Chosen To Be The Alpha's Surrogate

**I Malachi I**

I'm halfway to the garage, Penelope stalking ahead of me with the righteous fury of a queen, when my phone buzzes insistently against my thigh. Growling under my breath, I yank it out, ready to snarl at whoever's on the other end. But it's a message from Axel, my head of security. The subject line reads: **URGENT: Stone Financials**.

*Fuck. What now?*

I tap the screen, my jaw clenching as I scan the wall of text. But with each word, each damning piece of evidence, I feel my anger slowly transform into something far more unsettling. Shame. Remorse.

According to Axel's report, the credit card charges I'd assumed were Penelope's doing were actually the result of long-term fraud. Her ex-husband, that ratfink piece of shit, had been siphoning funds and racking up debt in her name for years, all to fund his own extravagant lifestyle and impress his side piece.

*She was telling the truth...*

I think back to the hurt and outrage on Penelope's face, the way she'd defended herself against my baseless accusations. The conviction in her voice when she'd told me I had no *fucking clue* what she'd been through. *She was right. *

I'd been so quick to assume the worst, to see her as just another grasping manipulative piece on the board. But the truth was far more complicated...and humbling.

"Hey." Penelope's voice snaps me out of my spiraling thoughts. She's paused at the entrance to the garage, her brow furrowed as she takes in my slack-jawed expression. "You coming or what?"

I shake myself, shoving the phone back in my pocket. "Yeah. Right behind you."

She eyes me for a moment but doesn't push, spinning on her heels and marching into the cavernous space. I follow slowly, my mind whirling as I try to figure out how the fuck to handle this new piece of information. *Do I tell her? Admit I was wrong, and that I'd let my own cynicism cloud my judgment?*

The idea galls me, prickling at my ego like nettles. But as I watch her yank open the door of my matte black Bugatti, all stiff shoulders and wounded pride, I know I can't let this fester between us. Not if we're going to be spending the next few months in close quarters.

*Time to put on your big boy pants, Malachi. You fucked up. Now you get to eat crow.*

Sighing, I slide into the driver's seat, the engine purring to life beneath me with a push of a button. Penelope huddles in the passenger seat, her arms crossed protectively over her stomach as she stares out the window.

We drive in tense silence for a few miles, the only sound the low thrum of the motor and the distant rush of wind beyond the reinforced steel frame. But as we hit the highway, I clear my throat, breaking the suffocating quiet. "I owe you an apology."

Her head whips around to stare at me with wide, disbelieving eyes. "Excuse me?"

I tighten my grip on the steering wheel, fighting the urge to squirm under her scrutiny.

*Fuck, this is harder than I thought.*

"Those charges," I grit out, each word feeling like glass in my throat. "You were right. My team confirmed it was your ex, using your cards and racking up debt behind your back."

For a long moment, she simply blinks at me, shock and a grim sort of satisfaction warring on her delicate features. "I know," she says quietly, a thread of old pain lacing her words.

She sighs, tucking a strand of hair behind her ear. "Donovan was always so careful, so good at covering his tracks. But I guess he got sloppy near the end, stopped bothering to hide his dirty little secret." My heart clenches in my chest, an unfamiliar ache blooming behind my ribs.

*Is this...sympathy? Empathy?*

It's been so long since I let myself feel anything beyond cold calculation and ruthless ambition. But looking at her now, so tired and jaded, I can't help the surge of protectiveness that crashes through me. "I'm sorry," I say gruffly, the words unfamiliar but no less sincere on my tongue. "For not believing you. For throwing those charges in your face like some kind of fucking trump card. That was a dick move." She's quiet for a moment, her gaze fixed on the road unfurling before us. Then, slowly, she nods, a tiny smile playing at the corner of her mouth.

"Thank you," she murmurs, something warm and real in her voice. "For apologizing. For admitting you were wrong. I know that couldn't have been easy for you." *You have no fucking idea.*

I shrug, trying to play it off even as my chest tightens with an emotion I dare not name. "Easy's overrated. And you were right to call me on my bullshit. I respect that." *More than respect. But now's not the time to examine that particular can of worms.*

We lapse back into silence, but this time it feels easier, less fraught with resentment and mistrust.

It feels like a start.

We pull up to Penelope's building just as dusk is falling, the setting sun painting the rundown brick in shades of gold and shadow. She leads me up a rickety set of stairs to a faded green door, the paint peeling around a tarnished brass knob. The apartment itself is... well, *humble* would be a generous term. The tiny studio is crammed with second-hand furniture, the walls dingy and bare save for a few faded photographs. A sagging futon serves as both couch and bed, the covers threadbare and faintly musty. The kitchenette is little more than a hot plate and a mini fridge, the counter crowded with chipped mugs and mismatched dishes.

