Sold as the Alpha King’s Breeder

Chapter 55 : Is He Dying?

*Lena*

I slept in and found the palace unusually quiet when I finally dressed and walked down to the informal open kitchen and dining room area used primarily by the family. There was, of course, a commercial kitchen occupied by the cooks and servants of the royal palace, but it was easy enough for one of us to make a piece of toast or pour our own coffee and tea.

I wasn't alone as I padded into the kitchen. I looked over my shoulder at the three men seated at the far end of the dining room table, mugs of coffee and empty breakfast plates in front of them–my dad, my uncle Troy, and to my surprise, my grandfather Ethan.

I slid a plate from the dishrack as they eyed me, my father's gaze especially intense. Whatever murmuring conversation they'd been having had ceased entirely when I'd entered the room. I realized then that there was only one thing they could have been talking about, and that was Xander, of course.

I swallowed and turned away from them as I balanced my plate of fruit, bacon, and breakfast sausages, pouring myself some coffee. Troy murmured something I didn't catch, and Dad laughed low in his throat. Grandpa, of course, stayed silent.

“Grandpa," I grinned as I walked toward the table. I set my plate down, deciding to take a seat next to my dad. I walked to the end of the table before sitting down and wrapped an arm around my grandfather's shoulder, giving him a soft peck on the cheek. Those dark brows didn't arch a fraction of an inch as I pulled away and slid into my seat.

“Good afternoon, my favorite granddaughter," he said with a smile as he wiped my chapstick from his cheek.

It was incredibly easy to see that my grandfather had been quite a handsome, albeit formidable, young man. He had the deep cobalt eyes synonymous with his side of the family, eyes he shared with his sister Georgia and had passed on to his daughter and nieces and nephews. His hair was pepper gray and was still thick despite his advancing age. His face showed signs of a long life, a good life, but those lines around his eyes told me he'd seen a thing or two in his day.

He commanded every room he was in, despite the fact he'd been retired for nearly two decades. He was currently flanked by two Alphas but was still the one in charge.

“I'm your only granddaughter," I grinned, then forked a grape into my mouth.

He gave me a sideways, tight-lipped smile in return before he exhaled through his nose and tapped the side of his coffee mug, glancing between my dad and Troy.

“Did I interrupt something?" I asked, but none of the men looked in my direction.

“Nothing, kid. Just business about New Dianny," Troy said softly as he leaned back in the muted yellow chairs that surrounded the table. Compared to the rest of the palace, this section was soft, lived in, and felt more like a home than a testament to their rank. Books lined the far wall, nestled in built-in, ceiling-height shelves made of the palest wood I'd ever seen. There was no hearth, which would have been a silly addition given that it was humid and warm in the Isles year round, even in the dead of winter. A worn-in, slightly frayed rug lay beneath the scratched-up dining room table, and there were even rings from water stains in the wood. I traced on with my finger as my dad pursed his lips and tilted his head in Troy's direction.

“I take it Robbie and Alison have finished their move to New Dianny, with their pack?"

Troy nodded, and his eyes darkened for a moment as he looked down into his coffee.

“They've recently finished construction on the village, roughly five miles inland. They mean to keep the jungle intact and build out toward the hills beyond, toward the outskirts of the valley where Dianny used to be."

Smart, I thought, listening to their conversation in silence as I ate my breakfast. The Southern Jungle was prone to tropical storms of unheard-of strength. The jungle lining the beaches acted as a barrier. The trees and dense foliage would act as a shield for the village, even if the worst of weather.

“And George is truly going?" Dad asked, his chestnut-colored brows arched as he looked from Grandpa to Troy.

Troy shrugged one shoulder, a gleam of mischief in his eyes as Grandpa groaned and shook his head.

“Gemma and Ernest are in a fit over it," Grandpa said hoarsely, coughing a bit as he lifted his mug to his lips. “But I suspect it has more to do with Eliza likely attending university in Mirage next year. Empty nest."

A hush fell over the table as I glanced at the men over the rim of my coffee mug, each lingering in contemplative silence over a shared grief. I suddenly saw them all for their ages.

Troy and Maeve still had a son at home, a young son. Luke. But everyone else?

Grandpa coughed again, clearing his throat. “Lena?"

“Yes?" I asked, briefly narrowing my eyes at him as he shifted his weight in his chair.

He was still a lean, healthy-looking man, but I'd noticed the color was missing from his cheeks, and the dark circles beneath his eyes were heavier than they had been the last time I'd seen him. The cough was new, as well.

“Your friend, Alexander–"

“He's not my friend," I said, a little too quickly.

Troy's brow arched, and my dad's eyes narrowed as everyone turned to me. I stifled a blush, tilting my head away from the men and pretending to be invested in the single grape that remained on my plate, which was a bit too bruised to be appetizing.

“Whatever he is to you then," Grandpa continued cautiously, although he looked as though he could see right thru me at that moment, “he is… trustworthy, this Alpha King?"

Trustworthy? What could I possibly say? Xander had spent weeks lying to me....

But had he really lied? Maybe not totally. It was more like he'd left major pieces of the truth. He'd also saved my life, marked me, told me he loved me....

I prayed no one could see the heat prickling on my cheeks as I cleared my throat and nodded, but internally, my mind began to spin. He had said he'd come here to find a Luna for his kingdom, a Luna from my bloodline, from the White Queens in particular. He'd said, I was pretty sure, that he meant to do that by any means necessary....

“Wait–" I said, but was cut off by the sound of something thudding against the kitchen counter. Maeve had come into the room, quiet as a mouse, but left no means to let us continue the conversation in peace as she spread the three-ring binders she'd dropped on the counter out in front of her.

The four of us looked up at her, and eventually, her eyes turned on us, narrowing into slits.

“What?" she asked, looking more than a little frazzled as she opened one of the binders.

“There's fresh coffee–" Troy began, but she waved a hand in dismissal.

“Daddy?" she asked tersely without even glancing at the table.

“Yes, Maeve?" Grandpa sighed, rolling his eyes to meet Troy's gaze with a look of indignation spreadin over his face.

“Have you been on your walk today?"

Grandpa ran his tongue along his bottom lip, holding my uncle's gaze. I wished I had access to whatever conversation was going on between them, likely over the mind-link, and likely something along the lines of Grandpa willing my uncle to put a muzzle on his mate.

“No–"

“Doctor's orders," Maeve clicked her tongue, her eyes still fixed on the binder she had opened, pieces of lace sticking out between its laminated pages.

Grandpa looked at Maeve then, biting on his lower lip as though he were contemplating saying something cutting, then rose, waving away my dad and Troy's attempts to help him out of his chair.

“I haven't had a shred of peace," he murmured, pointing a shaky finger at Troy, “since you took her away on that boat–"

“I heard that," Maeve said with a smirk.

Dad exhaled deeply, looking from his father to his younger sister.

Grandpa unhooked the top of his cane from his chair and grumbled his farewells, hobbling toward the entrance of the kitchen. He smacked Maeve's ankle with his cane before walking out of sight. She hissed, glowering after him. But Troy chuckled to himself.

“Leave the man alone, honey–"

“He looks awful, Troy. Rowan, you have to have noticed–"

“Of course, I have," Dad said in a low hiss, shaking his head. “He's old, Maeve."

“He's not that old. Late seventies isn't old," she protested.

“Late seventies or no, he's been through a lot–"

“Mom is set on just letting him be tired, grumpy… limping around with that cane." Maeve was talking to no one in particular as she looked back down at her binders, but I heard, and saw, the hurt lingering behind her words.