Who's My Triplet's Alpha Daddy? Novel

Chapter 115 Dec 18, 2025 POV: Thalia The mountain retreat comes into view and my brain refuses to process what I'm seeing for approximately three seconds because surely this can't be real, surely this isn't actually happening. Then reality slams through denial and it's so much worse than Caroline's panicked phone call suggested. Buildings burning-not one or two but half the compound lit up in flames that paint the night sky orange and wrong. Bodies on the ground, can't tell from this distance if they're ours or theirs or both.

Gunfire so constant it sounds like white noise punctuated by screams that make my wolf rise with the kind of rage I've never felt before. This is my pack. My family. And they're dying while I was six hours away chasing ghosts. "OUT!" Lysander's barely stopped the vehicle before I'm through the door, already shifting mid-stride because human form is too slow, too weak, too fucking useless when people I love are bleeding. The shift completes and I'm white wolf hitting the ground running, four legs eating distance toward the nearest cluster of fighting.

Hunter in tactical gear has one of our younger wolves pinned-Sarah, the girl who was shaking in my vehicle just yesterday, who took a bullet to the leg and kept fighting. She's not fighting now. She's dying, throat torn open by silver blade, eyes already going glassy. I hit the hunter from the side with enough force to break ribs, hear the satisfying crack of bones giving way under supernatural strength. My jaws close around his throat and I taste blood and victory and the particular satisfaction of killing something that murdered pack.

"Mama!" Phoenix's scream cuts through the chaos and my heart stops completely. She's supposed to be in the fortified cabin with Rosalie. Supposed to be safe, protected, somewhere her mother wouldn't have to watch her die. Instead she's in wolf form-too young, too unstable, her shift incomplete and agonizing-fighting a merc who clearly has experience killing supernatural creatures. He's got her pinned, rifle aimed at her head, and I'm too far away, can't close the distance before he fires. Kieran's wolf slams into him from behind.

Massive dark blur of violence and protective fury, tearing through tactical vest to find flesh underneath. The rifle fires wide, bullet catching tree instead of my daughter, and I'm there in seconds grabbing Phoenix by her scruff and hauling her toward relative safety. "Stay down!" My human voice forcing its way through wolf vocal cords. "STAY DOWN!" She whimpers but listens, pressing herself flat against the ground while I position myself over her, white wolf shield between my baby and the violence trying to kill her.

Kieran's beside me immediately, dark wolf positioning so we're covering more ground. Our wolves recognize each other on instinct-mates, bonded, absolutely lethal when working together. He moves left, I mirror right. He lunges, I cover his flank. Perfect synchronization that has nothing to do with planning and everything to do with being two halves of something greater. The bond sings between us-not demanding, not consuming, just present and absolutely certain. This is what mates do. Fight together, bleed together, die together if necessary. I wouldn't want it any other way.

We take down three more hunters in maybe ninety seconds of coordinated violence. Kieran's all dark power and brutal efficiency, designed to kill, trained from birth to be lethal. I'm white fury protecting cubs, maternal rage given physical form. Together we're something that makes experienced mercs reconsider their life choices and tactical positioning. The hunters are professional though. Silver bullets, tactics designed specifically for wolves, the kind of preparation that comes from generations of killing things like us.

They're cutting through pack defenses with systematic efficiency that makes my stomach turn. Elder Margaret goes down to my left-bullet through her skull, dead before she hits the ground. Thomas, the warrior who ran firearms drills yesterday, takes three rounds center mass and doesn't get back up. Marcus's nephew shifts mid-fight and gets his throat torn out by a merc who clearly knows wolf anatomy better than I do.

I'm watching pack members fall, watching families I swore to protect die because I wasn't here, because I fell for Lia's obvious bait, because the Luna's job is keeping them safe and I'm failing so catastrophically I might as well have killed them myself. Luna power rises through me-not just physical strength but something older, more fundamental. The pack bonds snap into sharp focus, showing me exactly who's still fighting, who's wounded, who's already gone.

The information floods through faster than conscious thought, my wolf processing it all, redistributing our forces through instinct and desperation. "Orion, Luna-get to the vehicles!" I'm shouting orders in hybrid form that's half-human, half-wolf, entirely terrifying. "Charlie team, fall back to secondary positions! Everyone without combat training MOVE!" They listen because that's what Luna means-authority in crisis, the voice that cuts through panic and provides direction when everything's burning.

Kieran's shifted to hybrid form beside me, all seven feet of predator wearing human skin, directing our remaining fighters with tactical precision. "Beta team, north flank is collapsing! Alpha team, reinforce the eastern approach!" We're coordinating defense while fighting, processing battlefield conditions while covered in blood-his, mine, theirs, doesn't matter. Just survival, just protecting what's ours, just refusing to let Lia win even when victory seems impossible. Through the chaos, through the fire and screaming and systematic slaughter, I see Lysander freeze mid-shift.

He's staring at something across the clearing, expression doing that thing where horror and recognition collide. I follow his gaze and the world tilts sideways. Older man. Military bearing. Directing hunter movements with hand signals that coordinate their assault with devastating efficiency. Robert Montgomery. Robert who's supposed to be secured in a cabin, under guard, providing intel to save his daughter. Robert who burned his entire organization to protect Caroline. Robert who's currently leading the attack against his own daughter's chosen pack.

Either he escaped or the guards let him go or he was playing us from the beginning-doesn't matter which because the result is the same. Our intel came from someone coordinating our destruction, our trust was weaponized, and everything we thought we knew just became another lie in a war built on them. Lysander's roar is pure Alpha rage amplified through hybrid vocal cords. "ROBERT!" The name cuts through gunfire and screaming. Robert turns, sees his future son-in-law covered in blood and absolutely murderous, and his expression doesn't change.

No guilt, no apology, just cold tactical assessment of threat level. "Nothing personal, Alpha." His voice carries despite the distance. "Just protecting humanity from monsters. Same as I always have." He raises his hand, signals something to the mercs surrounding him. Twenty rifles turn toward Lysander simultaneously. And every single one of them fires. Archer