The Begging Alpha

Playing With Pups & Meeting with Royalty

(Bradley)

Bradley crouched low on the pavement, one knee down, elbows resting casually on his thigh as he studied the board between them. "Alright," he said patiently, tapping one of the black pieces. "You can move it forward, but only diagonally. See?" The boy opposite him squinted in concentration, tongue peeking out between his teeth as he nudged the piece exactly where Bradley had shown him. “That’s it,” Bradley said, smiling. “Now think about what happens next.” The pup’s eyes widened. “Oh,” he breathed. “Then you take me.” Bradley laughed softly. “Unless you trap me first.”

The children around them burst into excited chatter, immediately arguing strategy as if the fate of the world hinged on it. Bradley leaned back on his heels, content to watch them puzzle it out. This—this—was easy. No politics. No expectation beyond presence. No careful calibration of words or power. The pups didn’t look at him like an Alpha or a CEO or the heir to a growing empire. They looked at him like someone who had time.

Nearby, another group sprawled across a low table covered in paper and crayons. Bradley rose and crossed over, kneeling again to inspect their work. “What’s this one?” he asked. “A wolf,” a little girl said proudly, pointing at a lopsided drawing with far too many legs. Bradley nodded solemnly. “A very fast wolf.” She beamed. He picked up a crayon and added a small moon in the corner of the page, careful not to intrude too much. “There. Now it knows when to run.” The pups laughed, some immediately copying the moon onto their own pages.

Time passed differently here. Tag turned into hide-and-seek. Hide-and-seek dissolved into shrieking laughter as Bradley pretended not to notice a very obvious pair of sneakers sticking out from behind a bench. He exaggerated his confusion, letting the children feel clever, letting them win. This was not strategy. This was instinct.

Three hours slipped by without him noticing.

“Bradley.” Dylan’s voice cut through the noise gently. Bradley straightened, brushing his hands on his trousers as he took the folder Dylan offered. “Wrap-up,” Dylan murmured. “You’re almost out of time.” Bradley nodded. He turned back to the gathered parents and children, clapping once to get their attention. “Alright, everyone,” he said, smiling openly. “I think that’s our time.” A chorus of disappointed groans rose up. “I know,” he said, raising a hand. “But thank you for coming. You’ve raised some bright pups. And you”—he gestured toward the children—“are lucky to have parents who show up for you.” The parents smiled, murmuring their thanks. One woman lingered a moment longer, her son clinging to her leg. “This meant a lot,” she said sincerely. “Thank you. And… I hope you and your Luna have pups someday. You’d be good at this.”

Bradley’s smile faltered—just barely. “Thank you,” he said, voice steady. But as they walked away, something twisted painfully in his chest. He did want pups. He’d known that for years. He wanted them running through hallways, wanted to teach them games and rules and restraint. He wanted to see Freya—with a child on her hip, her sharp mind softened by something shared. The thought settled deep and aching. He just...didn’t know how to talk to her about it. How did you bring something like that up when emotions were treated like liabilities? When vulnerability felt like surrender? He’d never been taught the language for it.

He pushed the thought aside as he finally looked down at the folder in his hands. “Who’s the guest?” he asked absently. “Jasmine Hale,” Dylan said. Bradley stopped walking. He opened the file.

Fashion designer.

High-end.

Elite clientele.

Names jumped out at him—families that Red Eye couldn’t touch, couldn’t buy into even if they wanted to. Influence without bark or claw. His brow furrowed as he continued reading. Close personal friend of Freya Silk. Like a sister. Maid of honor at bonding ceremony. Bradley tilted his head slightly. Jasmine. He remembered her now—vaguely. A woman at the edges of early pack gatherings. Sharp-eyed. Opinionated. A fan of Red Eye Gaming, enthusiastic in a way that had amused him at the time. He’d never realized—

He looked up at Dylan. “Why didn’t Freya tell me she was this well connected?” Dylan shrugged. “Did you ask?” Bradley closed the folder slowly. He hadn’t. He handed the file back. “It doesn’t matter.” Dylan didn’t comment, but his expression said plenty.

Bradley reached for his jacket—And froze. A black SUV had pulled up across the street. Not just black. Armored. Discreetly marked. Royal. Bradley’s wolf surged to alertness, head snapping up internally as recognition rippled through him. Royal guards stepped out first, scanning the area with practiced efficiency. Then the door opened. The Queen emerged. Bradley’s heart stuttered. He watched, stunned, as a guard escorted her toward the café across the street. And then— Movement. Red hair.

Freya.

She stood near the café entrance, posture composed, eyes sharp and focused. Not waiting. Working. Bradley’s breath left him in a rush. Why wasn’t I told she left the estate? She never did this. Never went out without notice. Never moved like this—self-directed, unaccompanied by his shadow. Something cold settled in his gut. He shrugged on his jacket, movements abrupt now, controlled but edged with urgency. “Dylan,” he said, already moving. “We’re going across the street.” Dylan followed without question.

