The Alpha's Dark Solstice Claim

Chapter 9 - Fault lines.

Marybeth

I was done waiting for Rowan to speak to her. If Seraphina wanted to question my son’s legitimacy, she could do it to my face. The Blackridge administrative offices were technically neutral ground … security headquarters for humans, pack command centre beneath the surface.

Glass walls. Frosted conference rooms. Polished concrete floors that echoed footsteps too clearly. I had dropped Eli off at home so he wouldn’t hear what I had to say. I walked in without announcing myself.

Seraphina was standing near the reception desk speaking to one of the senior coordinators. Perfect posture. Pale coat. Hair immaculate. She looked like stability embodied. She saw me before I spoke. The coordinator excused himself immediately.

“Marybeth,” she greeted, warm as ever. “What a surprise.”

“Is it?” I asked.

“Should it be?” Her smile didn’t falter. I stepped closer, close enough that she couldn’t pretend this was casual.

“You questioned my son’s legitimacy.” I got right down to it.

“I did no such thing,” she replied smoothly.

“You told Elder Halvorsen stability must be considered.” I glared at her.

“Stability must always be considered. That’s leadership.” Her expression softened, almost sympathetic.

“You implied doubt.” I kept her gaze.

“I implied caution,” she corrected. “You know how the elders are. They prefer confirmation over emotion.”

“Rowan had confirmation,” I said quietly. “DNA confirmation. His.” A flicker passed through her eyes then … so quickly most people would have missed it. I didn’t.

“Yes,” she said after a breath. “And I support that. Publicly.” The emphasis was deliberate. Publicly.

“So privately?” I asked.

“Privately, I worry about how quickly narratives can form. A child appears after seven years. From a rival, Alpha’s daughter.” She tilted her head slightly.

“He didn’t appear,” I said. “He existed.”

“Of course,” she replied gently. “But perception matters.” There it was again. Perception. As if truth needed polishing.

“You’re suggesting Rowan could be mistaken,” I said.

“I’m suggesting Rowan is … hopeful,” she looked pained for only a second. The word cut deeper than accusation. Hopeful implied blind. Implied manipulated.

“You think I lied to him,” I said.

“I think you left without explanation,” she said softly. “And now you’ve returned with a boy who resembles him. It’s convenient.” She shrugged.

“Be careful.” I stepped closer still, lowering my voice. “There was no one before Rowan and definitely not after.” I growled. Her composure thinned for a fraction of a second.

“You’re protecting your son,” she said calmly, as if she hadn’t just heard what I said. “As you should. I’m protecting my pack.”

“And your position,” I laughed. That finally sharpened her gaze. We stood there, inches apart, civility hanging by a thread.

“You may have Rowan’s attention,” Seraphina said quietly. “But attention isn’t authority.” I held her stare without blinking.

“Authority,” I said smiling, “isn’t threatened by truth.” For the first time since we met, her smile didn’t return. And I understood then that this wasn’t about proof. It was about territory. And she wasn’t done fighting for hers.

The nightmares began three nights after the assembly. Not the kind that wakes the whole house. The quiet kind. I heard him before I saw him … small sounds behind his bedroom door. A sharp inhale. A muffled whimper.

The kind of noise a child makes when he’s trying to be brave, even in sleep. I pushed the door open slowly. Eli was twisted in his blankets, brow furrowed, fists clenched tight against his chest.

“Mama,” he whispered. I crossed the room immediately and sat on the edge of the bed, smoothing my hand over his hair.

“I’m here.” My voice soft. His eyes fluttered open, unfocused.

“I’m trying.” A single tear rolled down the side of his cheek.

“Trying what?” I asked softly.

“To be good.” The words were simple. They landed like a fracture.

“You are good,” I said firmly.

“They said I have to earn it.” He shook his head faintly. There it was. Earn it.

“Who said that?” I kept my voice calm.

“The lady,” he murmured. “She said belonging means being careful. And quiet.” My jaw tightened. Belonging. Careful. Quiet. These were not words a six-year-old invents. These were words given to him.

“Did she say you don’t belong?” I asked. He hesitated.

“She said I will. If I don’t scare anyone,” I pulled him into my arms before the anger could rise to my face. He felt smaller than he had the day before.

“You don’t scare anyone,” I said into his hair. “You don’t have to earn being here.” He nodded, but I felt the doubt in the way he held himself. When he fell back asleep, I didn’t. I went to the kitchen and opened the notebook.

Dates. Incidents. Quotes. I wrote everything down. Nightmares begin – phrases repeated. “Earn belonging.” “Don’t scare people.” This wasn’t a coincidence. This was conditioning. The next day, I attended a school meeting without warning anyone in advance.

The counsellor greeted me warmly. Too warmly.

“We’ve just been helping him transition,” she said, but flinched when I glared at her.

