The Alpha's Siphon

CHAPTER ONE

Zia

Alpha Harlen is going to break my wrists.

That’s my first thought when his hands clamp tightly around them too desperately.

I don’t pull away.

“Please, don’t move,” I tell him. If he spikes now, before I get a hold on it, this room won’t survive it. Neither will I.

His breathing is uneven. Eyes blown wide. I feel his wolf too close to the surface.

I’ve seen this same pattern thirty-seven times.

From thirty-seven wolves.

Thirty-seven storms I’ve taken into myself.

None of them remember me after their sessions.

“Look at me,” I say.

He doesn’t.

That’s fine. They rarely do. The rage barely let them.

I close my eyes instead.

Contact is the trigger.

The moment my skin settles against his, his Rage hits.

It slams so hard.

Heat floods through my arms into my chest, clawing for space in a body that was never built to hold this much of anything.

My breath stutters.

Harlen exhales, almost relieved.

Of course he is.

It’s leaving him.

It’s entering me.

This is what I am.

A Siphon.

Wolves aren’t made to carry Rage. It builds, rots, turns them into something violent. So they come to me, and I take it. I pull it out, compress it, lock it somewhere inside me where it can’t hurt anyone else.

That’s the idea.

The reality is, there is no “somewhere.”

There is just more.

Harlen’s Rage surges again, harder, like it’s fighting me.

My fingers twitch.

Oh no.

I tighten my grip on him, anchoring myself.

“Stay still,” I whisper.

The room tilts.

I focus on the technique Jonas drilled into me. To breathe, divide and contain.

So doing that, walls are built inside of me.

They rise inside me, thick and steady.

They feel like paper.

The Rage presses against them, heavy and relentless.

A flicker of his memory flashes in my eyes.

Sharp claws. Gory blood scenes. A scream cut short.

I gasp.

This is a lot.

I’m taking too much.

A Siphon who takes too much is a liability.

Jonas has strong opinions about liabilities.

“Stop fighting it,” I force out.

Harlen’s grip tightens painfully. His head jerks like something inside him is resisting.

“Take it,” he growls.

I am.

That’s the problem.

My vision blurs. The Rage keeps coming, wave after wave.

For one terrifying second, I don’t feel like a container.

I feel like a crack.

Like if I slip, everything I’ve ever taken will tear out of me at once.

Thirty-seven wolves.

Thirty-seven kinds of violence.

“Almost,” I breathe.

I drag the last of it out of him with a sharp inhale that burns all the way down.

And then—

Silence.

The Rage is gone from him.

It is not gone from me.

It settles heavy behind my ribs, pressing against walls that feel thinner than they did minutes ago.

Harlen leans back, rolling his neck like a man waking from a deep sleep. The gold is gone from his eyes. What’s left is something softer. Almost human.

He doesn’t look at me.

Of course he doesn’t.

They never do.

He stands, adjusts his sleeves, and walks out without a word.

The door clicks shut behind him.

I stare at it.

“A thank you would have been nice,” I say to the empty room, because I’ve learned it’s better to say things out loud than let them sit too long inside me. There isn’t much room left in here.

Thirty-seven sessions.

Zero thank yous.

I’d call that statistically interesting if anyone cared enough to collect the data.

My hands are still trembling.

That’s new.

I curl them into fists, press them into my thighs, and wait for the shaking to stop.

It doesn’t.

That’s also new.

Great.

The room Jonas keeps me in is clean. He likes to emphasize that.

Clean floors. Clean sheets. Clean air that smells faintly like antiseptic and something floral meant to make people believe they’re safe.

“You have a clean room, Zia,” he says whenever I make the mistake of suggesting that maybe clean isn’t the same thing as good.

I have a bed, a lamp, a mirror, and a window that looks out into the interior courtyard—which is a generous way of saying I have a view of another wall and a pigeon that keeps making poor life decisions.

From the other side of the door come the sounds of Jonas’s real patients.

Coughing. Murmured voices. Soft instrumental music that loops so often I can predict the next note before it plays.

I’ve never seen that room.

I’ve never been past the door at the end of the hall.

I’ve never been outside.

But I know what outside sounds like.

That counts for something. Probably.

Even unhurried footsteps echo on the stairs.

I’ve memorized Jonas’ footsteps.

He appears in the doorway, tablet in hand, expression already detached.

“Was Harlen satisfied?” I ask.

“Five-star review,” he says. “And a tip. It goes toward your maintenance.”

Maintenance.

I smile. After so much practice, it feels correct on my face.

He means the supplements. The injections. The physician who comes twice a month, checks my vitals, and pretends not to notice what I am.

Keeping me functional costs money.

Keeping me contained costs more.

“I need a longer gap before the next one,” I say. “My joints are weak. My hands aren’t steady.”

That last part is still true.

Jonas finally looks at me.

Not like an uncle who shows concern. Like an assessment.

“That’s actually relevant,” he says.

Something in my stomach tightens.

“I need two weeks,” I pressed further. “Minimum.”

“There won’t be another session.”

I blink.

That wasn’t what I expected.

“W—what do you mean?”

“There’s been a purchasing contract,” he continues, as if we’re discussing something about the weather. “A permanent one.”

The word lands wrong.

A bitter taste strikes my tongue.

I sit up straighter. I’m not sure when I started holding my breath.

“Someone wants to buy my contract?”

“Someone already has.”

There it is.

The thing I always knew would happen one day.

Assets get sold.

And I am—very clearly—an asset.

“Who?” I ask.

My voice is steady.

I’m proud of that.

Jonas hesitates.

It’s brief. Barely there. But I see it.

“Alpha Garrick.”

A wave of dizziness sweeps over my feet.

Alpha Garrick.

That’s the Butcher of the North.

Hearing his name takes the breath right out of me.

I know what he is.

Everyone does.

His territory at the edge of the world.

People disappear there.

And no, I do not mean that metaphorically.

“You’ll be relocated in forty-eight hours,” Jonas says. “Back to our world. Northern Territory.”

Forty-eight hours.

That’s not enough time to plan.

Neither is it enough time to think or—

“No,” I say.

The word slips out before I can stop it.

Jonas’s gaze sharpens in dismay.

“That wasn’t a question, Zia.”

My fingers curl into the fabric of my pants.

I force them to loosen.

“What does he want with me?” I ask instead.

“A long-term arrangement.”

That tells me nothing.

Which means it tells me everything.

I swallow.

My throat feels tight.

“Fine,” I say.

Because what else is there to say?

He nods, already moving on, already done with the conversation.

“Prepare yourself.”

Then he leaves.

The door closes.

The music outside continues, soft and calm and completely indifferent to the fact that my life just changed direction in a way that does not lead anywhere good.

I sat there for a long time.

Then the shaking comes back.

It got worse the longer I sat .

I press my hands to my ribs, like I can hold everything inside by force.

Thirty-seven storms.

And now I’m being sent to a man who probably won’t bother asking before he takes more.

A sound escapes me. I’m not sure if it’s a laugh or something breaking.

I slide off the bed and onto the floor because suddenly it feels safer down here.

Smaller.

Contained.

My breathing stutters.

I press my knees to my chest, wrapping my arms around my legs.

I drag in air anyway.

“Save me from this one,” I whisper, pressing my forehead to my knees.