The Alpha Under The Mistletoe

Maeve's POV. I was checking the locks on the goat pen when my phone buzzed in my pocket for the fourth time that evening. I didn’t need to look at the screen to know who it was. My twin. Always her. I pulled the phone out, stared at the cracked screen, and then switched it off. I didn’t have the patience for whatever she wanted. Apologies, explanations, guilt...none of it mattered anymore. I had built a life far away from all of that. Far away from packs, titles, lies, and the man who let her stand in the spot that was supposed to be mine. I hung the metal latch and stepped back, brushing dust off my hands. My animals were fed, watered, quiet. Everything in order. I was about to head back to the cabin when I heard something strange. A sharp, heavy thud. Then another. Not something falling from a tree. Not a cow kicking something. Not the sound of a fox trying to break into my feed shed. This sounded like someone dropping their whole body on the ground, hard. I froze, every sense alert. I didn’t panic. I didn’t rush. Living out here alone had taught me to stay calm. I reached into the shed and grabbed the long flashlight I kept for “self-defense first, lighting second.” My grip tightened automatically around the cold metal. The sound came again...faint but close. Too close. I followed it, taking slow steps toward the line of trees behind the old water tank. My boots pressed quietly into the ground. My breath stayed steady. My heart wasn’t racing. I’d had worse things happen to me than whatever was waiting up ahead. When I stepped between the trees, the light from the flashlight caught something on the ground. A hand. A man’s hand. My chest tightened, not with fear but with that instinct I had learned to stop listening to. I stepped closer, and the beam of light revealed his whole body. A man lay on the ground, half on his stomach, half on his side, breathing in short, broken gasps. His clothes were torn in too many places to count...shirt ripped, jeans shredded like he had been dragged against something rough. Blood covered the entire left side of his chest, soaking down to his waist. His hair stuck to his face, damp with sweat and blood. But what stopped me cold was his arm. His right arm was almost torn out of its socket. The skin around the shoulder was ripped open, jagged and uneven like claws had gripped him and tried to tear the limb clean off. Bone was visible beneath shredded muscle. His hand twitched weakly against the dirt. No ordinary wolf did that. No ordinary fight. He groaned softly, his head moving a little. Pain carved deep lines across his forehead. His breathing was shallow, too fast, like he was fighting just to stay awake. I crouched beside him, shining the light on his wounds. “Hey. Can you hear me?” His eyes opened weakly. They didn’t focus at first, sliding past me like his brain couldn’t catch up. After a few seconds, they locked onto mine. Dark. Glassy. Full of pain. He tried to speak, but only a harsh breath came out. His hand twitched again, reaching up like he wanted to touch something but couldn’t. “Don’t move,” I said, pressing my palm gently on his good shoulder. “You’re badly hurt.” He swallowed. His throat clicked audibly. Then he managed to say one word, barely formed but clear enough: “Help…” That word pulled something sharp inside my chest. I shouldn’t have cared. This wasn’t my problem. This wasn’t my world anymore. I had worked too hard to stay away from anything involving wolves, packs, ranks, and politics. Helping him could drag me right back into the mess I ran from. But if I left him here, he was done. He didn’t have hours. He had minutes. His arm moved again, shaking uncontrollably. The sight of that nearly detached limb made my stomach tighten...not out of disgust but out of the knowledge that he must be in pain beyond anything I could imagine. Yet his jaw stayed clenched, teeth grinding like he refused to scream. Whoever did this to him tried to end him. Not scare him. Not warn him. End him. I touched the wound beside his ribs, checking the depth. The blood was still warm but pooling slow, meaning he was losing strength fast. Parts of his skin looked like they had been hit with something that blocked healing. “You’re a werewolf,” I said quietly. His right eye twitched, like he tried to nod. “And you’re not healing,” I added. His breath hitched. “Trap… drugged…” That explained