by Ava Williams
Wolf’s Accidental Pregnancy
A Fated Mate Romance
Ava Williams
Contents
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
22. Sneak Peek
Free Romance
Copyright 2021 by Ava Williams- All rights reserved.
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1
It was an awful thing to see your pregnant fated mate get shot.
The door swung open, and from his spot outside the house, Titus looked inside just in time to see Molly jerk back from the bullet’s impact.
His beautiful fated mate’s eyes were wide with shock as she reeled backward. She tripped over the coffee table and went down, crashing through the glass top to land on the pile of shards. Even in midair, her hands flew to her abdomen, to the baby inside.
Rage, unlike anything that Titus had ever felt, exploded inside him when he heard Molly’s cry of pain. He charged the house with snarls tearing from his lips and his wolf fangs readily exposed through the pouring rain.
Titus barreled through the gently swinging door, hard enough to tear it off its hinges to find the gunman standing by the kitchen counter.
Eli.
Eli, hair and skin saturated with water from the downpour outside, stood ten feet away with a wild, crazed look in his eyes, his handgun pointed at Molly. His eyes were wide with shock and delight and his face twisted into a sadistic sneer as he watched her writhe.
As Titus hit the door, Eli brought the gun up again—slowly, with a cold glint in his eyes. Aiming. Seemingly not even aware of Titus’s presence, just relishing Molly’s pain and waiting to put an eternal end to it. He squeezed the trigger right as Titus made it into the room and let out a shout—too far away to stop him, to stop Eli from putting a final bullet into Molly’s body. The door, free of its frame, slammed into him, and his shot went wild, missing Molly by a wide margin.
Titus charged him, making it a good five feet before he felt the first bullet pierce his lung. Pop! The bullet streaked into him with enough force to knock him back, tearing through his organs and shooting out the other side. Didn’t matter. Just a bullet. As long as it wasn’t silver, he was fine. Pain was temporary, but protecting Molly was everything. He staggered back to his feet. Pop! Another, this one lodging in his leg. Pop! Right in the chest, with enough force to stall his momentum again. Pop! Pop! Pop!
Titus lost track of how many holes Eli put in him, but after the fifth or sixth one, he was reeling from the steady, pulsing flow of blood out of each wound.
None of that mattered. He would take a thousand bullets for Molly, and besides, the pounding adrenaline hammering through his body made the pain forgettable.
Eli’s face twisted with hatred, and the T carved into his forehead practically pulsed bright red. The Brothers had turned their back on him too, then. But Titus didn’t give a damn about why he was back—only that Eli had done something unacceptable: he hurt Molly.
And for that, Eli would die.
Eli pumped more bullets into Titus until finally, the gun clicked. Empty. Eli’s eyes narrowed and he grabbed for the silver blade impaled in the countertop.
Titus stumbled and spat a glob of bloody saliva on the dirty floor. Pain radiated through him and his body screamed at him to stay down, but he knew that if he did, Eli would kill Molly and the child she was still trying so desperately to protect.
That’s what Eli wanted, had always wanted—to destroy Titus once and for all, and nothing would please that backstabbing fucker more than killing both of them and eliminating Titus’s heir in the process.
Titus shook the pain off and hurled himself toward Eli, tackling him to the ground. The blade skittered away, out of reach, buying Titus precious time, time to heal and gain his strength back.
Together, the two men crashed to the floor, and a ferocious struggle ensued. Titus was bigger, stronger, and a better fighter—but badly injured. He felt his strength fade away with each passing second as blood pumped out of his wounds, saturating his clothing as it left his muscles sluggish and weak. The edges of his vision were fuzzy, but he ignored his body’s orders to shut down and pass out. His shifter healing would bring him back, but by then, Eli would have gotten to Molly again.
Eli’s smaller size worked to his advantage, his speed and agility combating Titus’s sheer power and the fact that Titus was ripshit pissed. But it wasn’t a fair fight, not yet. All Titus had to do was survive and hold Eli back until his wounds healed.
After that? Eli would die.
No banishment, no imprisonment. Not again. One way or another, one of them would die tonight. After all these years, after all the fights growing up and the rivalry, Eli had gone too far, and their relationship had finally burst. It hadn’t come a moment too soon.
In a blur of fists, fangs, and claws, the two wolves partially shifted back and forth, human flesh into lupine fur and back again. Eli fought like a trapped animal, while Titus fought like a man with everything to lose.
Eli plunged his claws deep into Titus’s bullet wounds and sneered as Titus howled. Eli pushed onward, fighting cheap and taking advantage of Titus’s wounds.
“So this is how it ends, you—”
Those were all of the taunting words that Eli managed to spit out before Titus came back swinging.
