The Lycan King's Outcast Omega (by Cara Anderson) novel Chapter 161

As guards move toward the back room, I catalog inconsistencies mounting with each passing moment. The home lacks typical signs of child residence – no toys, no smaller furnishings, no clothing appropriate for grandchildren. The supposed illness produces no distinguishable fever scent ordinary winter sickness would carry.

The guards return moments later, expressions neutral but postures relaxed. "All clear, My Queen. The boy appears genuinely ill, though the room is unusually warm."

"Blankets to break the fever," the old wolf explains quickly. "Traditional method."

I nod understanding while noting another inconsistency – genuine fever breaks better with cooling methods, not additional heat. But questioning patient care methods would seem inappropriate from the healing queen advocating integration of different approaches.

As I move toward the back room, the obvious guard in formal uniform follows while another warrior in civilian clothing positions himself beside elderly wolf – a security protocol adapted for household dynamics, maintaining vigilance while respecting healing dignity.

The back room's heat hits like a physical barrier as I enter – temperature unnecessarily, unwisely high for a fever patient. On a narrow bed against the far wall, a small form lies completely covered by thick blankets despite sweltering conditions. Only tufts of dark hair visible above covers, face turned toward wall.

"Hello," I approach carefully, healer instincts warring with growing unease. "I'm here to help with your fever."

No response from the blanket-covered figure, not even slight movement indicating awareness of my presence.

"Children often sleep deeply with winter fever," the guard observes, maintaining professional demeanor despite subtly moving closer to me, hand resting on the weapon at his hip.

I reach toward the blanket, preparing to expose the patient for examination. "I need to see him to properly assess—"

Movement blurs from the doorway – too fast for conscious tracking. The guard beside me drops without sound, tranquilizer dart protruding from his neck. Before I can react, the second guard's unconscious body crashes forward into the room, the elderly wolf standing behind him with expression transformed from fearful deference to cold calculation.

"Now, nephew," he commands sharply.

The blanket-covered form moves with sudden, fluid grace – nothing like a sick child, everything like a trained predator. I call my power, light building between my palms as I prepare to defend myself and our child. But my evolved abilities, focused on healing rather than combat, require precious seconds to redirect toward protection.

As consciousness grows increasingly distant, last impressions filter through the paralytic haze – being wrapped in a special blanket that masks scent, carried through a hidden passage beneath the ordinary-seeming home, transferred to a vehicle with medical equipment already prepared for a pregnant captive.

Through our bond, I send final coherent thought before paralytic claims remaining awareness: Cassius. Child. Prophecy.

Then darkness descends, leaving only distant awareness of Alaric's desperate fury echoing through our bond gradually muffled by the specialized compound designed to mask even mate connection temporarily.

My last sensation before awareness fades completely – protective hand resting over our growing child, not my own, but captor's. Cassius's clinical interest in prophesied life I carry.

Not death. Not destruction.

Acquisition.