The Alpha's Unclaimed Mate novel Chapter 577

Chapter 577: Father-Son Bomb Incoming

Alaric was trapped in a bitch-born battle of wills against three bull-brained alpha males whose collective medical literacy could fit in a thimble with room left over for their self-preservation instincts.

All three had critical injuries nowhere near done healing, zero shared brain cells, and he was the unfortunate son of a bitch who got to tell them to sit the hell down.

"None of you are recovered enough to give her blood," he said. "You are still healing from stab wounds and the accumulated damage of fighting on a volcano. Giving blood in your current state puts you at risk of collapse, and I am running out of beds for idiots who think they are invincible."

"I’m not claiming to be invincible," Fin said. "I’m available. There’s a difference."

"The difference is paperwork," Alaric replied. "When invincible men collapse, I fill out one form. When available men collapse, I fill out the same form and then listen to them tell me they’re fine from the floor."

"I’m not going to collapse."

"That’s what the last three men who collapsed in this infirmary said. Word for word. I should get it engraved on the door."

"I don’t care," Fin insisted. "I’m fine. Take it."

"I am mostly recovered and she needs it," Dexmon cut in as he rolled up his sleeve. "This isn’t complicated, Alaric. She needs blood, I have blood, and the blood sitting in my arm is wasted if it’s keeping me upright while she’s dying in a bed."

"I’ll make more," Gavriel said, his voice carrying the flat certainty of a man who had decided the conversation was over. "Take mine. End of discussion."

Alaric pinched the bridge of his nose. Three assholes. One vote. Unanimous. Just his medical expertise getting overruled by men who can’t spell "hemoglobin" but are absolutely certain they have enough of it to spare. Typical.

He looked at Hyran. Hyran looked at Tiberon. Tiberon looked at his three wolves with the expression of a king watching men do what men do when the woman they love is in a bed and a doctor is standing between them and the helping. He had stood in that exact position once and understood that the doctor was going to lose this argument.

"Given the recent developments, these three aren’t the only match," Hyran said slowly.

Dexmon’s head snapped to him. "What recent developments? Also, correction, she has exactly two matches. Gavriel is still high on volcanic fumes and doesn’t know what he’s offering."

The sentence dropped with Alpha-prince certainty, half-amused that his best friend was trying to play hero and half-annoyed he even had to address it, because that man was never a match for Serena’s blood. Only two people were: himself and Finnick Shadowclaw. Fated mates. Her blood was goddamn gold and everyone else could sit the fuck down.

Hyran Thornfell was many things. A brilliant mage. A capable strategist. A man with the self-preservation instincts of a cat in a room full of rocking chairs.

And this definitely sounded like a father-son bomb to him.

So, he looked at Tiberon.

Hot potato.

Tiberon’s left eye twitched. Something that was happening more and more frequently lately. This one translated roughly to: Thank you, Hyran, for volunteering me to explain to my son that his mate has a third matebond and his best friend is a reincarnated Fae king. I will remember this generosity when your next funding request crosses my desk.

"There have been multiple developments," Tiberon said, voice level. "That is a conversation we will have when I return."

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