Titus punched Eli right in the jaw, hard enough to knock out a few teeth and bust up Titus’s knuckles. While he staggered back, spitting teeth and blood on the floor, Titus pulled his fist back for another hit with his knuckles rearranging themselves to full health as he reared back . . .
. . . and felt Eli thrust the silver blade into his side.
The silver burned like fire as soon as it slid through the skin, sizzling between muscle and bone. He cursed. He was damn near invincible, but not from silver. Eli drew the blade back, ready to sink it into Titus’s flesh again with his blood-stained teeth shining with his vengeful sneer.
But he didn’t factor in one thing—Titus’s determination to live.
Titus’s hatred of Eli.
And Titus’s complete and total lack of ability to fail and let any harm befall Molly.
Titus marshaled his remaining strength and wrapped his arms around Eli’s torso. In one agonizing burst of power, he hurled Eli’s smaller, lighter body through the window, gasping from the pain of the deep wound from the silver dagger.
Eli flew through the glass, shattering it and landing awkwardly on the sodden ground. He scrambled to his feet, slipping in the mud and rain, still gripping the dagger that gleamed red with Titus’s blood. Titus swayed and his vision swam, but he didn’t fall as he stood between Eli and Molly, who moaned in pain behind him. He might die either way, but he sure as hel
l wasn’t about to let this psychopath anywhere near Molly. He would gladly die before he let Eli touch a hair on Molly’s head.
Eli sneered at Titus. His eyes shone with hatred and glee as he ran a finger along the blood-stained blade. He’d wanted to do this since they were children. He’d finally gotten the balls to do it. “Not done yet?”
The rest of the compound started to stir from the commotion. Lights flicked on and the sound of shouting and footsteps echoed through the air.
Boom!
A lightning bolt struck nearby, casting a ghastly light over Eli as he stalked closer, Titus’s blood still dripping from the dagger. Titus took a step forward, but every step was agony.
To hell with that.
He clenched his teeth, fighting through the searing pain to focus on the only thing that mattered—his fated mate was in danger, and the cause stood right in front of him. He felt the bullet wounds healing already, and with each passing second, his vision cleared. The wound deep in his side from the silver dagger, immune to a healing ability, throbbed more and more. His hand rested on it, but his blood seeped between his fingers. He swallowed his urge to puke as his heart hammered in his chest and he looked upon Eli.
All the anger, all the resentment, all the times where he wanted to strangle the self-righteous little asshole boiled to the surface, but everything else fell away when the memory of Molly’s cry of pain echoed through his skull. Eli had shot Molly, and he was smiling. Faster and faster, Titus’s blood pounded until he couldn’t even feel anything other than sheer, pure rage.
Titus rolled his shoulders, stepping through the shattered window as he locked eyes with Eli. Titus had been waiting for this moment for years. Eli was about to find out why Titus was pack alpha and Eli wasn’t. He turned his head to the side and spat out the blood that filled his mouth, his nostrils flaring and his hands shuddering with hatred.
Eli attacked, stabbing wildly at Titus with the silver dagger, but Titus knocked the blade away and threw him to the ground. The two wolves wrestled in the mud and blinding rain in front of Molly’s home. And though Eli held an early advantage, the odds shifted considerably as Titus’s strength slowly returned.
Eli was weak, and enough of a coward to go after Titus’s mate and heir.
Titus was the alpha.
And it showed.
Titus unleashed on Eli, years of antipathy fueling each blow. In a fair fight, Eli knew he didn’t stand a chance. Which was why he had never challenged Titus for the position of pack alpha in all these years—not until Titus had a mate that Eli could use as a weapon.
Titus’s knuckles smashed into Eli’s jaw and rain splattered from the impact. Another clean strike. This beatdown had been a long time coming. He could almost ignore the pain that still radiated from stab wound, which still freely bled down his side. Eli tried to scramble away, tossing Titus with his hips and grabbing the silver dagger out of the mud. He tried to stab Titus, but Titus blocked it.
“Titus, look out!”
Molly’s voice broke Titus’s concentration. Instinctively, he whirled to see her standing in the window with a horrified look in her eyes—but alive. Blood dripped down her shoulder with her other hand covering it as she scrambled to help him.
Titus reeled back around just in time for Eli to plunge the silver dagger into his heart.
2
Several Months Ago
A thousand times, Molly wished the artifacts were haunted.
Just for some excitement. Just a drop. Just a taste, to remember what it was like.
Be a researcher, Molly! It’s reliable, Molly! And you can play with your hands!
Yeah. Nobody ever mentioned the fucking mind-crushing boredom of working alone except for Carl, and if she was being honest, she’d probably rather work alone than with that red-headed Romeo. There were only so many hours that she could spend deciphering line after line of text on some boring cursed bowl before she went insane. Seriously, who cast a spell on a freaking bowl, and why did it matter what it said?
