Alpha's Regret: Claiming My Stolen Twins

Seraphina’s POV

When I arrived in New York, I thought I could finally begin again.

Starting over turned out to be the hardest thing I had ever done. The isolation and empty bank account were manageable, but living with a secret that burned like poison in my throat every time I swallowed made everything unbearable.

I believed I was human, the genetic anomaly raised among werewolves. But I knew their secrets, their vulnerabilities, their deepest fears. That knowledge was a death sentence waiting to happen.

Every day brought terror that someone would discover who I really was. They would realize I wasn’t some ordinary girl but a walking encyclopedia of werewolf weaknesses. If they found me, torture would follow until I revealed everything. So I measured every word, monitored every conversation, and questioned every person who showed interest in me.

During my first weeks in the city, opportunities for friendship presented themselves constantly. I rejected them all. Smiles seemed like traps. Kindness felt like bait.

Everything changed the day I encountered Mr. and Mrs. Jenkins.

I had been circling their bakery for a week, building courage to ask for work. My education centered around pack politics and domestic duties for future lunas, not the qualifications humans needed for decent jobs.

But I could cook. Years of desperately trying to please my adoptive mother had sharpened that skill into my only marketable asset.

Mr. Jenkins, an elderly man with gentle eyes, spotted me lurking outside.

"You planning to admire that window display all morning, sweetheart, or are you coming in for pastry?" His voice boomed with warmth that reminded me of fresh bread.

I fumbled through my request for employment.

They rarely hired anyone. Later they confessed I was their first employee ever. Age was catching up with them. Their backs ached constantly. Their energy had diminished. They needed assistance.

Mrs. Jenkins, who quickly became Ma to me, was small and spirited with flour permanently coating her silver hair. She observed me working dough that first afternoon.

"You have capable hands, sweetheart," she noted.

"I learned young," I answered without elaborating.

They introduced me to advanced techniques, the delicate croissants and elaborate celebration cakes. More importantly, they became the family I desperately needed. They never interrogated me about my background. They simply asked if I wanted another cup of coffee.

I offered them my real name but fabricated everything else. They provided safety and meaning. I stopped constantly checking over my shoulder.

Life developed a comforting pattern of sugar and flour. I discovered happiness, or the closest version someone harboring dangerous secrets could achieve.

Then morning sickness began.

Discovering my pregnancy shattered and elated me simultaneously.

Julian.

I wondered what story I would tell my child about his father. Despite my fear, I carried part of him inside me, a fragile hope nestled beneath my ribs.

The months became a blur.

Mr. and Mrs. Jenkins must have suspected something unusual about me long before I realized it myself.

One week I appeared slightly rounded. The next, my apron wouldn’t close properly.

"Seraphina," Pa said one morning, his tone careful as he offered me a tall glass of milk, "things seem to be progressing rather quickly."

"Just good genes, Pa," I lied, though the truth was glaringly obvious.

Ma simply squeezed my shoulder. "You certainly look radiant, dear."

Suddenly I was enormously pregnant. Then, just three months after learning about the pregnancy, labor began.

I had expected nine months like normal humans. Instead, on a frigid evening, I delivered a healthy baby.

The experience was shocking, agonizing, and terrifyingly rapid. Ma and Pa handled everything like experienced grandparents. They never questioned anything. They simply loved us.

The silver lining was knowing my child would never suffer my fate. His werewolf genetics clearly dominated because of his accelerated development. I had been human enough for rejection, but Theo was purely werewolf.

From the moment my son opened his eyes, I had everything to live for. Everything to anticipate. Everything to smile about.

Which was something I desperately needed after Julian.

Our relationship had never been about love, not the fairy tale kind people write about. I think I loved Julian enough for both of us. But happiness eluded me completely.

Yet when my son’s tiny fingers wrapped around mine, I felt profound peace that Julian never provided. Theo brought me pure joy.

He developed incredibly fast during those early years. He walked before his first birthday, and by three he resembled a five-year-old. Pa explained to everyone that Theo was "sturdy and well-fed." Ma spoiled him endlessly, sneaking him extra cake pieces and teaching him everything she knew.

I think about Julian more than I care to admit. Sometimes I still cry over him, usually during lonely midnight hours.

But Theo comforts me because he carries his father’s scent and smile. The aroma of pine and something untamed, something perilous, surrounds him constantly.

Daily I resist the urge to reach for that phone, the burner hidden deep in a shoebox, and call Julian. To ask about his wellbeing. To tell him about our son, our beautiful son who mirrors him perfectly.

But I never call. I know exactly what would happen.

"The aircraft is prepared."

The doctor’s announcement interrupted my thoughts. I studied the exhausted couple who had maintained vigil beside me since yesterday. Pa and Ma looked more aged than ever.

This same couple had depleted their life savings to arrange my medical flight to a specialist facility in Maine.

"Don’t worry about Theo, honey," Pa said, kissing my forehead with trembling hands. "We’ll care for him."

I trusted them completely. They had been caring for him since birth.

"I wish I could accompany you," Ma whispered, gripping my hand. I think hearing me call them Ma and Pa brings them even more joy than it brings me, since they never had their own children.

Theo was the grandchild they never dared imagine.

"I’ll be fine," I promised them, though I couldn’t promise myself since I had no idea what awaited me.

I requested five minutes alone. The staff positioned my bed near the window where Theo stood, staring at the massive medical jet.

My heart felt like it was splitting apart.

"Mommy," he said, his voice unusually deep for his age. "Pa says you’re taking a special mommy trip."

I stroked his hair, which matched Julian’s exact dark bronze shade. "That’s right, sweetheart. Big adventures."

"Will you return for my birthday?" he asked, uncertainty coloring his question.

I embraced him tightly, ignoring the stabbing pain in my abdomen. His scent, pine and wilderness, filled my lungs. "I promise. Mommy will return very soon. Be good for Ma and Pa, okay? Listen to everything they say. And eat your vegetables."

"Okay, Mama. I love you."

"I love you more than every star, Theo."

I released him, a tear finally escaping. I watched him return to Ma, who immediately enveloped him. The nurse wheeled me away.

I boarded the aircraft. The engine’s humming filled the small cabin. My pain intensified as we crossed state lines, crossed the country. I tried focusing on the sterile lights and the medic’s kind expression, but concentration was impossible.

The pain transcended physical discomfort; it felt like something caged inside me was fighting to escape.

We landed in Maine. The aircraft door opened with a hiss, and the cold, thick air of the northeastern wilderness rushed inside.

When that foreign air entered my lungs, the crushing darkness of my pain suddenly peaked, then shattered.

My wolf, dormant for so long, was finally awakening.

The scent overwhelmed everything. Earth, snow, and a deep, commanding musk that bypassed pain and logic, hammering straight into my consciousness.

Mate.

I was close to Julian. My nine years of carefully constructed freedom were about to end.