Who’s My Triplet’s Alpha Daddy?

Thalia’s POV

* Eight years ago *

I'm clawing at my bedroom door hard enough to split my nails and streak blood across the white paint. Which is honestly the most normal thing that's happened to me all night.

Mom's already turned the key from the outside, her cold voice drifting through the wood in low hiss. "The Alpha and his sons are here tonight. We won't have them smelling your disgusting heat while we're discussing our family's future."

Right. Because nothing says "loving family" like locking your nineteen-year-old daughter in her room during her first heat while you schmooze with pack royalty.

The Turner family: putting the "functional" in dysfunctional since 1987.

I collapse against the door, my legs giving out as another wave hits. It's like someone mainlined liquid fire straight into my veins and forgot to mention it comes with a side of desperate, clawing need.

The formal dinner party filters up through the floorboards.

Polite laughter, clinking crystal, my father's booming voice playing gracious host. My sister Lia's practiced giggle as she probably drapes herself over Kieran like the trophy girlfriend she's manufactured herself into.

Meanwhile, I'm up here drowning in my own skin.

Thighs clench involuntarily, seeking pressure that won't come. Every nerve ending screams awake, hypersensitive to the point where even the sheets feel like sandpaper and silk at once. The ache between my legs pulses in time with my heartbeat—insistent, demanding and absolutely mortifying.

My first heat tears through me with a violence no one bothered to warn me about. Because why would they? Wolfless daughters don't get the talk. We're not supposed to feel our bodies hijack every rational thought and replace it with pure, animalistic want.

Thanks for breaking that pattern, Universe. Really fucking appreciate the surprise.