Who's My Triplet's Alpha Daddy? Novel

Chapter 37 Dec 22, 2025 POV: Lysander Sunday morning in the Colorado penthouse belongs to silence-the rare, soft kind that only exists when three nine-year-olds are still unconscious. I sit at the kitchen island with coffee that's too dark and too bitter, phone in hand, replaying last night's conversation with Kieran. The words still sting. They told you before they told us. Why would they trust you more? I don't have a good answer. Or maybe I do and it just makes everything worse-children sense the quiet type of safety, the kind that comes from someone who listens instead of commands.

Someone who doesn't overwhelm them with the weight of destiny and bloodline. Someone who lives in the shadows but sees everything. That's me. Professional shadow. Uncle who visits. The Fenris who didn't get the mate or the kids but got really, really good at being second place. My phone buzzes against granite. Text from Claire. Hope the kids are having fun. Dinner tonight? We should talk. My stomach does this unpleasant thing where it tries to escape through my spine. We should talk-three words that have never preceded anything good in the history of human communication.

I type back: Kids' flight leaves at 6. Rain check? Coward. Complete fucking coward. But I don't know how to give her what she wants without lying or hurting her worse. Three dots appear. Disappear. Appear again. Okay. But we do need to talk soon. I know. "Uncle Lys?" Phoenix appears in the kitchen doorway wearing mismatched socks and a sleep shirt that says "I WOKE UP LIKE THIS (AMAZING)." Her hair defies physics in every direction. "Can we do something fun today? Before we have to leave tonight?" "Anywhere you want," I hear myself say. "ZOO!" She grins.

"They have red pandas and Orion says they're really cute." Before I can respond, Luna pads in quietly behind her sister. She's got that look-the one that means she's been feeling things she shouldn't be able to feel at nine years old. "Where's Claire?" Luna asks, climbing onto a stool. "She's usually here on weekends." My coffee suddenly tastes like regret and bad decisions. "She's busy today. Work stuff." "On Sunday?" Orion appears, tablet already in hand. "That's weird. Most people don't work on Sundays unless it's really important." "It's not-we're fine." Luna tilts her head, studying me.

"You look sad when you talk about her. Like when Phoenix broke your favorite mug but different." "I'm not sad-" "You are though," she insists. "It's like... I don't know. Tired-sad? Like you want something but you're too tired to get it." Phoenix flops onto the counter dramatically. "Is she your girlfriend? Because last time she came over for pancakes, she kept trying to hold your hand and you kept moving it away to check your phone." "That's-" I stop because she's not wrong and that's somehow worse. "I really liked her pancakes," Luna says. "They had chocolate chips in them.

Mom never puts chocolate chips in ours." "She was nice," Phoenix agrees. "But she kept looking at you funny. Like when Luna looks at presents before her birthday trying to guess what's inside." I set my coffee down before I break the mug. "You three notice a lot." "Luna can feel when people are sad," Orion points out matter-of-factly. "And Phoenix stares at everything. And I just pay attention because that's what smart people do." Fantastic. Psychological profiling from fourth graders. "Does Claire want to marry you?" Luna asks it like she's asking about the weather.

"Is that why she looks at you like that?" My throat goes tight. "How do you-why would you think that?" "Because that's how Dad looks at Mom sometimes," Luna continues. "Like she's the best thing ever and he can't believe she's real. But Claire looks at you that way and you look at your phone." Phoenix sits up, suddenly serious. "Do you love her?" The question hangs there. Three kids staring at me, waiting for an answer I don't know how to give. "It's complicated," I finally manage. "That's adult for no," Orion translates.

"When grown-ups say 'it's complicated' it means no but they don't want to say no." "It means I care about her but..." I trail off because how do you explain emotional unavailability to nine-year-olds? "But you don't love her like Dad loves Mom," Luna finishes. Her voice goes soft. "You still wish Mom picked you instead. We know." The air leaves my lungs. Just completely evacuates. "We're not dumb," Phoenix says. "We see how you look at them sometimes. Like you're sad they're happy." "I'm not sad they're happy-" "But you wish it was you," Orion adds with brutal nine-year-old logic.

"That's okay. The mate bond picked Dad. You can't change that. It's like... biology or whatever." I'm getting relationship advice from children. This is my life now. "So what do I do?" The question slips out before I can stop it. "Tell Claire the truth," Luna says simply. "That you like her but you don't love her. Mom says lying to make people feel better is still lying." "And then find someone who makes you happy for real," Phoenix adds. "Like the way ice cream makes me happy. But people-version." "You can't just compare love to ice cream-" I start. "Why not?" Phoenix crosses her arms.

"Ice cream makes you feel good. Love should make you feel good. If it doesn't, it's broken ice cream." The logic is flawed but somehow also completely accurate. "I'm only nine," Orion says seriously. "But even I know you shouldn't date someone if you're sad all the time. That's just math." I stare at them. These three impossible kids who see too much, feel too much, understand way more than they should at their age. "Zoo," I finally say. "We're going to the zoo. And we're not discussing my love life anymore." "But we're helping!" Phoenix protests. "You're nine.

Help with your homework, not my relationships." "You're the one who asked what to do," Orion points out. "That was a mistake. Go get ready." They scatter, arguing about red pandas and whether Uncle Lysander is going to be alone forever. That last part is definitely Phoenix. I sit there in my kitchen with cold coffee and the uncomfortable realization that three nine-year-olds just called me out more effectively than two years of therapy. Archer