Who's My Triplet's Alpha Daddy? Novel

Chapter 38 Dec 18, 2025 POV: Lysander The Colorado Zoo smells like overpriced popcorn, stressed animals, and approximately three thousand humans who apparently don't believe in deodorant. My wolf hates every second of this sensory assault. But Phoenix is literally vibrating with joy at the red panda exhibit, so I endure like the emotionally masochistic uncle I've become. "Look look look!" Phoenix presses her face against the glass. "It's washing its face! That's the cutest thing I've ever seen in my WHOLE LIFE!" "You said that about the penguins," Orion points out. "And the otters.

And that rock that kind of looked like a dog." "They were ALL the cutest things ever!" Luna snaps another photo, her three-hundredth of the day. "Did you know red pandas are more closely related to raccoons than actual pandas? The tour guide told me." I do know this, because Orion lectured me about it for twenty minutes in the car. But Luna's face is so earnest I just nod like it's brand new information. We've been here four hours. My feet hurt. My wolf is deeply offended by the crowd density.

And Claire's text message keeps replaying in my head like a song I can't stop humming-we need to talk tonight, it's important. Translation: I'm breaking up with you, or demanding commitment, or finally acknowledging what we both already know-that I'm emotionally unavailable and she deserves literally anyone else. "Lys?" Luna's suddenly at my elbow. "You're doing that thing again." "What thing?" "Where your face looks like you're here but your brain is somewhere else." She tilts her head. "Are you thinking about Claire?" Christ. Empathic nine-year-olds should be illegal.

"I'm thinking about how my feet hurt and whether we have time to hit one more exhibit before your flight." "Liar," she says pleasantly. After another hour of exhibits and one near-death experience involving Phoenix and a peacock, I declare victory and herd them toward the exit. We need to grab snacks for their flight anyway, and the grocery store near my penthouse is on the way. The store is one of those massive organic places where everything costs three times what it should and people treat shopping like competitive sport.

I grab a basket while the kids immediately scatter like startled rabbits. "Stay where I can see you!" I call after them. "Okay!" Phoenix yells from an aisle I definitely can't see. Fantastic parenting, Lysander. Really nailing this. I'm heading toward the snack aisle when someone crashes straight into me. Full body collision. And not just any collision-this is a tactical nuclear strike disguised as a shopping accident. The woman is a blur of pink cashmere and what appears to be seventeen different shopping bags hooked over her arms like she's training for some kind of retail Olympics.

No cart. Obviously no cart. Who needs a cart when you have determination and questionable organizational skills? Apples explode everywhere. A box of organic pasta skids under a shelf. A jar of locally-sourced honey wobbles dangerously before I catch it mid-air, and somehow-somehow-she's still holding a Starbucks cup that hasn't spilled. "Oh my GOD!" She's already crouching in her designer jeans and what I'm ninety percent sure are Louboutin heels, trying to collect everything at once. Her blonde hair is styled in that effortlessly perfect way that definitely took an hour. "I am SO sorry!

I was reading a brief on my phone which is like, rule number one of what not to do, but my client just called freaking out about discovery deadlines and-" She looks up. Stops mid-sentence. And I forget how to breathe. Bright blue eyes. The kind of blue that looks Photoshopped but isn't. She's wearing pink lipgloss that somehow hasn't smudged despite the collision, and her sweater is definitely cashmere because I can tell from here and also because everything about her screams "I own nice things and I'm not apologizing for it." Something shoots through me. Not subtle. Not gentle.

A full-body electric shock that makes my wolf sit up and pay very close attention. Oh no. "Hi," she says, and smiles. It's not a polite smile. It's the kind of smile that lights up her entire face, the kind that makes you feel like you just got invited to the world's best party. "I'm a disaster. Sorry. Did I hurt you?" I'm holding three apples and a box of pasta and have completely forgotten the English language exists. "I-no. Fine. You're-fine." Eloquent, Lysander. Really crushing this interaction. Her smile gets bigger. "You sure? You look kind of stunned.

Like I knocked the breath out of you or something." She did. But not because of the collision. My wolf is now fully awake and doing this thing where it's practically wagging its tail like we're some kind of golden retriever who just found his favorite person. Abort. Abort mission. This is not happening. "Just wasn't expecting full-contact grocery shopping," I manage, crouching down to help gather her scattered items. "You shop like this often?" "Like what? Fabulously disorganized?" She laughs, and it's genuine and warm and makes me want to say something funnier just to hear it again.

"All the time. I have a whole system. It's just a terrible system." She's wearing perfume. Something floral and expensive and completely inappropriate for a grocery store but somehow perfect on her. My wolf is having opinions about this that I'm aggressively ignoring. Phoenix's voice cuts through the moment like a chainsaw through butter. "Did you KNOCK HER OVER?!" All three kids appear at the end of the aisle, staring at us with varying expressions of horror and fascination. The woman's eyes go wide. She looks at me, then the kids, then back at me.

"I didn't knock her over," I call back, standing and offering her a hand up. "We collided. Mutual fault." She takes my hand. Her palm is warm and soft and the contact sends another one of those electric shocks shooting straight up my arm and directly into places that have no business responding to a stranger in a grocery store. But it can't be. She is human. There is no bond between wolf and human. Or is there? Archer