Page 45 of The Alpha King’s Hidden Mute Mate

"Get your position straight." I kept going, every word landing like a stone. "You're my fated mate. Your job is to stay here and fulfill your duties. You're not on vacation. You don't get a choice."

She looked down at the floor for several seconds.

Then she lifted her head and looked at me.

That look made my throat tighten. Not anger, not resentment—but a total, resigned calm. Like she'd finally confirmed something she'd known all along but refused to believe. In my eyes, she really was just a tool.

She turned and walked out.

The door closed behind her with a soft click.

I sat there staring at that closed door, the fire in my chest blazing hotter. I shot to my feet and kicked over the waste basket, papers scattering everywhere.

Goddammit. Goddammit!

Those words I just said—that wasn't what I meant to say. What I meant was: Stay. I can give you a better life. I can give you your own place, enough money, and make your life a hundred times better than out there.

But what came out was that garbage.

What the hell is wrong with me?

I raked my fingers through my hair, pacing the study. The sunlight outside was blinding. I yanked the curtains shut, sealing myself in half-darkness.

Better that she left anyway, I told myself. Save me from feeling this tightness in my chest every time I saw her.

But that look—that calm, resigned look—stuck in my throat like a fishbone. Couldn't swallow it, couldn't spit it out.

Three days later, the traveling prophet returned.

Honestly, I'd almost forgotten the man existed. Malcolm—the kingdom's prophet, who'd left the palace to travel when I was small. My only memory was of a white-bearded old man who answered every question with riddles.

So when he appeared at the council chamber door, I barely recognized him.

He'd aged. Hair completely white, face carved with deep wrinkles, but those eyes still sharp as a hawk's. He wore a deep blue robe, leaning on a twisted oak staff, looking like he'd stepped out of a fairy tale.

"Your Majesty." He bowed, voice rough as sandpaper on wood. "I've sensed the scent of disaster."

Everyone in the council chamber went quiet. Elder Alden set down his teacup, eyes narrowing at the prophet. The other elders turned, expressions ranging from curious to anxious.

"What disaster?" I asked.

"Siren's voice." When he spoke those words, the room's temperature seemed to drop several degrees. "The child who carries Siren's voice. She's still alive."

I frowned. "What?"

"Twenty years ago, I prophesied the birth of an infant." Malcolm's voice was low and deliberate, like reciting ancient scripture. "That child would bring Siren's voice—her voice would control minds, control all of Moonhowl Kingdom. At the time, the kingdom disposed of that disaster's vessel."

He paused, gaze sweeping everyone present.

"I thought that infant had vanished. But I was wrong." His voice grew grave. "It's awakening. I can feel it. A dark force is gathering, soon to descend upon this land."

Whispers rippled through the chamber. The elders exchanged glances, faces turning uneasy.

"Then how do you find this person?" Elder Alden asked, urgency in his voice. "Who is she? Where?"

Malcolm closed his eyes, gripping his staff with both hands, muttering under his breath. His body began to tremble slightly, sweat beading on his forehead. After about a minute, his eyes snapped open—

A flash of silver-white light gleamed in them.