The Alpha's Fated Encounter

Prologue First there were the big lizards that roamed the Earth, inhabiting the skies and the waters. Their bodies adapted to the land, and they considered themselves at the top of the food chain. But the Goddess Vuna had already designated that position to other children of hers: a species that was even more terrifying than the massive lizards. This species was adaptable. Its members observed and learned, which made them dangerous. Unlike the lizards, this species was fast, strong, and cunning. They could think for themselves. When the God of Storms wiped out the lizards, Vuna protected her special creatures from the ice that shattered bones and teeth. She couldn’t save them all, though. In her grief, she created another species that would cause less chaos in the world: humans. Her remaining creatures studied these new predators and began to learn from them. They managed to take on the humans’ shape, but as they preferred their own link to nature, they chose to maintain both forms, a humanoid one and that of the wolf. The humans called these creatures “shifters” because of their ability to shift forms. To maintain a balance of power, Goddess Vuna gave some of her humans the gift of harnessing energy from nature. These humans were few; they formed covens and called themselves “witches.” But humans, unlike the large lizards, had a greedy nature, and the now shifters began to display the same traits. The shifters observed the humans fighting for land and power, and they began to do the same. Hence, the Great War began. The shifters banded together in different groups, and the wars decimated their numbers. These groups fought for territory and resources, and according to the history books, every day was a bloodbath. Peace was nothing more than a fantasy. The shifters enjoyed the violence to the point that they grew obsessed with it. With the creation of packs within the groups, they were now divided, and each pack fought to seize the mantle of apex predator. Then there came a day when humans outnumbered shifters. That was when the wolf shifters realized they were heading toward extinction due to their fighting. They noticed the divides among them, but the chasms were too large to be crossed. Pushing aside their innate instinct for violence and control, the shifters chose to deal with this matter with civility. They decided to exist as separate packs, with those on each continent establishing their own rules. The two continents bordered by the Atlantic and Pacific Oceans decided to create three Alliances that ruled these land masses. Three packs were chosen, one from each region, to lead their respective Alliance. The North Alliance, whose wolves had fur as black as charcoal. The Central Alliance, white wolves that hid so deep within the mountains that they remained elusive. And the South Alliance, with its wolves of brown fur. That was not to say that the Alliances remained peaceful. Conflicts still raged, but the leaders squashed them quickly and cruelly. Leaders came and went, chosen on the basis of power. Those who were strong reigned. But as the centuries passed, and the shifters pushed their boundaries, eyeing the territory of the others, Vuna became aware of the greed growing in the hearts of her beloved creatures once again. In her eyes, only the Central Alliance had stayed true to their vow and not gotten involved in any of the conflicts. Vuna gave them a gift, a gift no other Alliance knew about, not till the prophecy was revealed—a prophecy that would turn the tide, a prophecy that had the fate of the Alliances resting on the shoulders of one shifter alone. Chapter 1 Sophia Hope Getting punched in the face is never a fun experience. I can feel the sharp pain in my left cheekbone as my head swivels back from the force of the blow. Had I been human, the punch would have shattered the bone entirely. But being a wolf shifter has its perks. I can take a beating without sustaining long-lasting injuries. The sound of the spectators’ frenzied cheers as they lust after the violence taking place in the cage spurs me on. I’m used to these howls and screams for more savagery, more blood. I watch my opponent circle me, trying to read my next move. Sweat is glistening on both our bodies, glaring bruises a testament to how viciously we have fought. My face feels hot under the mask, trails of perspiration dripping down my neck to stain the dark tank top I’m wearing. As inconvenient as the mask is, it is the only way to hide my identity from the world. My opponent darts toward me, and I step to the side, my movement fluid. He has left himself vulnerable; I wrap my arm around his elbow, ready to dislocate his shoulder and throw him to the ground, when my eyes land on the man standing at the back of the room, in the shadows. He shakes his head at me, and I sigh internally before loosening my grip. That’s all my opponent needs to kick me in the stomach and make me go reeling. My back slams against the steel cage, and my opponent—a nasty piece of work—roars in triumph as the crowd howls at his apparent victory. Idiot. Scoffing under my mask, I pretend to be dazed as the fool thumps his chest like a gorilla, letting the fanatic audience pump him up. I wish I could say arrogance is a human affliction, but I know firsthand that wolf shifters are no different. If I didn’t have to drag out this match, I would have knocked this annoying jerk out cold four minutes ago when we started. But I’m supposed to let him rough me up plenty, so that the crowd goes wild—and then, in a fit of rage, I can knock him out and win. The Wily Vixen is known for her sudden victories, the flares of wrath; that’s why she’s such a favorite in this illegal, underground cage fighting ring. Whenever I’m scheduled to be in the cage, there’s an uptick in ticket sales. And that’s why Mathew Rivers sets matches for me two to three times a week. My presence is like sweet honey to the gamblers who wander this way when I’m fighting. I’m almost always a sure bet. Except for the days when I’m told to lose a match. My eyes flick to the timer above us. Two more minutes. I have to drag this out for two more minutes. Who said match fixing was easy? Today’s opponent, a hulking beast whose nickname is Mountain Man, is not an easy opponent, mostly because he likes to bite. It’s a signature move of his. He packs a punch, but he has