Mated to the Cold-Blooded Alpha

The smell of rain-soaked pine always meant one thing: execution night. I pressed my back against the damp stone of the cellar wall, pulling my thin cotton shirt tighter around my chest. Below the heavy oak trapdoor above my head, heavy boots paced. "Bring her up," a voice growled. It was Alpha Hector. The sound of his voice alone made the scar across my ribs ache—a souvenir from the night his enforcers dragged me out of the outskirts and threw me into the Silverfang Pack’s lower compound. I wasn't a wolf. I was an Omega without a pack, a human stray caught on the border during the Blood Moon feast. For three months, they had kept me as a blood-mule, drawing a vial of my blood every week to suppress the madness that crept into their young warriors. The trapdoor flew open. Blinding golden light poured down the steep wooden steps, followed by two massive guards in leather armor. "Get up, blood-girl," one of them rasped, hauling me to my feet by my elbow. "Where are you taking me?" I asked, my voice dry as dust. "The Alpha sold you." My heart hammered against my ribs like a trapped bird. "Sold me? To who?" The guard chuckled, a low, cruel sound. "To the Shadow Ridge. Alpha Silas needs a new pet." Silas. The blood drained from my face. Everyone in the Eastern Territory knew that name. Silas Vance wasn't just an Alpha; he was the Lycan Lord of the northern mountains. Rumor had it his wolf was twice the size of a standard Alpha, born under a dead star, and completely untameable. They called him the Crimson Monarch because he never took prisoners—he took trophies. Before I could scream, a heavy iron chain snapped around my wrists, and I was dragged up into the blinding courtyard.