Who's My Triplet's Alpha Daddy? Novel

Chapter 140 Dec 18, 2025 POV: Lysander The thing about fighting vampires is that everything you know about combat becomes obsolete in about thirty seconds. I'm watching Marcus demonstrate defense techniques to a group of younger wolves who think their speed and strength will save them. They're wrong. Vampires move faster than anything living, hit harder than physics should allow, and they've had centuries to perfect killing.

"Block high, anticipate the feint, counter before they-" Marcus doesn't finish because the training dummy he's using as example explodes into splinters under his demonstration strike. "That's your problem right there." I step forward, feeling every eye turn to me. "You're thinking like we're fighting hunters. Guns and tactics and human limitations." I grab another dummy, position it. "Vampires don't use guns. They use claws that'll disembowel you before you register pain. Fangs that'll rip your throat faster than you can shift.

And some of them-the old ones-have powers that'll make you wish they'd just killed you clean." The silence that follows tastes bitter with fear. "So we train differently." My voice carries across the clearing. "Forget everything about fighting fair. Vampires don't care about honor. They care about efficiency." The phone in my pocket has been vibrating for hours. Allied packs, most of them calling to tell me exactly how fucked we are. I step away from training to take the next call. Alpha Thomas from the Redwood Pack, someone I've done business with for years.

"Lysander." His voice is careful, apologetic. "I got your message." "And?" "And I can't help you." He sounds genuinely sorry. "Fighting vampires is suicide. I've got cubs to think about, families who depend on me keeping them alive." "We've worked together before. Silvermoon backed you during the territory dispute two years ago." "I know. I'm sorry. But this isn't a dispute-it's extinction." He pauses. "Good luck. You're going to need it." He hangs up before I can argue. The next six calls follow the same pattern.

Apologies, excuses, variations on "we can't risk it." By the time I'm through my contact list, my jaw aches from clenching. Three packs agree to help. Three out of twenty-seven. The Cascade Pack sends ten warriors. The Olympic Pack sends six. The Columbia Pack sends four because that's all they can spare. Twenty extra wolves against fifty vampires who've been killing since before America was founded. The math is brutal, unforgiving, absolutely clear on how this ends. I'm staring at my phone calculating survival percentages that keep getting worse when Caroline finds me.

Eight months pregnant, moving with careful precision, radiating determination that makes my chest tight. "I want to help with defense planning." She's got maps, tactical notes, that sharp legal mind applied to military strategy. "No." "Lysander-" "Absolutely not." I turn to face her fully. "You're eight months pregnant with a werewolf baby and you were turned three months ago. Your body's still adjusting, the pregnancy's high-risk, and vampires will target you specifically because you're vulnerable." Her jaw sets in that stubborn line I've come to know too well. "I can help with coordination.

Logistics. I don't have to be on the front line." "You're not being anywhere near this fight." "That's not your decision." "It absolutely is." I move closer, hands settling on her shoulders with careful control. "You can't fight. You can't coordinate. You're staying locked in the safest part of pack territory with guards and you're giving birth to our child in a world where I still exist." Her eyes flash. "You're being unreasonable." "I'm being realistic." My voice drops. "Caroline, please. I can't lead this fight if I'm worried about you.

Can't focus on strategy if I'm wondering whether some vampire's draining you dry while I'm occupied." "I can take care of myself." "I know you can. But you shouldn't have to." My hands slide to frame her face. "Our baby is the priority. You're the priority. Let me protect what matters most." We argue for another ten minutes but I win this one through sheer desperation disguised as logic. She's pissed, storms off muttering about toxic masculinity and prehistoric Alpha attitudes. But she understands. She has to. The weight of command hits me around hour three of final preparations.

I'm standing in the war room Kieran set up-maps covering every surface, defense positions marked in red, fallback points in yellow, last stands in black. Too many black marks. Too many places where we're planning to make final stands. This might be the battle that ends us. I might lead my pack to extinction because I wasn't smart enough, fast enough, ruthless enough to find another way. The responsibility crushes down with physical weight. Every warrior preparing to fight is someone's father, mother, sibling, child.

Every wolf sharpening claws and practicing formations might be dead by sunrise. And it's my fault for not finding a better solution. "Stop spiraling." Kieran appears in the doorway, reading me too easily. "This isn't on you alone." "Isn't it? I'm the one who coordinates allied support. I'm the one who-" "You're the one who got us twenty reinforcements when most packs won't answer calls about vampires at all." He crosses to the map. "That's not failure. That's miracle work." "Twenty wolves against fifty vampires is a massacre." "Maybe." His voice is cold calculation.

"Or maybe it's enough if we're smart about it." We spend the next hour refining strategy-ambush points, psychological warfare, ways to force vampires into terrain that favors us. It's something to do with the crushing anxiety, even if we both know it might not matter. Dusk arrives too fast and too slow simultaneously. The pack gathers at the territory border-seventy-three wolves total including reinforcements. We're positioned for defense, higher ground claimed, fallback routes secured. Everything we can control has been controlled. The vampires arrive as shadows lengthen into darkness.

Fifty of them, moving through trees with fluid grace that's wrong, unnatural, predatory in ways that make my wolf want to submit and flee simultaneously. They don't make sound. Don't disturb undergrowth. Just appear from nothing, filling the forest with their presence. The one who steps forward makes the others look mundane by comparison. Ancient doesn't begin to describe him. Power radiates from him in waves that make every wolf's instincts scream danger, threat, death. He's beautiful in the way natural disasters are beautiful-terrifying and impossible to look away from.

His voice carries across the clearing with weight that demands attention. "I am Ezekiel. We've come for what was promised." Silence stretches. Every wolf is frozen, caught between fight and flight. "Surrender the territory and we'll let the pack leave alive." His smile reveals fangs that have torn through centuries of victims. "Fight, and we erase every one of you. Your choice." Archer