The Alpha's 99 days surrogate

The blood shield

"Don't move, and maybe I'll make the first cut quick enough that you won't feel the baby die."

The assassin's voice was a dry rattle against my ear. His hand smelled like s**t and cheap cigarettes, pressing so hard against my mouth that I could feel my own teeth cutting into the inside of my mouth. I tasted the first metallic tang of blood, and the stench of him made my stomach turn.

I wasn't a wolf. I didn't have claws or some beast to call on for help. I was a Dud, pinned under a stinky low-life while my King was out in the woods hunting.

Ready to fight.

The voice didn't come from my head. It came from my gut. That silver pulse in my womb suddenly turned ice-cold. A jagged, electric shock bolted through my spine, hitting my limbs with a strength that shouldn't have been there.

I didn't scream, I bit the bastard. Hard.

I sank my teeth into the fleshy part of his palm, tasting salt and filth. He let out a muffled grunt of pain, his grip loosening just enough. It was all I needed. I slammed my knee upward, catching him right in the groin, and rolled.

The silver dagger hissed through the air, catching the lace of my slip and pinning the fabric to the floor. I heard the lace tear as I scrambled toward the balcony, my lungs burning.

"Killian!" I screamed, my voice raw and cracking. "Killian!"

The assassin was back on his feet, moving with a sickening speed. He didn't shift, but his eyes were glowing a dull, murky red. He wasn't a high-born Lycan, he was a rogue, a mercenary. He lunged again, his fingers catching my ankle and dragging me back toward the shadows.

"The King is miles away, little b***h," he snarled, his knee slamming into my back to pin me down. He raised the dagger high, the moonlight catching the jagged edge. "He's too busy trying to burn your pack to hear you die."

I looked up, staring straight at the blade. My hand went to my stomach, a primal instinct to protect my child.

Please.

The room suddenly went cold.

A sound tore through the night, a roar so loud it shattered the remaining glass in the balcony doors. It wasn't a howl. It was the sound of a god losing his mind.

The assassin didn't even have time to turn his head.

A massive, black shadow hit the room like a cannonball. One second the man was on top of me, and the next, he was being slammed against the stone fireplace with a sound of breaking bones that made me gag.

Killian wasn't in his human form. But he wasn't a full wolf either. He was something in between—a towering, fur-covered nightmare with claws the size of steak knives and eyes that were nothing but gold fire.

He didn't use a weapon, he used his hands.

He grabbed the assassin by the throat, lifting him off the floor until the man's feet were kicking at the air. Killian's growl was a physical vibration that shook the very floorboards under my hands.

"You touched... my... anchor," Killian rasped, the words forced through a throat that was halfway between human and beast.

He didn't wait for an answer. With a sickening, wet crunch, Killian slammed the man's head into the stone mantle. Once. Twice. The third time, the man's head gave way like a rotted pumpkin.

Killian dropped the corpse like it was garbage and turned toward me.

I was backed into the corner, clutching my stomach, my chest heaving. I had never seen anything this violent. Killian took a step toward me, his claws dripping red onto the rug. He was snarling, a low, guttural sound that told me the Feral Madness had completely taken over. He didn't see Vespera the girl. He saw his female.

"Killian," I whispered, my voice shaking. "It's me."

He didn't stop. He lunged, his massive weight pinning me against the wall. His scent was overwhelming. Blood, rain, and a dark, addictive musk that made my blood hum. He buried his face in my neck, his teeth grazing the skin right over my pulse point.

He wasn't biting to kill. He was nuzzling, a frantic, territorial marking that made my breath hitch. His hands, still covered in the assassin's blood slammed into the wall on either side of my head.

"Mine," he growled, the word vibrating against my skin. "Mine. Mine. Mine."

He pulled back just enough to look at me, his chest heaving, his muzzle stained red. He looked at my stomach, then back at my eyes. The gold in his gaze softened into a dark, obsessive hunger.

He grabbed my face, his claws surprisingly light against my cheeks, and crushed his mouth against mine.

It wasn't a kiss, it was a claim. It tasted of blood and desperation. His tongue invaded my mouth, demanding everything, while his hands hauled me up against his hard, fur covered chest.

As he pulled away, his eyes locking onto mine with a terrifying clarity, he whispered the words that broke me.

"The Council didn't send him, Vespera."

I blinked, my heart stopping. "What?"

Killian looked at the dead man on the floor, then back at me. "That mark on his wrist. That's your father's crest. He didn't sell you, Vespera. He sent a man to make sure you didn't survive the night."

The room went silent, except for the sound of my own heart breaking.

"Killian," I whispered, the first tear breaking.

"Don't cry," he hissed, his thumb catching the tear and smearing it with blood. "We aren't going to cry. We're going to hunt."