Pregnant With My Alpha Guardian's Pup

Daphne Hall POV:

"Two pink lines." I was pregnant.

In Oakhaven, an unbonded Omega's pregnancy was a death sentence. And I was Daphne Hall-the Hardin family's adopted daughter, a low-ranking Omega with no right to keep it.

Three years ago, the day the Hardins' real daughter returned, the last place I had in that house was taken from me.

Worse-the father was the man I had called Guardian for three years.

My throat closed. My stomach knotted. With trembling fingers, I snapped the plastic casing in half, wrapped the sharp pieces in toilet paper, and shoved them deep into the bottom pocket of my silk dressing gown.

A sharp rap struck the bathroom door.

"Miss Daphne," Maria, the head maid, called from the hallway, her voice strained. "The Alpha has just returned to the estate. He expects you downstairs in the grand foyer immediately."

"I will be down in one minute," I answered, keeping my voice level.

I reached for the jar hidden behind the porcelain medicine bottles. Inside was a handful of crushed dried roots-blood-moss. I shoved a thick pinch into my mouth and chewed. Sour, metallic juice flooded my tongue. It tasted disgusting. It also masked the sweet, delicate pheromones of a pregnant Omega. Without it, a dominant Alpha would scent the pup on me before nightfall.

I swallowed the foul mash, rinsed my mouth with tap water, and pulled open the door.

A dull cramp pulsed low in my pelvis. My knees wobbled. I gripped the cold mahogany banister to steady myself. The Hardin family mansion stretched wide around me, a monument of heavy crown molding and generational wealth. I was only their adopted daughter and ward, a low-ranking Omega kept around as an obedient fixture.

I took a slow breath, squared my shoulders, and descended the grand staircase.

At the base of the stairs, standing beneath the massive crystal chandelier, was Jameson Small.

He was the unchallenged Alpha of the Oakhaven Pack-a multibillion-dollar empire run like a sovereign corporate nation. To the legal authorities and the human world, he acted as my Pack-appointed guardian and the sole executor of my deceased parents' estate. To everyone who carried the wolf blood, he was an absolute apex predator whose word carried the weight of life and death.

Jameson turned around as my slippers hit the ground floor.

His ice-gray eyes pinned me instantly. His Alpha aura hit the hall like a winter gale, an invisible hand pressing down on my chest until my lungs burned.

On his right index finger, the heavy signet ring forged from ancient black iron caught the light, bearing the snarling wolf crest of his bloodline. He held a silver-tipped walking cane in his left hand, though he had never limped a day in his life. He tapped the ferrule once against the polished marble floor, the sharp click echoing across the high ceilings.

Every maid and footman standing in the perimeter immediately bowed their heads. Not a single servant dared breathe loudly.

I fought the bile rising into my throat, crossed the open distance, and lowered my eyes.

"Welcome home, Guardian," I murmured.

Jameson did not answer. He stepped forward. His broad shoulders, wrapped in a bespoke charcoal-wool suit, cut off the chandelier light and threw me into deep shadow.

He towered over me, his cold gaze stripping away every defense as he studied my pale cheeks. His dark brows pulled together into a sharp, displeased ridge.

"You look like a ghost, Daphne," he said. His voice was low and gravelly, the kind that could command hundreds without ever rising.

I folded my hands over my lower abdomen, pressing my fingertips hard into my palms until the pain kept me grounded. "I only caught a chill from the draft upstairs."

His hand shot out. Rough, calloused fingers clamped beneath my chin, wrenching my face upward to force my eyes into his.

The sharp scent of crushed pine needles, bitter cedar, and pure frost rolled off his skin, enveloping me. My inner Omega whimpered. Rank and power had trained that reflex into me.

Jameson leaned down. His nose brushed the tender curve of my throat, coming within an inch of the faint, shallow puncture marks he had pressed into my gland months ago during a moment of uncontrolled possessiveness. He drew in a slow, deep breath, scenting the pulse point beneath my skin.

My heart plummeted straight into an abyss. I froze, my muscles locking rigid, terrified that the bitter herb had failed to mask the tiny, fragile heartbeat nested inside my body.

Jameson pulled back, his mouth twisting into an expression of raw disgust. He released my chin and pulled a black silk handkerchief from his breast pocket, slowly wiping his fingers.

"You smell of rotten weeds and sour dirt," he said coldly. "Are you dosing yourself with those back-alley remedies again?"

Air rushed back into my lungs. He had only smelled the herb.

"My digestion has been unsettled," I whispered, keeping my eyes fixed on his polished dress shoes. "The herbalist told me it would soothe the lining of my stomach."

Jameson balled the handkerchief, tossing it into the hands of the butler standing nearby.

"Your judgment is as pathetic as your constitution," Jameson commanded, turning toward the interior archway. "Butler, call Arthur Foster. Tell our Pack Doctor to bring his diagnostic kit here within fifteen minutes. I want her drawn and tested before midnight."

Daphne Hall POV:

"No!" The word tore out of me before I could stop it.

My panic echoed off the marble walls.

Jameson stopped. He turned slowly, slate-gray eyes narrowing to blades.

"What did you say to me?" he asked, quiet.

The Alpha's Command hit me like a physical blow. My knees buckled. A sharp ache shot down my spine, threatening to drop me onto the cold floor. I dug my nails into my palms until the skin broke, using the sting to stay upright.

"I only meant... you don't need to call the Pack Doctor," I managed, breath ragged. "Doctor Foster handles the elite units. Calling him for a stomachache wastes resources. I just need sleep."

Jameson walked back toward me. Each thud of his leather soles sounded like a death sentence.

"You are a ward of the Hardin estate," he said, ice in his voice. "The Hardin family answers to me. Even a useless Omega doesn't collapse in my territory without my permission. When I give an order, you obey."

