The Alpha's Cursed Mate

Chapter One

Lyra POV

I woke up with the kind of peace people in fantasy books feel right before a demon crashes through the window.

Warm, cozy, snuggled in blankets like a human burrito. Zero thoughts. No anxiety gremlins tap-dancing on my chest.

Suspicious.

Deeply suspicious.

I stretched, rolled over, checked my phone, and—07:48 a.m.

My brain refused to process it.

Like, maybe if I blinked really hard, the numbers would magically rearrange into something that didn’t spell my doom.

They didn’t.

Seven. Forty. Eight.

Which is exactly forty-eight minutes later than I’m supposed to be awake.

I shot upright so fast my soul lagged behind.

I launched myself out of bed, tripping over my own feet, my blanket, and probably several ghosts out to get me. My hair looked like I’d been electrocuted in my sleep. My eyes had indentation lines from my pillow that made me look like I’d been mauled by a very organized cat.

I stumbled to the bathroom and flicked on the light.

And there she was.

Me.

If my life had one of those reality-show cutaway confessionals, this is where I’d stare directly into the camera like:

“Hi. I’m Lyra Hale. I’m twenty. I don’t know why the universe hates me, but at this point we’re in a long-term committed relationship.”

Then I’d shrug, because what else do you do when fate clowns you daily?

Back to my reflection.

I don’t look bad, just perpetually caught in a snowstorm. Dark hair that’s always a little wild, like it’s trying to escape my head. Eyes too sharp for a girl who can’t function before coffee. Pale skin courtesy of genetics and my war against the sun.

Kind of pretty, in a “main character who didn’t ask for the plot” way.

I splashed water on my face. It did nothing. My under-eyes still looked like I’d fought the moon in single combat.

I sprinted back to my closet, yanked the doors open, and began the sacred ritual of Choosing The Least Offensive Outfit While Actively Dying Inside.

I pulled on black jeans because they hide sins, consequences, and most food stains. A simple sweater that didn’t itch. Boots because winter hates me, and I hate it back.

While I got dressed, I kept catching glimpses of myself in the mirror—dark hair, winter-jacket vibe even indoors, a face that screams “I read too much but I’m also barely holding it together.”

Honestly? Fine.

Good enough.

Passable for surviving capitalism.

I grabbed my bag, which felt lighter than usual. Probably because I forgot half the things I need to be a functioning adult. Not fixing that now.

Phone. Keys. Sanity? Probably not.

I barreled toward the door, ready to sprint my way into the worst workday of my life, completely unaware that oversleeping was the least catastrophic thing that would happen today.

I bolted down the stairs of my apartment like gravity personally offended me. My boots weren’t even fully zipped, my bag kept slapping against my hip, and my hair decided frizz was its aesthetic for the day. I was too late to care.

Outside, the winter air punched me in the face like it had been waiting all night for the opportunity. The sidewalk was coated in ice, because of course it was. I did this weird half-walk half-skate thing toward the corner coffee shop while trying not to die.

Coffee first. Survival later.

I shoved inside, already digging for money, and the barista gave me the kind of look people reserve for raccoons rummaging through trash cans.

Fair.

I ordered my usual, grabbed the cup, and made it approximately four steps before the entire bottom of it gave out like a cardboard betrayal from hell. Scalding coffee splashed down my sweater, my jeans, my soul.

I just stood there. Steaming. Sizzling. Questioning every life choice.

The barista gasped. Some guy behind me snorted. I whispered, “I get it, universe. You win,” and fled before anyone could witness me spontaneously combust.

I power-walked to the bus stop, dripping, freezing, and smelling like a barista’s revenge. When the bus finally turned the corner, I waved frantically.

The driver made eye contact.

Slowed down.

And then… kept driving.

He didn’t even pretend to stop. Just cruised right by like I was an inconvenient mailbox.

I stared after it, stunned, my breath fogging in the air. “Cool,” I said to no one. “Totally deserved.”

By the time I hoofed it to work, I was half ice cube, half caffeine-scented tragedy. I burst into the office, trying to look normal, and was immediately greeted by the printer demon, also known as my coworker, who glanced at the coffee stains and said, “Rough morning?”

Then, without missing a beat, “Printer’s jammed again. It’s probably something you did.”

For legal reasons, I did not commit violence. But I thought about it.

I made it through the shift using pure spite and the hope that maybe, someday, karma would take pity on me. Spoiler: it would not.

Hours later, I trudged home with the emotional energy of a deflated balloon. My only consolation was the thought of crawling into bed and pretending the day never existed.

Instead, I opened my front door and walked straight into a horror movie I didn’t audition for.

My boyfriend—my now official ex-boyfriend—was very enthusiastically entangled with someone who had better hair than me. I froze in the doorway like my body blue-screened.

He scrambled. She scrambled. The room filled with excuses, apologies, nonsense. I heard none of it. I just turned around, walked to the bedroom, and started packing.

It wasn’t even a graceful pack. I threw things in the suitcase like I was trying to hex him through fabric. I cried, swore, wiped mascara streaks, and stuffed in random items that may or may not have belonged to him.

Pretty sure I took his favorite hoodie out of spite. Also maybe one sock.

When I finished, I zipped the suitcase so aggressively the zipper screamed.

And then I walked out into the snow, dragging my entire life behind me, breath shaking, heart cracked, mascara probably somewhere around my chin.

The cold stung, the wind howled, and there I was: twenty years old, freshly dumped, homeless for the night, cursed by the universe, and trudging through a blizzard like a dramatic protagonist in some supernatural romance I absolutely did not sign up for.

Not that I knew it yet.

But the universe wasn’t done with me.

Not even close.