Page 103 of The Alpha King’s Hidden Mute Mate

My hand paused while tucking in her blanket. "No?"

"Nope. He makes kites pretty well. Even though he's clumsy and got glue in my hair."

"So you like him now?"

She thought seriously. "Don't know. But—I can keep observing."

I almost laughed.

"Okay," I said. "You observe."

She closed her eyes. After a moment, they opened again. "Mommy."

"Mm?"

"Will he always be good to us?"

That question pierced me like a fine needle. I looked at Lily's eyes, so bright even in dim light—eyes that had inherited Zane's gray-blue tone but carried my spirit.

"I don't know," I said honestly. "But that doesn't matter."

Lily thought about it, nodded, then turned over, pulled the blanket to her chin, and closed her eyes.

I sat by her bed, watching her peaceful face, complex emotions churning inside me. Forgiveness was too heavy a word. Too heavy for me to carry yet.

The next two weeks, I became a full-time veterinarian trying to fix a wolf who couldn't howl.

Honestly, it felt absurd. I was the mute orphan who couldn't speak, now teaching a former alpha how to make sound. Fate was definitely laughing somewhere.

I started giving him "lessons" every evening in the garden.

I had him shift into wolf form, then I'd stand facing him, making simple sounds—"Ahhh—" "Ohhh—" "Wooo—" like teaching a baby to talk. He'd open his mouth, follow along, producing broken, hoarse gasps of air. Occasionally, he'd squeeze out a note or two, but mostly just futile panting.

Days passed like this. During the day, I explored the palace with Lily—we discovered a secret room in the library filled with ancient sheet music, found a massive oak tree deep in the garden we could climb, and the old cook would sneak us chocolate lava cakes. At night, I continued Zane's "lessons," though we made little progress.

Once, I sat on a garden bench watching the sunset paint the sky orange-red. Lily chased a firefly across the lawn, her laughter ringing like silver bells in the twilight. Zane sat on the grass beside me, leaning against a tree, eyes closed, breathing steady.

"You know," I began, not looking at him, "these past few days have been the most relaxed I've felt in five years."

He opened his eyes and turned to look at me.

"Not because I've forgiven you," I added, my tone calmer than expected. "Just because—I can finally breathe for a minute."

He said nothing. But he reached out, tentatively, lightly, and touched my fingers.

That touch was feather-light. I could have pulled away. Should have pulled away. But I didn't.

I just sat there, watching the sun sink lower, feeling the warmth of his fingertips, thinking: This is dangerous. You know this is dangerous. But my body wouldn't listen.

Then all that fragile beauty shattered two weeks later on an afternoon.

That day, I went to the palace wine cellar to fetch a bottle of red—the old cook said she needed a good vintage for tonight's wine-braised beef. The cellar was massive, dimly lit, air thick with oak barrels and fermenting grapes. I walked down the narrow corridor, fingers sliding over dusty bottle labels, searching for the one the cook mentioned.

Then I smelled something.

Sweet. Too sweet. Like rotting flowers mixed with chemicals.

Before I could turn, a wet cloth covered my mouth and nose. That sickly-sweet smell flooded my nostrils and throat. My brain shut down instantly. The lights began spinning, blurring, fracturing into countless shards. My knees buckled, body pitching forward, but hands caught me—rough, calloused hands, the kind left by hard labor.