All Chapters of The Alpha King's Breeder: Chapter 941 - Chapter 950

ZaynFallon searches my eyes. Her brows pinch together, and a look of uncertainty paints her expression in shadow. I’m still inside her, hard again. It’s been so long since I’ve done this–touched someone like this. It’s my first time touching her like this.My mate. I have her wrists pinned above her head to stop her from moving. I just needed a moment–a single slice of time to decide the best way to go about this. “How long?” she whispers, her voice breaking. “Fallon–”“How long have you known?”I slowly pull out, both of us wincing, both raw and torn open emotionally. Her, because I’ve lied for three years. Me, because I’ve known the truth for that long. I let go of her wrists, but she makes no move to shove me away again. She doesn’t bare her teeth or hurl insults. She grabs my hands before I can pull away completely, and we stay there, tangled, slick with perspiration, our hearts still rattled. “How long?” she begs in a tone I’ve never heard her use. It’s quiet, sad but susp

IanDad doesn’t like coming to Moonrise. I’ve never outwardly questioned him about it. Mom picks up the slack when it comes to his sometimes strange moments of silence and entirely skeptical behavior. It’s easy to forget what he is and where he’s from. He wasn’t born in the rolling, emerald green hills and valleys of New Glade. He wasn’t born in the sawdust and wheat fields of Silverhide. The gnarled trees of the still- recovering plains of the Deadlands pale in comparison to the land of his ancestors on both sides–Pantharas. I’ve never been, but I’ve also never had the itch to travel long distances by boat, especially to a place my dad swore he’d never return to. Moonrise, however, is a fine trip. My parents are old school, all things considered. A week spent in wolf form traversing the northern, unpopulated territory of the Deadlands was the highlight, at least for me. There’s plenty of hunting. The summer weather is fair and dry compared to the depths of the Roguelands, where we

Fallon“Louisa.” I sigh, shivering with delight. “You beauty. I’m going to make Zayn give you a fat stack of cash just because you’re a miracle worker.” Louisa is, at this moment in time, a figment of my imagination, but I’m dripping in her delicate handiwork while admiring my reflection in the bathroom mirror. Naomi would be in tears, rolling around on the floor laughing, if she could see me right now, but also, fuck her. She has no taste, and I have more than enough for the two of us. I stretch my arms out to the side to admire the bubble gum pink fabric of my new robe, which drapes heavily before tapering at my wrists, lined with pearl beads. The fabric is silken and impossibly light, but the length is what really gets me going. When I mentioned I longed for something to wear around the house that wafted over the tiles and made me look like I was some kind of apparition floating this way and that, Louisa delivered without a second thought. The robe has feathers along the hem. It’s

FallonI don’t like feeling this way. My chest feels heavy and tight. My throat hurts every time I swallow. Grief and jealousy mingle into a tangled net that creates another kind of feeling–a twisting of the two that makes me want to cry more than anything, which is ridiculous. I am ridiculous. I’m being insane. Stella is beautiful, though, which makes this worse. Her sculpted bone structure and thick, red hair catch shadows painted by master artists as she slowly unbuttons Eniana’s nightgown, exposing her bare, pale chest. Her green eyes remind me vividly of Posey, my uncle Aris’s mate, which brings me a single, fleeting shred of comfort. Everyone loves Posey, even if she’s extraordinarily antisocial and awkward. Stella is neither of those things. “Did I make you uncomfortable, Luna?” she asks with a brief, almost shy smile that betrays the sharpness of her eyes. I stare at her coolly before going back to grinding herbs with a mortar and pestle. She is making me uncomfortable. No

FallonMy wavering, uncontrollable emotions and utter lack of a rational brain are confirmed directly after supper, when I feel the sudden urge to curl into a ball and cry. My moon cycles are incredibly regular–to the day, to the hour. Back home in Moonrise, I could give myself a ten-minute countdown to the grand event. But here? I manage to pull myself out of bed and scrub my hand through my hair, glowering at my reflection in the bathroom mirror. I look exhausted. Run through. The works. I should go to bed. I should raid the kitchen for anything sweet. I shouldn’t be slipping into a nightgown while eyeing the magic journal Zayn keeps on the dresser, which is open, waiting for the moment I finally summon the courage to write to my family. Zayn has been the one corresponding with them. I’ve read the letters, of course. Naomi and Zayn have formed a camaraderie at my expense. My dad writes short, blunt notes pertaining to the events taking place in the Allied Kingdoms and asks about m