“By teaching him he needs to earn belonging?” I asked evenly.

“We’re encouraging social harmony. We have a lot of human children in the classes and must take that into account.” Her smile thinned slightly.

“At the cost of confidence?” I asked.

“He’s under unusual pressure,” she replied. “Given his father’s … position.” Position. I filed that away. I left without raising my voice. Anger would make me emotional. Emotion would make me dismissible.

Instead, I gathered proof. Emails. Meeting notes. Timeline inconsistencies. Then I called Rowan. He arrived within the hour. He stood in my kitchen like he belonged there. Like seven years hadn’t separated us. Like we hadn’t spent the last few days orbiting each other carefully.

“What’s happening?” he asked. I handed him the notebook. He flipped through it slowly, jaw tightening as he read.

“She’s speaking to him without my consent,” I said. “Framing his identity as conditional.” Rowan looked up.

“Seraphina wouldn’t …” He started shaking his head.

“She has,” I interrupted. “Indirectly. Through people who answer to her.”

“You’re making assumptions.” His expression darkened.

“No,” I said quietly. “I’m connecting patterns.” Silence stretched.

“You think she’s manipulating a child,” he huffed as if he didn’t believe me.

“I know she’s protecting her position,” I replied. “And he threatens it.” Rowan’s hand tightened on the notebook as that hit home.

“She supported acknowledgment,” he shook his head.

“Yes,” I agreed. “Publicly. For your sake.” His eyes met mine. Conflict flickered there. He wanted to believe in structure. He wanted to believe the woman he had stood beside for years was stable.

“She’s not careless,” he said finally.

“Neither am I,” I replied. The air between us thickened. It had been a couple of weeks since Eli and I had arrived, and things were being far messier than I anticipated. For a second, the argument felt like something else entirely.

Like I was eighteen again, standing too close, refusing to admit what we wanted.

“You think I don’t see this?” he sighed.

“I think you don’t want to,” I said. That landed.

“I won’t let anyone harm him.” He stepped closer, voice low.

“You already did,” I said quietly. “When you defended her without looking.” Pain flickered across his face. Real. Unfiltered.

“I told you I’d intervene,” he said.

“Then intervene, Rowan. Be the father you claimed you would be,” I replied. Our proximity was dangerous now. Not because of hostility. Because of memory. I could feel the pull of him. The way my body remembered what my mind tried to keep disciplined.

The way he looked at me, like something unfinished, still lived between us. For a reckless second, I wanted to lean into it. To let him close the distance. To remember what it felt like to be wanted instead of strategic. But I didn’t. I stepped back.

“I’m pulling him from your pack events,” I said. “Until this stops.”

“That will look reactive,” Rowan said.

“I don’t care how it looks.” I stood my ground.

“You should,” he replied. “Perception matters.” I felt like punching him the second I heard that damn phrase, but I didn’t.

“To you,” I said. “To me, safety matters.” He exhaled sharply, running a hand through his hair.

“I will speak to her,” he said.

“When?” I pressed.

“Tonight.” He meant it. But even as he said it, I saw the hesitation. The hope. He still wanted to believe this could be resolved cleanly. That Seraphina’s composure meant innocence. That loyalty to her didn’t require confrontation.

And that was when something inside me shifted. I withdrew. Not from the fight. From him.

“You don’t have to choose me,” I said quietly. “But you will have to choose him.”

“Don’t do that.” His eyes darkened.

“Do what?” I glared at him.

“Make this a test,” he said.

“It already is,” I replied. The silence between us vibrated with everything unsaid. Seven years of restraint. One night we never named properly. A child standing between us. He reached for me instinctively.

Not forceful. Not claiming. Just a hand brushing my wrist. I froze. For half a heartbeat, I let myself feel it. Then I pulled away. The hurt in his expression was immediate. Controlled. But unmistakable.

“If you can’t see what she’s doing,” I said softly, “then I can’t afford to wait for you to catch up.”

“I’ll handle it.” He nodded once, jaw tight. I watched him leave. And I hated that it hurt. That night, after Eli fell asleep without nightmares for the first time in days, I checked the mail. A white envelope sat at the bottom of the stack.

Official letterhead. My stomach dropped before I opened it. “Notice of Concern – Parental Fitness Review”. My vision narrowed. Concerns about overprotectiveness. Isolation from community programming.

Emotional instability linked to public conflict. I read it twice. Slowly. Carefully. This wasn’t subtle anymore. This was escalation. And someone had decided to put my motherhood on trial. I folded the paper deliberately and set it on the kitchen counter.

Across town, Rowan was speaking to his Luna. And I wondered whether he realized how quickly this had shifted from perception … To war. I couldn’t let my feelings for him get in the way. I had to think about Eli. Eli was my only priority now.