Chapter 28: Survival of the Fittest: Toddler Edition

Chapter 28: Chapter 28: Survival of the Fittest: Toddler Edition

The elevator doors slid open, depositing the five of them into the hotel restaurant like a delivery of emotionally damaged cargo. The restaurant manager—a man who had clearly been trained to handle wealthy, intimidating guests—greeted them with a smile so practiced it could have been printed by a machine.

"Right this way, Gentlemen."

He led them through the main dining area, past tables of humans who had no idea they were sharing airspace with werewolf, and stopped in front of a private room with doors that looked heavy enough to withstand a small explosion.

The manager opened the door.

And there they were.

Two men sat at a large table that could have seated twelve.

One of them—a man with semi-long brown hair—was eating with the focused determination of a competitive eater who had discovered that the prize was more food. No fewer than ten plates were stacked around him like a monument to his appetite. A laptop sat open beside him, documents scattered around it like the aftermath of a paper hurricane. He had clearly been working before his meal, but had apparently decided that paperwork could wait, but steak could not.

On the other side of the table sat the man they were actually here to see.

His dark hair was impeccably styled. A pair of glasses sat on his sharp nose, giving him a sophisticated, almost scholarly appearance—which was about as misleading as putting a bow tie on a great white shark. In front of him sat a single cup of coffee, untouched and probably cold. His fingers moved across a tablet with precise, unhurried motions, typing something that was likely either a treaty negotiation or a list of ways to emotionally destroy his nephews.

His face was a masterpiece of sharp angles and aristocratic features, bearing a striking resemblance to the triplets. But where Caelus was cold, this man was a frozen tundra. Where Caelian was charming, this man looked like he could filet you with a single glance. And where Caesar was loud and vibrant, this man was silent judgment made flesh.

The glasses he wore did nothing to hide the ice in his eyes. They merely softened the blow by about 5%, which was still not enough to prevent small children from bursting into tears upon meeting his gaze.

Kyler Blackwood.

Twenty-nine years old. Six years older than his nephews. And somehow managing to look like he could be their disapproving father despite the minimal age gap.

Caelus stepped forward first, offering a respectful nod.

"Uncle Kyler. Apologies for the wait."

He took his seat with the precision of a man who had practiced sitting down in a mirror.

Caelian followed, flashing his signature smile—the one that usually made women swoon and men question their life choices.

"Uncle! It’s been almost a month! You’re still as busy as ever, I see. Working through meals? That’s a rookie habit. Even I take breaks to stare dramatically out of windows. You should take a break sometime. Maybe try a hobby. I hear knitting is very relaxing."

Caesar shuffled in last, slumping into the seat next to Caelian. He looked like a golden retriever who had just been told there were no more tennis balls in the universe.

"Uncle Kyler."

He said nothing else.

No jokes. No complaints. No demands for food.

Just a single, hollow greeting that hung in the air like a deflated balloon.

The effect was immediate.

Kyler, who hadn’t even looked up when they entered—who had been treating their presence like background noise—finally paused his typing.

His gaze lifted from the tablet.

And landed on Caesar.

The brown-haired man also stopped mid-chew, his fork frozen halfway to his mouth as he stared at Caesar with wide eyes.

Oliver and Noah, who had already greeted Kyler with a respectful "Alpha Kyler" before sitting near their alphas, also turned to stare at Caesar.

Even the stacked plates seemed to judge him silently.

Only Caelian and Caelus did not look at their brother.

Because they knew.

They knew exactly why Caesar was like this.

And they were absolutely not going to explain it.

Kyler’s eyes narrowed behind his glasses.

"...Caesar."

The name was spoken like a diagnosis.

"You look like you’ve been hit by a truck. A truck that reversed and hit you again. For good measure."

The brown-haired man finally swallowed his food and pointed his fork at Caesar accusingly.

"I’ve never seen him this quiet. Not even when he broke his leg at that cliff-jumping competition and refused to admit it hurt. What happened to him? Did someone finally replace his testosterone with decaf?"

The usual Caesar—the one who could wrestle a bear for sport and then ask for seconds—would have already snapped his head toward Wilson like a cobra sensing prey. He would have glared at Kyler’s beta with enough heat to melt steel and fired back a retort.

But this Caesar?

This Caesar just sighed.

A long, defeated, soul-weary sigh that seemed to escape from the very depths of his being.

"...But testosterone isn’t soft..."

He muttered it under his breath, his eyes glazing over as if he were staring into the void and finding it uncomfortably familiar.

Wilson froze.

His fork hovered mid-air, a piece of braised pork dangling from it like a question mark.

"...???"

He blinked. Once. Twice. Then a third time, as if hoping the world would reset and Caesar’s words would make sense in the next loading screen.

They did not.

Testosterone isn’t soft.

Was that... a philosophical statement? A scientific observation? A cry for help?

The more he tried to make sense of it, the more his neurons seemed to file for divorce and move to separate countries.

Caelus, ever the master of strategic redirection, picked up the menu with the calm of a man defusing a bomb he had definitely seen coming. He pointed at a few items, spoke to the manager in a low voice, and then—without missing a beat—tried to steer the conversation away from his brother’s mental breakdown.

"He’s just hungry. Ignore him."

Wilson, grateful for an explanation he could actually understand, shrugged and went back to his food.

