Page 99 of The Alpha King’s Hidden Mute Mate

Silence.

"Alphas have a sense for bloodlines," I continued, voice trembling. "I can feel it. From the first moment I saw her, I could feel it. I just—didn't dare confirm it."

She finally turned around.

Her expression was calm, but her eyes were red.

"Yes," she said, voice so light it could blow away on the wind. "She's your daughter."

Those words hit my chest like a hammer.

My knees went weak. I almost couldn't stand.

Lily. That girl who smiled with little fangs. That girl who held my hand at the playground and called me "Zane." That girl who said she'd fly to the moon when she grew up.

She was my daughter.

My daughter.

I'd missed the moment of her birth. Missed her first time opening her eyes. Missed her first laugh, her first crawl, her first steps, her first words. Missed every birthday, every Christmas, every moment she needed a father.

Five years.

I'd missed five years.

"Why—" my voice was barely audible. "Why didn't you tell me?"

She looked at me, and finally some emotion showed in those eyes—not anger, not resentment, but disappointment.

"Tell you what?" she said, voice flat as still water. "Tell you that you have a daughter so you could take her from me too? Just like you took my dignity, took everything?"

"I wouldn't—"

"You wouldn't?" She laughed once, joylessly. "The things you did to me five years ago—have you forgotten?"

I had no response.

Every word she spoke was a knife, precisely inserted into the softest part of my heart.

"I won't take her away," I said, voice hoarse. "I just... I want to know her. I want—"

"You want what?" She cut me off. "You want to be her dad? Five years, Zane. Five years. Do you know what those five years were like for me?"

Her voice finally wavered—not with anger, but with a fatigue that had been suppressed too long and was finally starting to crack.

"When I was pregnant, I threw up constantly, couldn't even keep down water. I curled up alone on that hard wooden bed in the fisherman's cottage, thinking maybe dying would be easier."

My heart felt like someone had gripped it in their fist.

"When she was born, I was in labor for sixteen hours. The midwife said, 'Push, push harder—' I used every ounce of strength I had, and then I heard her cry. That was the most beautiful sound I've ever heard in my life."

Her eyes reddened, but she didn't let the tears fall.

"The first time she had a fever, I held her outside the clinic for three hours. Her little face burned red, breathing rapid. I sat on that cold bench, holding her, praying—praying she'd make it through. Praying God wouldn't take her from me too."

"The first time she called me 'Mommy,' I cried all night. Not from happiness, but because—I wished someone could share that moment with me. I wished someone could be beside me, holding my hand, telling me, 'She called you. She said Mommy.'"

"But that person wasn't there."