Chapter 2: The Alpha’s Ultimatum
1197 Words
Rowan’s patience had limits. He felt each second of waiting like a wolf pacing inside his ribs, teeth bared.
The witch should have woken by now. He’d seen her chest rise, slow and shallow. Alive, but not quite there.
He lingered in the hall outside the holding room—his holding room, really. He’d claimed it years ago as a fallback for threats, spies, the occasional traitor. Now it stank of lavender and burnt sage, the trace of whatever wards she’d carried on her skin.
“She’s awake,” came Mac’s gravelly voice from inside, followed by Livia’s sharper tone. “Finally. For a moment, I thought we’d broken her.”
He didn’t care about their chatter. He’d given them orders: wake the witch, test her mettle, keep her alive if she showed sense. If not, well—wolves didn’t coddle their prey.
Rowan flexed his left arm, feeling the twinge where the scar ran rough from elbow to wrist. Old pain, familiar. A reminder of the price of leadership and the cost of letting witches too close.
He wondered, fleetingly, if she’d recognize the mark, but dismissed the thought. Witches came and went. Wolves endured.
He pushed open the door, letting the cold seep in. The small cabin was little more than a cage: logs stacked for walls, pelts and bones arranged in half-threat, half-ritual. He liked it that way. Let his enemies see what they’d become if they failed to play by his rules.
Inside, the witch blinked up at him from the floor. Young, too young to be the threat they’d found her to be—though beauty could be its own kind of weapon. Her hair was tangled and long, falling over one eye in a wild snarl; her skin was pale, jaw set in stubborn lines.
She clutched the blanket like a shield, but her gaze was defiant.
Rowan met her stare, expression unreadable. There was confusion in her eyes, a kind of raw vulnerability, but he didn’t care. He’d seen enough lost causes in his life. He wanted results, not explanations.
“You’re awake,” he said, voice low, each word measured. “Good. Saves us trouble.”
She was even prettier than he’d remembered in the moonlight, but he filed that thought away. Pretty things broke the fastest. He’d learned that the hard way.
He took a step closer, boots thudding on packed earth.
Her nose wrinkled as she took in the room. He watched her clock the details: the skulls, the unlit stove, the runes on the blanket. She was sharper than most. That was fine. It made the game more interesting.
“I’m going to be very clear, witch. You’re in my pack’s territory. You’re alive because I decided you might be useful. Don’t mistake that for mercy.”
He let the words hang, heavy and cold.
She arched a brow—snarky, even when cornered. “Useful, huh? Well, that’s an upgrade from ‘bleeding out in the forest.’ What’s the job? Wolf-sitting? Haunted house tours?”
Rowan’s lips almost twitched. The men behind her snickered, but Livia’s glare silenced them.
The witch’s sarcasm didn’t bother him. He admired it, even.
Still, he couldn’t let her set the tone. He circled slowly, eyes never leaving hers, his presence filling the small room. He let his aura—dominance, alpha power, the coiled threat of violence—settle over everyone present.
“You’re here because you’re going to help me—and in return, you might live to see another sunrise. It’s simple.”
She didn’t flinch. “Simple’s not my thing, but I’ll bite.
What do you want?”
He leaned down, letting the light catch the scar on his forearm—a ragged, half-healed memory of another witch, another time. He watched her eyes dart to it, but saw no recognition. Interesting. Maybe she was new to all this after all.
“You’ll pretend to be my mate. Publicly. Convincingly. Long enough for the pack council to believe it.”
He saw the confusion twist into something else—fear, anger, calculation. She was fast.
Good. He hated dealing with fools.
“And if I say no?” she asked, voice sharper than before.
Rowan let the question hang for a moment, just long enough for the chill to settle in her bones.
“Then we let my people decide your fate,” he said softly. “And they’re not nearly as polite as I am.”
He straightened, letting his height do some of the work. Every wolf in the room fell back a step, out of instinct if not respect.
He watched the witch weigh her options. She looked small wrapped in the old blanket, but she met his gaze with a defiance he recognized.
A survivor, then. Maybe something more.
He let his eyes linger a fraction longer on the curve of her jaw, the stubborn set of her mouth. Beautiful, dangerous, lost. Or maybe just a liar with good timing.
“Well. This is all terribly sudden,” she said, breaking the tension with a sly grin. “I don’t even know your star sign.”
Rowan’s lips twitched, just a hair’s breadth from a smile. “You’ll learn. Quickly.”
He turned, issuing a brief nod to his packmates. “She stays under watch until I say otherwise. No one lays a hand on her unless she tries to run.”
He felt Livia’s stare burning into his back as he left, but he didn’t care. Livia’s opinions were always loudest when she was afraid.
And she had reason to be afraid now.
Outside, the cold night closed around him, pine needles crunching underfoot. He breathed in the clean, wild scent of the woods, felt the weight of responsibility settle on his shoulders.
He flexed his left arm again, fingers tracing the edge of that old scar.
He’d gotten it defending the pack from a coven raid, years ago. A witch’s fire had burned to the bone. The pain had nearly broken him then. Now it was just another line in the ledger—a reminder to never let his guard down, not even with someone as lovely as the woman inside.
She was trouble. He knew that before he’d even seen her awake.
But if trouble was what it took to hold the pack together, he’d make her play her part.
He paused beneath the shadow of the pines, watching the moon slide through the branches.
For one fleeting second, he let himself imagine what it might be like—having a mate, someone who could match him, challenge him, keep him honest. But those were luxuries he’d never have.
Duty first. The pack first.
Everything else—desire, comfort, even hope—came after.
Rowan squared his shoulders and headed back toward the main lodge, his mind already whirring with contingency plans and threats to counter.
The witch would make her choice. She’d agree—or she’d die. That was the way of the world.
He would make sure the pack survived, no matter the cost.
Even if it meant letting a witch into the heart of the den.
- Writer
