago for identification purposes, showed a maximum span of 2.

8 inches. Even accounting for the partial shift that could occur during heat rage, the mathematics didn’t work.

“Rhea’s maximum span is 2.8 inches. We have her measurements from her pack registration.” Carlton’s voice remained professionally neutral, but I caught the weight behind his words. He’d known this for weeks, had been building his case while I wallowed.

“These wounds were made by someone with significantly larger hands. A male wolf, alpha bloodline based on the depth of penetration.” The clinical language couldn’t disguise the horror of what he was suggesting. My brother had been killed by an alpha male, not a heat-crazed omega.

The ruler moved to another set of wounds, showing the same impossible measurements. Every strike that had ended my brother’s life came from someone physically incapable of being Rhea. The evidence was irrefutable, laid out with Carlton’s characteristic thoroughness.

“How long have you known this?” My voice came out rougher than intended, emotions threatening the control I desperately needed.

“I’ve suspected for weeks. But I needed to be certain before bringing it to you.” Carlton’s expression held a mixture of regret and determination. “You weren’t in a state to hear theories, sir. You needed facts.”

He was right. In those first weeks after the rejection, I’d been barely functional. The mate bond sickness had consumed me, leaving little room for rational thought. Carlton had investigated while I’d deteriorated, gathering evidence while I’d been lost in nightmares and pain.

“There’s more,” he continued, producing additional photographs.

These showed the pattern of wounds from different angles, revealing details that made my blood run cold.

“The attack pattern suggests training. Military precision in the strikes. Whoever did this knew exactly where to cut for maximum damage.”

My hands clenched on the desk’s edge as implications crashed over me. Rhea, barely trained beyond basic self-defense, couldn’t have executed such precise violence. The killer had experience, had likely killed before. They’d known how to make it look savage while maintaining deadly efficiency.

“Show me everything,” I ordered, needing to see what blindness and grief had made me miss.

Carlton produced comparison charts showing claw mark patterns from various pack members, documented from training incidents over the years.

Our warriors regularly sparred with partial shifts, leaving records of their unique claw signatures.

He’d been building a database without my knowledge, preparing for this moment.

“I’ve also analyzed the angle of attack,” he continued, overlaying transparent sheets on the wound photos. “The strikes came from above, consistent with someone at least six inches taller than the victim. Miss Thornback is five-four. Prince Laziel was six-one.”

The mathematics of murder laid out in stark clarity. For Rhea to have inflicted these wounds, she would have had to attack from an elevated position. But the blood patterns showed Laziel standing when struck, no evidence of him being lower than his attacker.

“She would have had to levitate,” I said, the absurdity of it hitting home.

“Or someone else killed him.” Carlton let the words hang between us, their weight undeniable.

My mind raced through possibilities, each more terrible than the last. Who had access? Who had motive? Who possessed the skill to execute such precise brutality while making it appear savage?

“You’ve built a strong case for her innocence,” I acknowledged, fighting the urge to howl at my own stupidity. “But it doesn’t tell us who actually killed him.”

“No, sir. But there’s more evidence to examine.” Carlton’s expression grew even more grave, if possible. “The security footage from that night.”

Carlton connected his tablet to the wall-mounted screen, technology meeting tradition in this ancient room. The footage began playing, timestamp showing 11:00 PM on that fateful night. But instead of the clear images our system should have provided, static filled large portions of the recording.

“The security system experienced selective failures between 11:47 PM and 3:23 AM.” Carlton manipulated the playback, showing the precise moments when cameras failed. The pattern was too specific for equipment malfunction.

The compound’s security system was state-of-the-art, with redundancies built upon redundancies. My father had insisted on it after a breach attempt in my youth. For multiple cameras to fail simultaneously required either catastrophic system failure or deliberate sabotage.

“Every camera covering the route from your quarters to the Thornback wing went offline.” Carlton pulled up a schematic of the compound, red marks indicating failed cameras. The pattern drew a clear path, too precise for coincidence.

I studied the map, seeing the corridor of blindness someone had created. From my quarters through the main hall, down the east passage, directly to the Thornback residence. Whoever designed this knew our security layout intimately, understood exactly which cameras to disable.

“That’s not equipment failure. That’s sabotage.” The words tasted bitter, carrying implications I didn’t want to face.

“From someone with administrator access. The list is very short.” Carlton pulled up another screen, showing security clearance levels. Only a handful of people could have executed such precise system manipulation.

The list made my stomach clench. My mother. Myself. Carlton. The head of IT. Two senior guards who’d served our family for decades. Each name represented someone I trusted implicitly, someone with the access and knowledge to create this blind spot.

“Show me everything. Every anomaly, every discrepancy.” I needed to see it all, to understand how thoroughly I’d been manipulated.

Carlton methodically worked through the evidence. Entry logs showed irregularities that night, doors that should have been locked standing open, guards assigned to different posts at the last minute, patterns that suggested orchestration rather than chance.

“Guard rotations were changed without authorization,” he noted, showing duty rosters. “Three guards who should have been in the east wing were reassigned to perimeter duty an hour before the incident.”

The reassignments carried electronic signatures, but something about them felt wrong. The timing was too convenient, removing potential witnesses from crucial areas. Someone had cleared a path, ensuring minimal observation of movement through the compound.

