A Hundred Nights in Her Bed and I'm the Alpha King's Hidden Daughter

Mia

The letter sat in my lap like a confession I couldn't finish.

*Father —*

That was all I'd managed. One word and a dash, the pen hovering over the paper for the better part of an hour while the house settled into its late-night silence. What was I supposed to write after that? *I made a mistake seven years ago. I married the wrong wolf. Please let me come home.*

Footsteps in the hallway.

I shoved the letter into the pillowcase, flattened myself against the mattress, and pulled the duvet up to my chin. My breathing went shallow — four counts in, hold, slow release. The way I'd trained myself to fake sleep since the first year of this marriage.

The bedroom door opened. A slant of hallway light cut across the floor, then disappeared.

Caleb Ironclaw moved through the dark the way he always did — quiet for a man his size, confident he owned every square inch of the space. The mattress dipped behind me. His arm slid around my waist, pulling me back against his chest.

"Still up?" he murmured into my hair.

I didn't answer. Kept my breathing even.

His chin settled on the top of my head, and that's when it hit me.

Cedar and white musk. A perfume I hadn't worn in my life. Sweet at the edges, sharp underneath — the kind of scent that clung to wool and skin and didn't let go.

Selene Thorne's signature.

Every wolf in the Ironclaw pack knew that fragrance. She wore it like a second skin, reapplied it twice a day, left traces of it on every chair she sat in and every glass she touched. I'd smelled it on conference room doors, on the back of Caleb's office chair, on the collar of his coat last winter when I'd hung it up for him.

But never this strong. Never at three in the morning, soaked into the fabric of his shirt like he'd been wrapped around her.

My face was pressed against his collarbone. I held still.

"Mira." His voice was low, warm. The voice he used when he wanted something soft from me. "You're not sleeping enough. I can see it in your face."

His hand came up to stroke my hair, and his sleeve brushed my jaw.

The second scent punched through me like a fist.

It wasn't perfume this time. It was deeper, muskier — the kind of scent that lived in the hollow of a throat, behind an ear, at the crease where neck met shoulder. A wolf's body-scent gland. You didn't pick that up from a handshake or a meeting across a desk.

You picked it up from skin pressed to skin. From hours of contact. From marking.

My stomach folded in on itself.

"You smell like outside," I said, keeping my voice thick with fake drowsiness. I shifted, pulling away from him just enough to sit up. "Go shower. You'll get the sheets dirty."

"It's late. Come back to bed."

"Caleb." I swung my legs over the side of the mattress and stood. The floor was cold under my bare feet. "Shower. Now."

He laughed — a short, easy sound, like I was being endearing. "Yes, Luna."

I walked him to the bathroom door. My hand found the light switch inside, flicked it on. The fluorescent buzz filled the small tiled room.

"Towels are on the rack," I said.

He leaned in to kiss my forehead. I turned my head just enough that his lips caught my temple instead.

"Ten minutes," he said.

I closed the door.

The mirror above the hallway console caught my reflection — bare-faced, hair pulled back, wearing one of his old t-shirts that hung past my thighs. I gripped the edge of the console with both hands and pressed my knuckles into the wood until the joints ached.

Seven years.

Seven years of this house, this bed, this man. Seven years of standing beside him at pack ceremonies, hosting dinners for his allies, pressing my smile into place like armor. Seven years of telling myself that the distance between us was normal, that all bonded pairs settled into something quieter after the first flush.

I stared at my own face in the glass. My throat worked around nothing.

For the first time in all those years, the smell of him on my skin made bile rise behind my teeth.

The shower cut off.

I straightened. Smoothed my expression. Walked back to the bed and sat on my side, pulling the duvet across my lap.

Caleb came out with a towel slung low around his hips, water still beading on his shoulders. He crossed to the dresser, pulled open a drawer, and reached for a clean shirt.

His phone lit up on the nightstand. The screen glow caught my eye — a message notification, name obscured by the angle.

A knock at the bedroom door. Soft, almost apologetic.

Caleb frowned. He grabbed the shirt but didn't put it on, crossing to the door and cracking it open.

A woman's voice — one of the household staff. "Alpha, I'm sorry to disturb you. Miss Thorne's attendant just called. She's taken ill suddenly. They're asking if you could —"

"Now?" Caleb glanced back at me. "It's the middle of the night."

"Her attendant said it came on very fast. Fever and —"

"Fine. Tell them I'm on my way."

He turned back into the room, pulling the shirt over his head. His fingers worked the buttons with the kind of speed that came from practice, from not needing to think about it.

"Selene's not feeling well," he said, not quite looking at me. "I should check on her. She was —"

He stopped.

The silence stretched like a wire pulled taut.

"She was what?" I asked.

His jaw shifted. "She mentioned feeling off earlier today. I'll be back before morning."

He grabbed his phone, shoved it into his pocket, and stepped into shoes by the door. He didn't kiss me goodbye. Didn't look back.

The door swung shut behind him, but the latch didn't catch. It hung open an inch, letting in a thin line of hallway light.

I sat perfectly still.

On the hardwood floor between the bed and the doorway, a trail of wet footprints led from the bathroom to the hall. His bare feet, still damp from the shower, marking every step of his exit.

They pointed away from me. Toward the front of the house. Toward her.

*She was fine in bed —* that's what he'd almost said. The words he'd bitten off a second too late.

I pulled the pillow toward me and slid my hand inside the case. The letter was still there, the paper warm from where I'd been lying on it.

*Father —*

My fingers closed around it.

Maybe it was time to finish the sentence.