Bought a Wolf Pup at the Black Market, Found Out His Father Is Alpha King Chapter 02
Chapter 2 I’m Not His Mother
I named him Dylan.
Not because the name meant anything special.
It was because the street where I had woken up was called Dylan Street.
Two years ago, someone had found me lying in an alley, covered in wounds, with no memory.
All I had in my pocket was that bone pendant and a crumpled note that said, Survive.
The old woman who found me had said, You were probably some servant from a werewolf family who got beaten and dumped out here.
Because in this city, a human ranked lower than a stray mutt.
I believed her.
I didn’t have a better explanation.
Dylan—the pup I bought—took a full month before he let me touch him.
For the first two weeks, he hid under the couch.
I left out water and food, and he only came out after I walked away.
Whenever I showered, he’d quietly push the bathroom door open a crack just to check I was still inside.
If I disappeared from his sight for more than five minutes, he started breaking things.
He wasn’t throwing a tantrum.
He was panicking.
That snarling little beast I had seen in the black-market cage had really just been a terrified child.
By the third month, he finally agreed to sit at the table and eat with me, even if he wore a sour face the whole time and didn’t say a word.
“Eat the broccoli,” I said.
He stared at the green lump in his bowl like it was a grenade.
“No.”
“Yes.”
“You’re not even my real mom. Why do you get to tell me what to do?”
I froze for a second.
Then I smiled.
“Because I paid six hundred bucks to pull you out of that cage. You eating it or not?”
“…Tch.”
He picked up one broccoli floret, shoved it into his mouth, chewed twice, and swallowed with his whole face twisted up in misery.
I bit back a laugh and poured him a glass of water.
Later I found out that same day, he’d gone to kindergarten and bragged to the other kids, “My mom bought me for six hundred dollars. Beat that.”
When the teacher and the Wolf Pup Welfare League both called me, I nearly passed out on the spot.
That was how Dylan became my child.
He didn’t call me Mom.
But I was listed as his guardian.
And every night before bed, he locked his door from the inside like he was afraid I might throw him away in the middle of the night.
Still, he was my child.
I bought him yellow dinosaur pajamas, took him out for kids’ meals at fast-food places, and forced him to do one page of spelling homework a day.
On the little parent notebook from school, he always drew an angry face under Today’s Me.
But in the corner, he’d add one tiny line: Didn’t cause trouble today.
I figured he probably didn’t hate me that much after all.