I kept my chin down, hiding the fury and terror behind my eyes. I counted each second, praying for an interruption-anything to buy time before a needle touched my vein.

The clatter of designer heels broke the silence.

Aliana Hardin descended the stairs, draped in an emerald silk gown and a platinum snake bracelet that caught the light with every step. The real daughter, welcomed back three years ago. The one who had built her name on designs stolen from my sketchbooks.

"Alpha," Aliana purred, offering Jameson a practiced smile. "You returned earlier than expected. Did the board meeting go smoothly?"

Jameson didn't look at her. His focus stayed on me, tracking every shallow breath I took like a wolf watching wounded prey.

Aliana's smile twitched. A flash of venom crossed her face before she smoothed it into fake concern.

"Daphne," Aliana sighed, turning to me with feigned sisterly warmth. "If our Guardian cares about your health, don't throw a tantrum. You've always been frail. Just let Arthur draw your blood so we know you aren't hiding some contagious parasite."

I ignored her, staring straight ahead. In the pack hierarchy, Aliana was an asset through her family's social ties. I was an expendable dependent. Neither of them knew the designs funding her lifestyle came from the sketchbooks hidden beneath my floorboards.

"Go to the drawing room," Jameson ordered, cutting through Aliana's voice without acknowledging her. "Sit down. Wait for Arthur."

He turned and strode into the parlor, settling into a velvet armchair.

I dragged my feet across the floor, cold sweat breaking across my forehead. I took the armchair furthest from him, pulling my knees together and pressing my arms tight against my stomach to shield the tiny life inside me.

Jameson leaned back, crossing one long leg over the other. His sharp eyes cataloged every twitch of my fingers.

The head butler set a silver tray with two cups of black espresso on the mahogany table.

The oily stench of dark roast hit my nose. My stomach heaved. Bitter acid rushed into my throat. I clamped both hands over my mouth and doubled over, gagging into my palms.

China clinked sharply.

Jameson had set his cup down hard enough to splash coffee over the saucer.

"What are you hiding from me, Daphne?" he demanded, voice dropping into something lethal.

I shook my head, eyes watering from the dry heaves. "Nothing... my stomach is empty. The smell of coffee makes me nauseous."

Jameson rose. His shadow fell over me, blotting out the warm light.

"Then Arthur's full-spectrum blood panel will answer that," he said.

Daphne Hall POV:

Arthur Foster was coming. Once he walked through those doors with his silver centrifuge and vacuum tubes, my life in this pack was over. Under pack law, an unmarried Omega carrying an unverified child could be locked away in a containment ward, stripped of all legal autonomy until the Alpha determined the pup's sire. And if Jameson realized the child was his-from that one night his control had snapped-he would lock me in a gilded cage forever.

I stood up. My voice shook. "I need to use the washroom. Immediately."

Jameson stared down at me. He didn't speak. He just drummed his knuckles against the fireplace mantel, watching me like a hawk watching a mouse crawl through open grass.

I turned and walked briskly toward the hallway. I bypassed the main powder room, slipped past the kitchen corridor, and pushed through the heavy wooden side door that led to the rear courtyard where the estate's waste bins were housed.

The night air hit my face like ice water. My hands trembled as I reached into my dressing gown pocket and pulled out the broken halves of the pregnancy test, wrapped in the toilet paper from earlier-and beneath them, the crumpled application letter I'd been carrying all day, waiting for a chance to mail it.

I rushed toward the large industrial trash bin near the stone wall, lifting the heavy lid with my left hand.

A hand clamped around my right wrist from behind.

A scream ripped from my throat. I spun around, slamming back against the stone wall. Jameson's furious gray eyes locked onto mine.

"Did you really think you could run behind my back on my own estate?" he snarled, his grip tightening until my wrist bones ground together.

Two junior guards near the garage stepped back into the shadows.

I twisted wildly, trying to pry his fingers off with my free hand, but he was an immovable wall of muscle. He caught my left wrist before I could break free, then pinned both wrists together in one massive hand and used his other hand to pry open my clenched fist.

"Open your hand, Daphne," he commanded, his Alpha tone vibrating against my eardrums.

The toilet-paper bundle slipped from my fingers. The pregnancy test rolled into the ivy at the base of the stone wall and vanished. The application letter fluttered onto the damp grass.

I looked down-the test was gone. Only the parchment remained, bearing the crest of Silvercreek Design Studios, a luxury firm three hundred miles north, outside Oakhaven territory.

Jameson stared down at the paper. The air went cold enough for my breath to mist.

He bent down, scooped up the letter with two fingers, and smoothed the crinkled edges. His eyes scanned the header-Application for Senior Jewelry Artisan: Daphne Hall.

A low, terrifying chuckle rumbled from his chest.

"You applied to a rival studio?" he asked, voice deceptively soft. "You tried to sneak an employment application outside my borders?"

I gritted my teeth, lifting my chin to meet his eyes. "I completed my coursework with honors at Pack Academy's Design School. I only have the final submission left. I have the legal right to work where I choose. I'm an adult, Jameson."

"You are my ward," he corrected, venom dropping into his voice. "Every scrap of fabric on your back, every bite of food you choke down, the roof over your head-it all belongs to the Hardin name. And the Hardin family belongs to me."

He raised both hands and tore the thick parchment in two. Then again. And again.

White scraps fluttered through the night air, scattering across the damp lawn like dead leaves.

"You are never leaving Oakhaven," he said, stepping so close his chest pressed against mine. His fingers dug into the nape of my neck. "As long as I draw breath, you will stay inside the boundaries I set for you."

He spun me around and dragged me back toward the house.