*And yet, despite the shabbiness, there's warmth here.*

A sense of life, struggle, and hard-won survival that tugs at something deep in my chest. This is a home, carved out of necessity and grit. So very different from the cold opulence of my estate.

*She's made a life here. A good one, against all odds.*

Penelope bustles around the small space, tidying up stray clothes and straightening crooked pillows. I can see the self-consciousness in the hunch of her shoulders, the flush staining her cheeks. *She's ashamed. Embarrassed by her few possessions in the face of my obvious wealth.*

But as I watch her move, one hand braced on the small of her back, the other cradling the swell of her belly, all I feel is a fierce swell of respect. And beneath that, a flicker of something warmer, more tender. *She's tougher than she looks. A survivor.*

"Sorry about the mess," she says over her shoulder, kicking a stray sneaker under the futon. "I wasn't exactly expecting company."

I grunt, shrugging off my coat and draping it over the back of a wobbly kitchen chair. "It's fine."

She gives me a curious look but doesn't pry, nodding towards the tiny bathroom. "I'm gonna take a quick shower. Make yourself at home."

While she's gone, I poke around a bit, taking in the small details of her life. A dog-eared romance novel on the nightstands, a jar of pickles in the fridge, a stack of secondhand baby books piled up by the door. Each item feels like a tiny window into her world, a glimpse behind the mask of stubborn pride and wounded defiance.

*Who are you, really, Penelope Stone?*

I'm pulled from my musings by the sound of the bathroom door opening. Penelope emerges in a cloud of steam, her damp hair falling in dark waves around her shoulders. She's wearing a thin cotton white tank top and a pair of black stretchy yoga pants, the curve of her stomach strained against the soft fabric.

*Keep it together. She's just carrying my child. She's a means to an end.*

But as she pads across the room on bare feet, coming to stand before me with a quizzical tilt to her head, I feel a traitorous kick of something hot and hungry in my gut.

"You okay there, big guy?" She asks, a hint of amusement threading through her voice.

*No. Yes. Fuck if I know anymore.*

I force my face into a neutral mask, giving a curt nod. "Fine. Just sizing up the security risk this place poses."

*Smooth, asshole. Real smooth.*

She rolls her eyes but doesn't press. Instead, she takes my hand, her fingers soft and warm against my palm, and gently places it on her rounded belly. I stiffen, caught off-guard by the sudden intimacy of the gesture. "Feel," she murmurs, holding a palm flat against her stomach. "He's been active today. Kicking up a storm."

For a moment, there's nothing. Then... a flutter. A tiny thump against my hand.

I inhale sharply, my eyes flying to hers. She's watching me, a soft smile playing at the corner of her mouth.

"There he is," she murmurs. "Saying hello to his daddy."

*Fuck. I'm going to be a father...*

It hits me then, really hits me, that this is real. That beneath my hand, beneath her soft skin and fragile bones, my child grows. My son. My heir.

Something primal unfolds in my chest, fierce and territorial. This woman, this tiny slip of a human, carries my legacy in her womb. And for now at least, that makes her mine to protect.

I can't let anything happen to the kid. To either of them.

Gritting my teeth against the unfamiliar swell of emotion, I ease my hand away from her belly, wanting to create as much distance between myself and whatever this feeling is.

"Be careful with the heavy lifting," I mutter, nodding towards a stack of books teetering by the door. "Don't strain yourself. Kid needs you in one piece."

She blinks, something like surprise or disappointment flashing across her face. But it's gone in an instant, replaced by a wry quirk of her lips.

"Aye, aye, captain," she drawls, sketching a mocking salute. "Anything else? You want me to wrap myself in bubble wrap and live in a padded room till D-Day?"

I snort, shaking my head. "Smartass. Just...take care of yourself, alright? No unnecessary risks."

*The baby needs you. *

...

*I need you.*

But I don't say that. I can't. It's too much, too soon, too...real.

Instead, I nod, stepping back to put some much needed space between us. "I'll take the first watch," I say gruffly, jerking my chin towards the futon. "Get some rest. We have a long road ahead of us." *In more ways than one.*

She holds my gaze for a long, charged moment, something unreadable flickering in her eyes. Then she nods, padding over to the bed and sinking down with a sigh.

As she settles in, one hand curled protectively over her stomach, I can't help but wonder...

*What the hell have I gotten myself into?*