The Alpha's Blood-Stained mate

The air in the fighting pit was thick with the smell of wet dirt, sweat, and blood. It was freezing cold, and every breath I took came out as a white cloud. Around the edges of the pit, hundreds of werewolves from the Iron Claw pack were screaming, their voices echoing off the stone walls. They wanted to see someone get hurt. I stood in the middle of the mud, trying to keep my breathing steady. My hands were wrapped in dirty grey cloth, and my knuckles were already bruised from the three fights I had won earlier that day. I didn't look at the crowd. I didn't look at the betting stalls. I only looked at the man standing across from me. His name was Jaxen. He was huge—at least a head taller than me and twice as wide. He was an Alpha-descendant, which meant he had the kind of raw power that most wolves were born to fear. He looked at me like I was a bug he was about to step on. "You should have stayed in whatever hole you crawled out of, little girl," Jaxen said. His voice was deep and loud, meant to intimidate me. He bared his teeth, showing off sharp canines that were already beginning to lengthen as his wolf pushed to the surface. I didn't say a word. I couldn't risk it. If I spoke, he might recognize the way I talked—the way a noble from the Silver Moon pack talked. If I shifted into my wolf form, the fight would be over instantly, but everyone would see my white fur. White fur meant I was the daughter of the "traitor" Alpha they had killed five years ago. I was here as a ghost. I was "Nyx," a nameless rogue who wanted a job as a guard. That was the only way to get close to the man I wanted to kill. I glanced up at the high balcony that overlooked the pit. Alpha Kaelen Vane sat there. He was the man who had executed my father. He was the reason I was an orphan. He sat perfectly still, his dark hair pushed back, his eyes cold and bored. He was watching the fight like it was a chore. He didn't know that the girl he thought he’d killed five years ago was standing right below him, covered in mud. The horn blew, signaling the start of the final round. Jaxen moved faster than I expected. He lunged at me, his claws cutting through the air. I ducked and rolled through the mud, barely missing his strike. I had to be careful. I couldn't use the high-level fighting moves my father had taught me. I had to fight like a common street dog. Jaxen turned and swung a heavy fist. It caught me right in the ribs. I heard a loud crack, and the air was knocked out of my lungs. I flew backward and hit the stone wall hard. My vision blurred, and the taste of blood filled my mouth. "Is that all you've got?" Jaxen mocked. The crowd laughed and cheered. I struggled to my feet, clutching my side. It hurt to breathe, but I couldn't stop. I needed to get him to come closer. I needed him to think I was finished. I leaned against the wall, acting like I couldn't stand up. My hand went to the waistband of my pants, feeling for the small, sharp object I had hidden there. It was a tiny needle tipped with silver. For a werewolf, silver is like poison. Even a small amount can cause intense pain and temporary paralysis if it hits the right spot. Jaxen walked toward me slowly, enjoying the moment. He thought I was trapped. He reached out and grabbed me by the throat, lifting me off the ground. My feet dangled in the air, and I struggled to breathe as his fingers squeezed my windpipe. "You're pathetic," he hissed. "You thought a little thing like you could be a Sentinel? I'm going to break your neck and throw you to the dogs." This was my only chance. I didn't fight his grip. I let my body go limp, pretending I was passing out. Jaxen’s grip loosened just a little bit because he thought he had already won. He was arrogant, and that was his mistake. With a sudden burst of energy, I kicked off his chest and used my free hand to drive the silver needle into the base of his neck, right where the spine meets the skull. Jaxen made a strange, choking sound. The silver hit his nerves like a bolt of electricity. His entire body went stiff, and his eyes rolled back. His muscles stopped working, and he dropped me as he fell forward. He hit the mud with a heavy thud and didn't move. The entire arena went dead silent. It didn't look like a great feat of strength. It looked like he had just collapsed for no reason. The crowd didn't know what to do. They didn't see the needle. They just saw a small, dirty rogue standing over a fallen Alpha. I stood there, shaking, trying to catch my breath. My ribs felt like they were on fire, and my heart was pounding so hard it hurt. I wiped the blood from my mouth and looked up. I didn't look at the referee. I didn't look at the confused crowd. I looked straight at Kaelen Vane on the balcony. Kaelen was no longer sitting down. He was standing at the very edge of the railing, his hands gripping the stone so hard it was starting to crack. He wasn't looking at Jaxen. He was looking at my right shoulder. During the fight, Jaxen had ripped my shirt. The fabric was torn away, leaving my shoulder bare. Right there, on my pale skin, was a jagged, star-shaped scar. It was a scar I had carried for five years. Kaelen had given it to me with his own dagger the night he hunted me through the woods. The air between us seemed to hum, a tether of pure, electric tension stretching across the Pit. For the first time in five years, the Butcher wasn't bored. He looked like a man who had just seen a ghost walk out of the grave. His hand reached for the obsidian microphone at the edge of the railing. His voice didn't boom; it was a low, that cut through the noise of the arena like a razor. "The trial is over," Kaelen announced. He didn't declare me the winner. He didn't congratulate me. He kept his eyes locked onto mine, his pupils blown so wide his eyes looked like twin voids of black ink. "Bring the rogue to my private chambers," he commanded, his voice trembling with a dark, dangerous edge. "Now." The Sentinels moved instantly, closing in on me like a wall of steel. I didn't resist. As they gripped my arms, I kept my eyes on Kaelen.