The Alpha's Contract Mate

Whispers in the Shadows

I don’t sleep that night, of course, I don’t. Who could when trapped in the gravitational pull of a nightmare made real? The storm outside rages until nearly dawn, though I’m not entirely convinced that the uneasy hush settling in afterward feels any better.

With bleary eyes, I stare at the contract once more, spread open on my dining table under the meager light. The legal language swirling across the page seems to mock me with its old-world formality. Every phrase speaks of power, possession, and an ancient oath that defies modern logic. Yet, the echo of that cryptic seal, two wolves howling beneath a blood-red moon, sends a primordial chill slithering through my spine.

Despite my scattered thoughts, I notice details I missed before: references to an unbroken lineage, clauses that mention property rights, and a vow that if I attempt to resist the union, the forfeit is even more severe. I rub my temples as my head pounds with the throbbing rhythm of dread, but I can’t look away.

At some point, sunlight slips through the blinds, thin, watery rays that barely brighten the cramped space. The sky is still clouded with the aftermath of the storm, and the air feels charged. I peel myself off the chair, limbs stiff from hours of tension, to make coffee. Steam rises in small curling tendrils from the mug, offering a fleeting sense of comfort.

-

As I sip, the swirl of half-forgotten stories and my own simmering terror collide. The contract repeatedly uses the phrase ‘rite of union.’ It suggests that this marriage is more than a legal bond; it’s a ritual, deeply rooted in werewolf customs. Normally, I’d dismiss it as archaic nonsense, but last night’s silhouette at my window, the ominous presence I felt, proves it’s all too real.

My mother used to scold me for poking at rumors, but ironically, I can’t afford to remain ignorant. I remember the old library downtown, a relic of times before these monstrous packs began skirting the edges of our society. If there’s anywhere I might find answers, it’s there among dusty tomes recounting half-hidden legends.

I hurry through a quick shower, adrenaline spurring me forward. My mind races, if I can learn more about this Alpha and the traditions he’s bound by, maybe there’s a loophole. Maybe there’s a wedge I can drive into this arrangement before I’m forced to face him on his terms. Dread mingles with a flicker of hope.

Yet, a niggling voice in my head warns that knowledge can be a double-edged sword. The more I uncover, the deeper I might sink into their world. But ignorance is a luxury I can’t afford. The unyielding vow laid out on that page demands a response, either I comply, or I find a way to break free before the next full moon.

With the contract folded and tucked away in my purse, I lock my apartment behind me, ignoring the uncanny silence in the corridor. Something in the air feels off. Or maybe I’m just paranoid. Either way, I sense invisible eyes tracking me as I step out into the murky morning light.

By the time I arrive at the library, a nondescript, weathered building that smells of musty parchment and old ink, the day has lost much of its drizzly haze, shifting to a subdued gloom. I find an isolated corner on the upper floor, pulling random volumes that mention werewolves, supernatural alliances, historical accounts of packs in these regions, anything that might shed a light on the Blackthorns.

The hush of the room is unsettling, each footstep or hushed whisper magnified in the silence. Sunlight filters in through tall windows, illuminating floating dust motes. I comb through archaic texts, my jaw tightening with every snippet about forced bonds, curses, and savage rites of passage. One name keeps resurfacing again and again: Blackthorn.

They’re ancient, one of the oldest families tied to these myths. Regarded as ruthless in their quest to maintain supremacy. Several books cite them as enforcers of old laws: “No mortal shall break faith with the House of Blackthorn without suffering grave consequences.”

A knot forms in my stomach. So it’s all true, then. Every dark whisper. Every rumor I heard in childhood. And here I am, waltzing right into the middle of it.

I linger on one particular passage: “Once the claim is made, blood is bound, and the chosen bride is sealed to the Alpha until the vow is completed.” Anxiety spikes in my chest. Reading about it is one thing, but I can practically feel the threat pulsating in every line. It’s not just talk. It’s tradition, older and darker than I realized.

A cough from the end of the aisle makes me jump so hard I nearly slam a dusty tome shut on my fingers. My heart thunders. My instincts clamor: Who’s there? Because in this context, every unexpected sound feels like an approach of doom.

Hastily, I gather the stack of books, but as I pivot, I freeze. A petite woman with dark hair stands there, her gaze flicking from the volumes I’m carrying to the anxious expression on my face. She offers a thin, knowing smile.

“You’re poking around the Blackthorns, huh?” Her voice is soft, careful. “Brave.”

My throat feels tight. “Excuse me?”

She’s probably around my age, slender, with an odd confidence I can’t place. She wears a sleek black jacket, unzipped enough to reveal a s***h of cleavage, somehow provocative without feeling trashy. But it’s her eyes that unnerve me: they glint with razor-sharp intensity.

“Word travels fast.” She steps closer, voice barely above a whisper. “When the Alpha chooses, people notice. People talk.”

I swallow hard, my pulse skipping. “I... I’m just researching.”

She gives a breathy laugh, glancing at the ancient tomes in my arms. “Digging for a loophole? A way out?” She arches a brow. “We all tried that, once.”

It takes a moment to register what she said. We all tried that. My stomach flips. “You mean...”

She shrugs, her dark hair falling across her cheek like a veil. “You think you’re the first mortal woman to find herself entangled in the Blackthorn’s domain? Please. The name’s Raven Cross, by the way.”

My breath catches. Raven Cross. My mind reels back to childhood memories, the same friend I’d fleetingly thought to contact. But Raven’s features are sharper than I remember, her posture more guarded, the vague hint of ferocity in her eyes.

“Raven,” I whisper. “We... didn’t we know each other when we were younger?”