“I’ve tracked Laziel’s movements through partial footage,” Carlton continued, showing clips from cameras that hadn’t been disabled. “He left his quarters at 11:45 PM, moving with apparent purpose toward the Thornback wing.”

The footage showed my brother walking through hallways, his posture suggesting determination rather than casual movement. He’d had a destination in mind, a purpose that drove him toward Rhea’s room despite having no official reason to be in that area.

“His personal guard didn’t accompany him,” I noted, finding another irregularity.

“The guard reported being dismissed for the evening, told the prince had retired.” Carlton’s tone suggested what we both knew, Laziel had deliberately ensured he wouldn’t be followed.

More footage showed Laziel’s path, tracked through the few functioning cameras. He’d moved efficiently, suggesting familiarity with the route. This wasn’t a spontaneous decision but something planned. The question was whether he’d planned it alone.

“The timestamp here,” Carlton highlighted a specific frame, “shows him entering the Thornback wing at 12:32 AM. The attack occurred between 12:45 and 1:15, based on blood evidence and body temperature calculations.”

Such a narrow window. Less than an hour between my brother entering that wing and his death. What had happened in those crucial minutes? What had driven him to seek out Rhea in the middle of the night?

“Sir,” Carlton’s voice carried reluctance. “There’s something else you need to see.”

He pulled up different footage, this from the main entrance cameras that monitored the alpha wing. The timestamp read 12:15 AM. A figure emerged from the alpha quarters, moving with unusual aggression. Even in the grainy footage, I recognized the gait.

It was me.

“Multiple guards reported seeing you that night,” Carlton said carefully. “Moving through the compound with unusual focus.”

My blood ran cold as I watched myself on screen. I moved differently than normal, shoulders hunched forward, stride longer and more aggressive. Even in human form, something about my posture screamed predator.

“I don’t remember this.” The admission felt like glass in my throat.

Carlton pulled up testimony from guards who’d encountered me that night. Their reports were consistent, I’d passed without acknowledging greetings, seemed focused on something with single-minded intensity. My eyes had been wrong, they said. Full wolf despite human form.

“Three guards saw you in the east corridor at 12:43 AM.” Carlton highlighted their positions on the compound map. “That puts you in the vicinity of the Thornback residence at the time of the attack.”

The evidence was building a picture I desperately didn’t want to see. But Carlton wasn’t finished. He had more footage, more testimony, more pieces of a puzzle that was reshaping itself into a nightmare.

“You didn’t acknowledge them. They said your eyes were... different. Full wolf despite human form.” Carlton’s clinical delivery couldn’t soften the impact of his words.

I stared at the screen, watching myself move through corridors with deadly purpose. The timestamp aligned perfectly with Laziel’s death. The location put me exactly where I needed to be. But my mind held nothing, no memory of leaving my room, no recollection of that journey.

“Are you suggesting I killed my brother and don’t remember?” The question emerged as barely more than a whisper.

“I’m presenting evidence. The conclusion is yours to draw.” Carlton’s professionalism couldn’t quite hide his concern. He’d helped raise me, had been more present than my father during crucial years. Now he was showing me evidence that I might be a kinslayer.

“Alpha rage blackouts are documented, especially involving mates and territorial disputes.” He pulled up medical texts on his tablet, showing case studies.

“Extreme emotional states, particularly those involving newly formed mate bonds, can trigger dissociative episodes. The alpha acts on pure instinct, with no conscious memory forming.”

The cases he showed were eerily similar.

Alphas who’d committed violence while in rage states, who had no recollection afterward.

Usually triggered by threats to mates or challenges to newly formed bonds.

The clinical descriptions matched what the guards had seen - the strange eyes, the predatory movement, the failure to respond to normal stimuli.

“Laziel went to Rhea’s room,” I said slowly, pieces clicking together. “I was newly mated, the bond still raw...”

“Your instincts would have seen any unmated male approaching her as a threat,” Carlton confirmed. “Especially a family member who might claim prior rights.”

The logic was horrifying in its simplicity. My wolf, still riding high from claiming its mate, would have reacted violently to any perceived threat. And Laziel, going to her room in the middle of the night, would have triggered every protective instinct.

“But I would have remembered. How could I not remember killing my own brother?”

Carlton showed more case studies, focusing on memory loss in alpha rage states. The brain’s inability to form memories during extreme dissociative episodes. Blackouts that left holes where violence lived. It was documented, studied, and understood by those who specialized in alpha psychology.

“The territorial instinct would have been overwhelming,” he explained. “Your wolf would have taken complete control, operating on base instinct. Protect mate. Eliminate threat. Human consciousness gets suppressed entirely.”

I sank into my chair, the weight of possibility crushing. Had I killed Laziel? Had I torn apart my brother in a rage I couldn’t remember? The evidence suggested it, painted a picture of an alpha lost to instinct, acting on primitive drives.

“This doesn’t excuse anything,” I said, voice hollow. “If I killed him...”

“You need all the facts before drawing conclusions,” Carlton interrupted. “There’s one more thing, sir. Laziel’s personal journal mentions his obsession with Miss Thornback. He had planned to confront her that night.”