THE ALPHA'S KILLER TURN LOVER

ZARA I've been waiting for this moment for four years, the culmination of endless nights haunted by the screams of my parents as they died in the village square. The wicked Alpha Dante Dominic, with his cruel eyes and iron grip on our pack, had ordered their execution for daring to question his rule. I was just a child then, hidden in the shadows, watching as life drained from their faces. Now, at twenty-two, I stand in the darkness of his bedroom, the knife heavy in my hand. Tonight, the pain ends. Tonight, I avenge them and find peace. The room is pitch black, the kind of darkness that swallows everything, even my resolve. I hover over the sleeping alpha, poised to take his life like he took my family's own. But I want to see his face one last time, to watch the surprise dance in his eyes as I slice through his throat. My fingers fumble in my pocket for the pen torch in the secret pouch of my pants. I click it on, a thin beam illuminates the sleeping face of the alpha. I lean in, knife poised, about to take my enemies' life. My breath hitches and freezes. This isn't Dante Dominic. The man before me is young, his features soft and handsome in sleep. He's got a strong jaw, tousled dark hair, lips curved in a gentle dream. My heart stutters. I frown, confused. This is not wicked Dante! This is the guy from the farm this morning, the one who approached me while I was plucking apples in the farm belonging to the Dominic family. He smiled, his eyes warm like summer sun, and asked, "What's a pretty angel like you doing out here in the mud?" I'd blushed, unable to reply because a lump had suddenly wedged itself in my throat and I was feeling all sorts of funny feelings. Also, I'm unused to kindness in this brutal world. I had muttered something about needing the work and he had given me the brightest, finest smile that made me pause for a few seconds. In another life, he could ask me to be his . . . girlfriend. And I would jump into his arms. He is that good looking. But here, in this moment, horror floods me. I almost killed the wrong person. I gasp, the sound loud in the silence of the bedroom, and frown as I lean back. Confusion swirls in my head, mixed with tumultuous guilt that I almost made a costly mistake. What happened? Why is he here? Where's Dante Dominic? I studied the layout, the guards' patterns, everything pointed to this room being Dante's private quarters. Shaking, I start to creep away from the bed, my boots silent on the wooden bed frame. I can't stay here. I need to regroup, find the real target. But as I move, he stirs and I freeze again. A soft mumble escapes his lips, his eyes fluttering beneath closed lids. He looks so innocent, so sweet in his slumber, like a man lost in a pleasant world far from our world's harsh realities. That feeling hits me again, the one from this morning. A terribly sweet turning in my belly, warm and unfamiliar, spreading like honey through my veins when he spoke to me. It's attraction, pure and unwanted, pulling at me despite the danger. What is this feeling? Startled by the intensity, my foot catches on the edge of the bedframe. I stumble forward, arms flailing. If I fall like this, I'll land right on him, my weight crashing down and jolting him awake. Panic blasts through my head. If he wakes, he'll see me, the intruder with a knife, and everything will crumble. He won't see the "pretty angel" anymore; he'll see an ugly killer. He'll call the guards, hand me over to the police, or worse, drag me to the pack's dungeons. Those cold, forgotten cells where my parents' allies rotted away, dying in obscurity. I can't end up like that. Not when revenge is so close. In desperation, the knife slips from my grasp. It lands on its sharp point, softly and stays there. I throw both hands out to catch myself on the mattress edge. The bed creaks under the pressure, protesting my weight. The sleeping handsome man mutters again in his sleep, something incoherent but thick with contentment. He smiles in his sleep, his eyes fluttering as if chasing a beautiful dream. That sweet feeling rushes through me again, and it is fiercer this time. It starts in my belly, climbs up my spine like a shiver of electricity, then dives back down, pooling in my groins with a heat that makes me tremble. I hate this pull toward him, this betrayal of my purpose. Terror mingles with it, my body shaking as I hover there, inches from his face. His eyes flutter once more, and this time, I'm certain he's waking. The lids part slightly, a sliver of awareness creeping in. No time left. I push off the bed with all my strength, jumping clear and landing softly on the thick shag rug beside it. My heart pounds like a war drum as I bolt for the door, slipping through just as the security alarms blare to life. The sound of the alarm is shrill and accusing, piercing the night. I race down the hallway, my mind a whirlwind. How did the alarms trigger? Did I trip a sensor on my way out? No matter . . . I need to get away, melt into the shadows of the estate. The farm isn't far; I can hide there until dawn, then think of my next line of action. But as I duck into a side passage, a horrible realization strikes me like a thunderbolt: the knife! I left my knife behind, sticking out of the floor near the bed where it fell. My custom blade, engraved with my initials, ZM, from a foolish youthful whim. If he finds it, if anyone does, it'll lead straight back to me. I freeze in the darkness, my breath ragged. Four years of planning and training with the Loveless Cult, of scraping by as a farmhand all over the territory, and now it's going to unravel because of a mistake. Because of him.