Finding Love with the Alpha King at Christmas

Chapter 7

Emma

By the time the tour ended, my legs were done.

We stopped outside my room and I caught the doorframe, pretending I wasn’t one step away from face-planting into a decorative plant.

“So,” I said, forcing a smile, “thanks for the grand royal Christmas experience.”

“You pushed yourself too much,” Lucian said. “I should have kept it shorter.”

“It was worth it,” I said. Exhaustion made me braver than usual. “But just so we’re clear—I’m only staying here because I don’t have anywhere else to go. Once I’m better, I’m leaving. I’m not signing up for castle life forever.”

The words came out blunt and ugly, but true.

He didn’t flinch. “I know,” he said. “You don’t owe me your future, Emma. You can stay as long as you want and decide when you’re healed.”

That calm answer threw me more than if he’d argued.

“And until then,” he added, “you’re safe here. My room is down the hall. If you need anything—come to me, or send someone. Understand?”

The word safe snagged in my chest.

“I’m not used to people saying that and meaning it,” I muttered.

“I don’t say things I don’t mean,” he replied. “Good night.”

He gave a small, un-showy nod and walked away. I watched him until he turned the corner, then slipped into my room and shut the door. The moment I sat on the bed, my body remembered it had been inside a rolling car. Everything ached. My brain buzzed with too much—wolves, crowns, Mate bonds, Christmas trees bigger than houses. I toed off my boots, dragged the covers over myself, and was gone.

I woke to warmth and quiet.

For a few seconds I floated, not sure where I was. Then my ribs twinged, and the memories snapped back: crash, werewolves, castle. I opened my eyes to a gauzy canopy instead of a ceiling. A low fire glowed in the stone hearth. Pale light crept around thick curtains. The entire room felt soft and unreal, like a movie set.

I eased myself up and shuffled to the window. Pushing the curtain aside, I peeked out. Snow covered everything. Trees, roofs, paths—white and silver under a washed-out sky. Smoke curled from a chimney. Two figures walked along a path, breath fogging. It looked exactly like the kind of Christmas picture I used to stare at as a kid, imagining there was a house somewhere that felt like that inside.

My chest tightened.

A light knock broke the moment.

“Yeah?” I called. “Come in.”

The door opened. Lucian stepped in, dark sweater, black trousers, sleeves pushed up. Less “formal king,” more “dangerous guy in a winter commercial.”

“Good morning,” he said. His gaze swept over me—bed hair, simple pajamas, bare feet—and something in his shoulders loosened. “How do you feel?”

“Like I was in a car crash—which, you know, fair—but honestly I feel better than I probably should,” I said. “But I’m upright.”

“That’s progress,” he said. “Breakfast is starting. I came to see if you’d like to join us.”

Us meaning him and a room full of werewolves.

Old instincts flared—walking into a new group home, everyone turning to look, wondering if I’d be wanted or tolerated.

“You don’t have to,” he added, catching something on my face. “I can have food brought here. But after an accident like that, it might help to move around a little. And maybe see that we’re nothing to be afraid of.”

We, not they.

“Okay,” I said before I could overthink it. “Let’s do breakfast with the werewolves.”

His mouth twitched. “Dress warmly,” he said. “It’s a long way down.”

He stepped back out to give me privacy. I grabbed jeans, a forest-green sweater, thick socks from the wardrobe. Everything fit like it had existed in my closet for years. I pulled my hair into something that wasn’t entirely tragic and opened the door.

He was waiting in the hall as if he’d never left.

“You look better,” he said. It sounded like a simple fact.

“Define better,” I muttered, but it still warmed me a little.

We walked together. By the first set of stairs, my body reminded me it had been rearranged recently. Half a flight down, my ribs throbbed, and my legs trembled.

“Stop,” Lucian said quietly.

“I’m fine,” I lied, gripping the rail.

He gave me a look. “You’re stubborn,” he said. “You’re not fine.”

He offered his arm without comment. Pride wanted to refuse; common sense and gravity voted yes. I took it. With his support, the rest of the descent was manageable instead of brutal.

The great hall doors stood open.

Sound spilled out first: music from one corner, clatter of plates, bursts of laughter. Then smells—coffee, bread, meat, sugar, spice.

We stepped inside, and my brain just… stalled. The hall was huge, all stone arches and wooden beams. Evergreen garlands and ribbons looped along the walls. Long tables stretched the length of the room, full of people—wolves—in human form: adults, teens, elders and children. And at the far end, a Christmas tree soared almost to the rafters. It was ridiculous in the best way, branches heavy with ornaments—glass balls, carved wood, little moons and wolves, stars that caught the light. Ribbons spiraled down; tiny lights winked between them.

Kids wove between the adults, dodging legs with automatic ease. Someone caught a running child around the waist, squeezed him, set him down again without breaking their conversation. An older woman glanced my way and gave me a small, warm nod, like I belonged here more than I did.

“This is…” I said. “Wow.”

“If it’s too much, say so,” Lucian murmured. “We can leave whenever you want.”

Before I could answer, a small boy detached from a cluster near the tree and walked toward us carefully, like he was balancing something fragile that might break if he breathed too hard. He couldn’t have been more than four or five. Dark hair sticking up, serious eyes. He stopped in front of me and uncurled his fingers. A gingerbread cookie sat in the palms of his hands. It was shaped like a wolf, iced with wobbly white lines and a tiny red nose.

“For you,” he whispered.

My throat closed.

In every house I’d lived in, I’d watched kids give each other little things—bracelets, stickers, half a cookie—and stood at the edge, hands empty, pretending it didn’t matter. No one had ever marched up to me just to offer me something small and sweet and theirs.

“Thank you,” I managed, taking it carefully. “He’s perfect.”

The boy’s cheeks went pink. He glanced up at Lucian, got the smallest nod, and lit up. Then he spun and ran back toward the other kids, where an older man immediately reached down to ruffle his hair.

A sharp ache bloomed under my ribs. This wasn’t just a hall. It was a pack. A family.

I blinked hard, refusing to cry over a cookie in front of a hundred supernatural strangers. Lucian’s hand brushed, very lightly, at the small of my back, guiding me toward a table near the front. He pulled out a chair for me and waited until I sat before taking the seat beside me.

Music played. People talked and laughed. The giant tree glittered. The gingerbread wolf sat on my plate, a little crooked. I drew in a slow breath, the air warm with spice and sound. For the first time in a very long time, in a place that should have terrified me, surrounded by people who shouldn’t exist, I felt something I hadn’t felt since I was small.

Safe.