it. I ran my fingers lightly along the wound on his arm. “If I don’t fix this shoulder right now, you’ll lose the arm.” His jaw tightened again. “Do it.” “You don’t even know me.” His eyes locked onto mine again, this time with a raw kind of desperation. “Do it.” I sucked in a slow breath and glanced back toward my cabin. It wasn’t far. But dragging him would be hell. And moving him wrong could finish the job his attackers started. “You’re heavy,” I muttered, even though he clearly wasn’t listening. He tried to shift again, but his head dropped back with a pained gasp. His whole body trembled. His fingers dug weakly into the dirt like he was trying to anchor himself to consciousness. I had no choice. I slid my arms under him...carefully, avoiding the destroyed shoulder...and pulled him up into a sitting position. He groaned, low and rough, the sound tearing through his throat. “Stay with me,” I said. “Don’t pass out yet.” He blinked slowly, his head falling against my shoulder for a moment. His breath brushed my collarbone...ragged, uneven, struggling. I got both his arms over mine and pulled him upright. He was dead weight, but I forced his legs to stand with him. It took everything I had to keep us both from hitting the ground again. He was starting to fade. I slapped his cheek...not too hard, just enough. “Hey. Look at me.” His eyes opened halfway. “That’s it,” I muttered. “Stay awake.” Dragging him across the yard felt like dragging a boulder soaked in blood. His legs barely moved. His head kept dropping forward, chin hitting his chest. Several times, his knees buckled and I had to tighten my grip and push harder. By the time we reached my cabin, he was shaking so badly I thought he’d go into shock. I shoved the door open with my foot and half-pulled, half-lifted him inside. I laid him on the floor first, then dragged him onto the old wooden table I used for butchering meat. This was the only surface strong enough and high enough for what I was about to do. He gasped as his back touched the table, his body curling slightly from the pain. His broken arm hung at an awkward angle. I grabbed scissors and cut his torn shirt off. His chest rose and fell rapidly, each breath shallow. His skin looked pale under the blood. The shoulder wound was worse up close. The muscle was torn apart. The bone looked displaced, popped out of socket. One wrong move… He’d lose the arm entirely. “I need to stitch this before you bleed out,” I said, grabbing thread...strong, thick, the kind I used on animals...and a curved needle. He didn’t respond. His eyes were half closed, barely tracking me. “Hey,” I said again, tapping his cheek. “Stay awake.” He forced his eyes to open a little wider. “You’re going to feel this,” I warned. His jaw tightened. “Do it.” I poured alcohol over the wound. He didn’t scream, but his whole body jerked. Not violently...more like every muscle tightened at once. His breathing grew faster. I positioned the needle at the largest tear and pushed it through the skin and muscle. His teeth clenched so hard I heard them grind. Sweat rolled down his temple. His hand grabbed the edge of the table, gripping hard enough that his knuckles turned white. I kept stitching. Tight, careful, steady. His breath shook each time the needle went through. At one point his head fell back and his eyes rolled...but he forced them open again. “Good,” I murmured. “Stay with me. I’m almost done.” He made a sound...more a groan than a word...but it meant he heard me. When I finished stitching the main tear, I wrapped the shoulder, holding the arm in place so the bone wouldn’t slip further out. He was fading fast now. His eyes fluttered. His lips parted slightly, breath slowing. “Hey...no,” I snapped, grabbing his chin and lifting his face toward me. “Not yet. Don’t you dare pass out. I need you awake until I fix your ribs.” He blinked weakly, trying to focus. “You saved me,” he murmured...so quiet I almost thought I imagined it. I ignored the words. I needed him alive, not grateful. “You’re not saved yet,” I said, reaching for more gauze. “But you will be if you stay awake.” His eyelids drooped again. I slapped his cheek lightly. “Stay awake!” His eyes shot open for a second, pain blazing through them. I leaned over him, my voice firm and sharp: “You are not dying on my table. You hear me?” His fingers twitched once, like he was trying to answer. And then…he passed out.