Bradley stepped off the curb, eyes locked on the café, on the woman he had assumed would always be where he left her. For the first time, it occurred to him—She hadn’t moved away. She had moved forward. And he had no idea how far ahead she already was.

(Freya)

The café felt smaller once the door closed. Not cramped—contained. The kind of space chosen deliberately so power could sit without spectacle. Royal guards took their places with quiet precision, backs to walls, eyes scanning without intruding.

And then— “Freya.”

The Queen didn’t wait for protocol. She crossed the room with an urgency that stole Freya’s breath, arms lifting without hesitation. The embrace was warm, real, the sort that existed only between women who had once shared long hours and quiet trust. “You’re real,” the Queen murmured into her hair. “I knew you were, but still… I kept thinking I’d imagined you.” Freya laughed softly, voice thick. “I promise. Still solid.”

When they pulled apart, the Queen held her at arm’s length, green eyes sharp beneath a fall of black hair streaked faintly with silver at the temples. Age had refined her, not softened her. She was still beautiful in a way that had nothing to do with symmetry and everything to do with presence. “You vanished,” the Queen said quietly. Not an accusation. A truth. Freya lowered her gaze. “I was...needed elsewhere.” The Queen’s mouth thinned, then relaxed. “Yes. I know.” She turned then, eyes falling on Jasmine. “And you,” the Queen said, inclining her head politely. “Jasmine Hale.”

Jasmine stiffened slightly, then recovered with a smooth smile. “Your Majesty.” “I am glad you came,” the Queen said honestly. “Though you know—I never did take to your lines.” Jasmine laughed, surprisingly unbothered. “I know. I’ve always said I’m too loud for your taste.” The Queen smiled faintly. “You are talented. Just… not her.” Freya flushed, heat creeping up her neck. “Your Majesty—” The Queen waved her off gently. “No disrespect meant. You trained together. You sharpened each other. But Freya…” Her gaze softened. “There are things only she understands.” Freya swallowed and nodded once.

They moved toward the garment racks. As Freya slid the covers back one by one, the Queen’s attention sharpened. Fingers brushed fabric. Eyes traced seams. Questions came—precise, intelligent, appreciative. When Freya reached the navy blue crepe, she paused.

“This one,” she said quietly. She lifted it free. The fabric fell clean and heavy, a deep, dignified blue that absorbed light rather than reflecting it. The lace shawl was integrated seamlessly into the bodice, draping over the shoulders like intention rather than ornament. “This was designed for movement,” Freya explained. “The crepe holds its line without stiffness. The lace frames the collarbones and shoulders without drawing attention away from your face.” The Queen studied it thoughtfully. “With white gloves,” Freya continued, warming as she spoke, “for contrast. Black pumps—simple, no adornment. This dress doesn’t compete with you. It supports you.” The Queen nodded slowly. “As it should.”

Freya smiled, carefully rehanging it. Then she moved to the final case. The red one. Her hands slowed. “This,” she said softly, “is new.” She drew the cover back. The café seemed to still. The gown was crimson—not bright, not garish. Deep. Saturated. Alive. Silk flowed like poured wine, the lace grown into it as if the dress had been cultivated rather than sewn. The sheer sleeves clung like breath against skin, delicate but deliberate. The thigh-high split was placed with surgical precision—enough to reveal movement, not flesh. Power without exposure. The V-neck dipped just enough to suggest, never to demand. “One of a kind,” Freya said quietly. “There is no pattern. No duplicate. It cannot be replicated.” The Queen stepped closer. “This dress,” Freya continued, voice steady despite the tremor beneath it, “is designed to move when you move. It commands without noise. It does not ask for attention—it assumes it.” The Queen reached out, fingertips brushing the silk. “I love it,” she said immediately.

Freya’s breath left her in a rush. “I knew,” the Queen added calmly. “No one touches you when it comes to this.” Freya laughed softly, blinking fast. “Jasmine is just as talented, Your Majesty.” The Queen smiled, indulgent. “Yes. And I respect her work. But you…” She met Freya’s eyes. “You understand me.” Freya wiped at her eyes quickly, steadying herself.

That was when a guard approached. “Your Majesty,” he said quietly. “There are two men outside requesting entry.” Freya stiffened instinctively. “One claims to be the mate of Freya Silk.” Her heart lurched. She turned, pulse roaring in her ears. Through the café window, she saw him. Bradley. Standing rigidly among guards, coat on, posture tight with restrained authority. Dylan beside him, watchful. Freya’s eyes widened before she could stop herself. “Yes,” she said automatically. “He is.” She inhaled, preparing to say but I don’t wish to see him—

The Queen raised a hand. “Oh no,” she said, eyes gleaming with unmistakable interest. “Let them in.” Freya froze. “Your Majesty—” “I have waited years to meet the man who stole my designer from the fashion world,” the Queen said mildly. “I would hate to miss the opportunity.” The guard bowed and turned away. Freya’s heart pounded as she stared toward the door.

Bradley had never known. Never known that a Queen had mourned her disappearance. Never known that her absence had been noticed. And now—The door opened. And the past walked in.