"Ah, I see. That makes sense. Hunger does strange things to people. Well then, Alpha Caesar, just order quickly. This restaurant is most famous for its Asian cuisine—especially Chinese and Japanese dishes. The dim sum here is incredible. Perhaps you would like a meat bun? Or some congee? Those can be served immediately, and I find that warm, soft food is very comforting when one is feeling—"

"NO. NOT A MEAT BUN. ABSOLUTELY NOT. I FORBID THE MEAT BUN. BAN THE MEAT BUN. ERASE THE MEAT BUN FROM THE MENU. FROM EXISTENCE. FROM MY MEMORY."

Caesar shot up from his seat like he’d been electrocuted, both hands slamming onto the table. Plates rattled. Glasses wobbled. Wilson’s braised pork fell off his fork in tragic slow motion.

Everyone stared.

The manager stared.

Even Kyler—Kyler—raised an eyebrow by a single, imperceptible millimeter.

Caelus, without missing a beat, subtly gestured for the manager to leave the room while ordering anything that wasn’t round, warm, or bread-like for Caesar. The manager nodded frantically and practically sprinted out the door.

Silence fell.

Caesar slumped in his chair, staring at the tablecloth like it held the secrets of the universe.

"...How could I possibly eat a meat bun?"

He whispered to himself, voice trembling.

"A big... soft... warm... meat bun..."

"...??????????"

Oliver and Noah exchanged glances that communicated an entire conversation in two seconds.

Is our alpha okay?

No.

Should we call a healer?

A priest, maybe.

Wilson looked around the table desperately, his eyes landing on each triplet in turn.

The confusion on his face was so profound that it had circled back around to looking philosophical.

Caelian’s mouth twitched. He looked like a man who was simultaneously trying not to laugh, not to cry, and not to strangle his own brother.

Because how could he explain it?

How could he explain that yesterday, when they were about to kidnap Azura, she had traumatized his brother by hugging him with her bare breasts and calling them meat bun?

How could he possibly explain that Caesar now associated pork buns with chest trauma?

He couldn’t.

Wilson, still lost, turned to Kyler with the desperate look of a man drowning in confusion.

"Uuhh... Alpha..." He pointed his fork—now empty and mournful—at Caesar. "Your nephew seems to have developed... a complicated relationship with meat buns."

Kyler did not respond.

He simply picked up his coffee cup, took a slow, deliberate sip, and stared at Caesar with an expression that could only be described as: I have raised three idiots and I am too young for this.

The thing about Kyler Blackwood was that he wasn’t just their uncle by blood.

He was their uncle by grueling, sleepless, life-ruining dedication.

Because when the triplets were born, their father—Kyler’s older brother—had nearly shattered completely. The moment his Luna died, something inside him cracked. Alpha madness clawed at his mind like a beast trying to break free. He couldn’t hold his own children without his hands trembling with barely suppressed rage. He couldn’t hear them cry without his wolf howling to destroy something.

So he did the only thing a good father could do.

He stayed away.

He didn’t take his own life—though the thought had certainly crossed his mind in those dark, hollow months. Instead, he threw himself into work. Into expanding the pack. Into making the territory so vast and strong that his children would never have to fear anything.

Even if he couldn’t hold them, he could build for them.

And so, the triplets were raised by their grandmother.

And by Kyler.

A child himself.

Kyler had been barely old enough to tie his own shoes when he found himself responsible for three crying, teething, chaos-driven wolf pups. He changed their diapers with the same expression he now used to sign death warrants. He fed them bottles while simultaneously finishing his homework. He taught them how to shift, how to fight, how to survive.

And he did it terribly.

Because while Wilson—not just his long-suffering beta, but also his childhood friend and the only reason the triplets survived infancy—was gentle and patient, Kyler raised them like they were training for a military coup at age four.

"Eat faster or I’ll make you run laps."

"Cry again and we’re doing tactical drills."

"You want a bedtime story? Fine. Here’s Sun Tzu’s The Art of War. Chapter one. Stop crying or I’ll assign a quiz."

The triplets had nightmares.

Not from monsters.

From uncle’s boot camp flashbacks.

Even when Kyler turned eighteen and moved into the Alpha Academy dorms, he still came home every weekend. Every holiday. Every time Caelian called crying because Caesar had eaten the snack gifts his fangirls had given him, or Caesar called crying because Caelus had stared at him too sternly, or Caelus called—silent on the line for thirty seconds—before hanging up, which Kyler somehow understood as "I miss you, please come home."

They were inseparable.

Until Kyler inherited his mother’s pack and left Midnight Hollow Pack.

Then the visits became rare. The calls shortened. The triplets grew up—taller, stronger, Alphas in their own right.

So now, sitting across from them in a restaurant that smelled like soy sauce and sesame oil, Kyler looked at the three of them like he was still trying to figure out where the time had gone.

He turned to Caelus.

Flat face. Flat tone. Flat everything.

"Your father told me a few days ago that you’d also be coming to this city. Not for business. Not for pack matters. But to pick up your stepsister from the Crimson Crest Pack. So, is he like that..."

With the deadpan delivery of a man who had seen too much in his twenty-nine years, he pointed at Caesar—who was still muttering about meat buns under his breath like a traumatized war veteran.

"...and is the reason you want to meet and discuss something related to this stepsister of yours?"

He didn’t blink.

"And before you answer—know that I have changed your diapers, taught you how to walk, and once threatened to sell you to a traveling circus when you were seven. So I will know if you’re lying."