When her brain couldn’t hold any more runes, she emerged from the labyrinthine back rooms of the museum like a cave-dwelling creature and went for walks around the main floor. With the exception of a school field trip every now and then, or an elderly couple that would stare at one artifact for hours, the museum was usually barren.
It wasn’t bad for the first year, and not awful the second year, but now that she was coming up on the third year of this same routine . . .
She knew every single thing about every single artifact, and when she felt especially restless, Molly would bounce between the protective glass cases, avoiding Carl while he cleaned them. Sometimes, she’d dramatically stare out the windows at the passing traffic, and imagine that she was about to get creamed by a bus. Of course, she would never do that.
No point for an immortal, anyway.
This was one of those days. Those dull, dull days. If the day had been a spice, it would have been flour. Nothing wrong with it, but nothing interesting either.
She’d been studying a particular silver dagger blade that had been broken off at the hilt for days now. The blade had runes on it, but since half the runes were missing past the hilt, a lot of it was a mystery. She’d been tasked with answering one simple question related to her expertise: What was it used for?
Stabbing things seemed like a safe bet, but that wasn’t the full story. What, particularly, was it used to stab and why? Sacrifices? Werewolves? Pumpkins? Maybe someone used it to sacrifice pumpkins to werewolves. Hell if she knew, she’d been working all day for the third day in a row. Leafing through old texts. Trying to compare it to other artifacts. Hypothesizing and testing. Poring over the handwritten notes in her field journal. Begging it to make sense in moments of desperation. Regretting her life choices and wondering why she hadn’t followed her dream of becoming a professor. Basic research stuff.
She’d finally hit the point where she was just sick of it. Patient though she might be, it was time to go home. Molly sighed and pinched the bridge of her nose. Her notes swam in front of her eyes and her exhausted brain balked at processing more information. Quitting time, according to the clock and her subconscious.
Not that she had anywhere to really go, except her shitty little apartment, or anyone to go home to. She could hit the gym and then drag her exhausted ass home, but what was the point?
Immortal, check. Married to her job, check. A witch, albeit a weak one, check. Reasonably attractive, according to the mirror and her sisters, check.
Single as hell, check.
She knew she couldn’t complain too much. Museum research didn’t fulfill her wildest childhood dreams, but it was an honest living. Growing up, she wanted to be a healer, or a demon slayer—someone who could really make a difference. And then, when her three sisters started developing their powers, hers never showed up. She waited and waited, and while her sisters could do amazing things, she could barely manage a few sparks.
She’d ended up as a half-baked, lousy excuse for a witch who could barely do some mild healing spells on a good day, and her dreams of an exciting life came crashing down. If you needed a paper cut healed in a few seconds, she was your girl. Other than that, well . . . not so much. But it was okay, she’d assured herself. She could do other things related to magic. She could still be a hero—just behind the scenes.
Like wasting her life staring at rocks and reading runes all day by herself, slowly wasting away from the solitude.
To be fair, some days were more exciting than others. The other day, while toiling at her desk in the back, a mosquito landed on an ancient warlock’s staff and fried to a crisp with a theatrical sizzle and an impressive burst of sparks that sent her racing out of her office. But those moments were few and far between, leaving her to alternate between intense study and wandering the halls like an escaped artifact.
She meandered around the museum, checking for the thousandth time that everything was exactly like it was normally with her phone propped
against her ear while her sister, Heather, chattered without pause. Heather was a talker. Thirty minutes on the phone so far, and mostly it was just Heather going on about the new yogurt shop, about some job she was interested in, and how much she loved her new place. Molly used to try to join the conversations and interject sometimes, but eventually, she realized it was better if she just listened.
“And so this job sounds crazy suspicious, right? But I figured, what the hell, live a little! So I applied. I’ll keep you posted,” Heather said.
“It sounds really good,” Molly replied absently.
Was she a bad sister for zoning out? Maybe. But Heather did have a habit of getting unnecessarily excited by things. Once, back in college, she’d called Molly out of an exam to say that there had been a fox on her car in the morning. Molly could probably put the phone down for thirty minutes and come back and Heather would think they were having the best conversation ever. Besides, maybe she didn’t always want to hear about how awesome her more gifted sister’s life was going right now. Maybe it frustrated her that she didn’t inherit any decent powers, despite her skill and dedication at the academic study of magic.
Don’t be a bitch to your sister, Molly, she scolded herself. It’s not her fault that you suck at magic.
“Really good,” she said to her sister. She injected a little more sincerity into her tone—she wanted the best for Heather, and it wasn’t fair to drag her baggage into it when they talked. Even if Heather could be insensitive about it sometimes.