She smirks, a flash of recognition in her gaze. “Sera Voss. I remember you. You were always the curious one.” Her eyes flick downward. “And here you are, playing with fire you don’t fully understand.”

The swirl of relief at seeing a familiar face is quickly doused by confusion and fear. “How… how did you even know I’d be here?”

Raven sighs. “The pack is thorough, Sera. They keep track of the bride. I’ve been asked to… keep an eye on you.” She holds up a hand before I can protest. “Doesn’t mean I’m on their side. Let’s just say I’ve learned a thing or two from walking the line between their rules and my own autonomy.”

A flush of anger reddens my cheeks. “You’re part of them?”

“Part of them, yet not,” she says cryptically. “Look, I get that you want answers. But be careful what you dig up. The Blackthorns’ claws run deep. They have eyes everywhere.” Her gaze slides to the exit. “I’m here to deliver a message, in fact.”

My heart trips. “What message?”

A tense silence stretches between us. Then, stepping closer, Raven leans in, her voice barely audible. “Your presence is expected this upcoming moon. You’ve seen the contract. They want you to be prepared. Or rather, they want you terrified.” She flicks a bitter smile. “It’s part of the game. The dance of fear and dominance.”

I clench my jaw. My mind races. “Why are you telling me this?”

“Because…” She hesitates, her eyes flickering with an unspoken emotion. “Because I think you might be the one who can change things. Or at least, force their hand in ways they’re not expecting.”

A tense shock moves through my body. Me? Change something? Before I can question her further, Raven holds up a finger to her lips in a silent plea for hush.

Someone passes at the other end of the aisle, and for a moment, my heart stutters with paranoia. But they disappear without so much as a glance in our direction.

Raven exhales. “We can’t talk here. Let’s just say if you want a real chance at escaping, or at least controlling the outcome, you’re going to need to learn more than what these books say. The pack’s secrets. The binding magic behind these marriages.”

She presses a small card into my hand. I glance at it: an address in a remote part of town, scrawled in swirling ink. “Come tonight,” she instructs. “Just after dusk. We’ll talk.”

My chest feels tight, fear and determination warring inside me. “How can I trust you?”

An ironic twist draws Raven’s lips up. “You can’t. But you won’t get the info you need anywhere else.” She steps back, then disappears down the aisle, her footsteps eerily silent for someone wearing heeled boots.

I stand there, trembling, the musty smell of old books surrounding me. My mind spins with everything that just happened, everything she implied. Trust no one. The pack is everywhere. Yet, Raven might be my best shot at understanding the labyrinth I’ve stumbled into.

I slink toward a reading nook, flipping through the final pages of a treatise on werewolf customs. The words are blunt, describing ritual ceremonies drenched in blood, dominance, and s****l power. My cheeks burn. It’s a far cry from anything I’ve known. A swirl of revulsion and illicit fascination churns in my stomach.

Closing the book, I reflect on Raven’s warning: Prepare to be terrified. My eyes fix on the library’s vaulted ceiling, thinking about how I can’t escape the inevitable.

-

Later that evening, I’m back in my apartment, pacing like a caged animal. Rain hasn’t returned, but the wind outside howls around corners, echoing my own anxiety. The slip of paper with Raven’s address is on the coffee table, taunting me with its significance. Part of me wants to ignore it, to run far from this city. But I remember the silhouette at my window. The subtle presence in every shadow. There’s no outrunning them.

Steeling myself, I decide to go. I gather my coat, stuffing the contract into its inner pocket. If there’s a solution, any desperate path that can spare me from total surrender, I need to find it.

I check my reflection in the mirror, eyes haunted, hair disheveled, breath unsteady. This is what fear looks like. But underneath it, a spark of grit remains. I will not go quietly.

An hour later, I’m navigating a deserted alley, heart pounding so loudly it’s all I can hear. The address Raven gave me leads to a rundown building with a single light glowing from the upper floor. My breath fogs in the chilled night air. The place reeks of damp concrete and stale secrets.

I slip through a creaking door, guided by flickering bulbs. At the top of a narrow stairwell, I see another door propped open by a wedge. My instincts shriek at me to turn around, to flee, but I ignore them.

Inside, the space is dimly lit by a single lamp. Shadows loom in the corners, and the hush is almost suffocating. A gust of wind rattles the broken windows, sending a shiver down my spine.

That’s when I sense another presence, a figure standing in the darkest part of the room. My pulse leaps into my throat. Is it Raven?

A low whisper slices through the quiet. “You’re in deeper than you think.”

My eyes strain to discern the speaker, adrenaline roaring in my ears. It’s not Raven. The timbre is different, deeper, masculine. Every nerve in my body vibrates with alarm.

I can’t see his face.

Before I can demand to know who he is, a sudden sound behind me makes me whirl around, heart lodging in my throat. The door slams shut with a resounding thud, echoing in the empty space. My breath stalls in my chest.

Trapped. Exposed. Helpless.

I try to swallow, but my throat is bone-dry. My mind screams with the realization that I might have walked right into a lair, stumbling foolishly into the werewolves’ domain. If this is some sort of trap, I may be too late to escape it.

My gaze snaps back to the silhouette in the corner, now stepping closer into a flicker of pale light. His presence thrums with quiet menace. I brace myself for anything, an attack, a supernatural confrontation, my heart drumming so loudly I barely hear his next words, low and measured:

“Careful, Seraphina Voss. You’ve no idea how treacherous these waters run.”

The air crackles around us, thick with unspoken threats and possibilities. My world tilts, and I’m left with just one resonating thought: I came seeking answers, and now, I might have found something far darker.