a tendency to bite his opponents. “Claim them,” as he so eloquently puts it. It’s like fighting with an oversized toddler. I’m half tempted to break his teeth in. While I pretend to use the cage to get to my feet, he turns to look at me, baring those brutish, yellow teeth. My resolve hardens. I’ll shatter them to bits. He runs toward me with a howl, like an oversized toddler. Another glance at the timer tells me I’ve got one minute left. It’s my turn now. I see him gnash his teeth, probably planning to bite me while I, the helpless female, struggle to stand. I wait until he gets close to me and can’t stop his own momentum. I spin away, and the crowd jeers and boos as he crashes into the steel cage. Unlike his mask, mine covers my entire face, so nobody sees the grin I’m wearing as I turn around. I look out over the crowd as I normally do to gauge their reaction. This time, though, a pair of cerulean blue eyes stand out to me. For a heartbeat, I find myself meeting the gaze of a tall man with his hair tied at the base of his neck. He’s all the way at the other end of the arena, but even with the distance between us, I can sense that there is something incredibly dangerous about him. My wolf prowls within the cage of my mind, anxious, intrigued. For a few seconds, I forget how to breathe. He’s staring straight at me. It feels like he’s not watching the fight; he’s watching me. Why is my heart beating so fast? Why can’t I tear my gaze away from him? I don’t detect the movement on my right till it’s too late. Mountain Man’s punch hits me in the stomach, making me groan as I stumble back. I can see him gearing up for a second punch, but I don’t give him time. I’ve been fighting in these cages for five years now; I may have gotten distracted, but that doesn’t mean I’m going to let this bully of a man land another blow. Ten seconds left. One of us must go down. I move quickly, darting aside and sweeping my leg with such force that my opponent falls flat on his face. As he tries to get up, I jump on his back and slam my foot on the back of his head, pinning it against the concrete. Years of practice have taught me just how much pressure I can apply to make sure he’s knocked out and not dead. He goes limp. A hush falls over the crowd at this sudden turn of events. Mathew, a round man with a long mustache that can only be described as villainous, enters the cage, grabs my hand, and holds it up in the air. “The Wily Vixen has done it again!” The underground arena bursts into loud cheers while those who bet against me make frustrated sounds. Mathew meets my gaze, greed and pride glittering in his expression. I look away from him to the spot where the man with the blue eyes was standing. He’s gone. I don’t know why I feel so disappointed. Maybe it’s just the adrenaline pumping through my blood. Of course that man was staring at me. I was in the middle of a fight. Where else was he supposed to look? The ceiling? Shaking my head at my temporary lack of functioning brain cells, I say to Mathew, my voice low, “No second round then?” He’s smiling, but his voice is hard. “I told you not to knock him out. We could have gone three more rounds.” “He would have bitten me, and I would’ve gotten exposed,” I mutter. “You know shifters aren’t allowed to take part in these things.” He does not reply to that, and as I exit the cage, he begins introducing the next two fighters. The cage has multiple exits: one for each opponent, and one that leads into the back of the massive basement. There are two corridors, both of which are restricted to everyone but employees. The only other way into the back is through the door that opens directly from the audience area; the only ones with the key to it are Mathew and me. I make my way to my dressing room and lock the door behind me. Leaning against it, I rip off the red fox mask. I bought it five years ago right before I first took part in a cage fight. I needed to make some money, and cage fighting sounded like an easy way to do that. The fox mask was the first one I saw in the costume shop, and I grabbed it. I never thought it would end up becoming my identity for five whole years. Tossing the mask on the dressing table, I walk over to the small, attached bathroom and wash up. My face is flushed red from the heat under that stifling mask. The cold water feels good on my skin. I crank up the air conditioning and strip off my tank top to take a survey of my injuries. It’s not that I’m immune to pain or wounds; it’s just that I can take kicks and punches and not go down as a result of them. Mountain Man has certainly done a number on my ribs. My skin is all black and blue, and I wince as I gently poke the area. “This is going to take a day or two at the very least,” I mutter. I put on a loose-fitting, white shirt and a pair of black jeans before sitting on the small stool in front of the dressing table and starting the long process of undoing my hair. The intricate braids along my scalp are always concealed under my mask. My ash-colored hair is long and sleek, which makes it easy to braid. But it is also a key identifying feature of mine. And in a place as small as Oakrest Town, I would surely be recognized, considering I work at the local bar. I did think of cutting it once, a couple of years ago, but for some reason, I simply couldn’t go through with it. After combing my fingers through my hair, I run my brush through the tresses before wrapping it all up in a tight bun on the top of my head. There is a knock on my door, and my head swivels toward it in alarm. I calm down when I realize it’s Mathew on the other side. I hurry over and unlock it. He enters the room and closes the door behind him. “Here.” He hands me a fat envelope. I make one grand per fight. It might seem like a lot of money, considering I usually take part in two or three fights every week. But the money isn’t even a drop in the ocean compared to the amount I actually need. “Sorry about that.” Mathew tucks his hands in his pockets and looks at me. “I forgot that Mountain Man likes to bite his opponents. Anyway, I set a match for you for Wednesday. Same time. I’m going to make sure the back entrance is clear so you can leave from there.” “Thanks.” I tuck the envelope into the small backpack on the couch. “Is it just me or did you lose concentration for a minute there during the match?” Mathew’s brown eyes are pinned on mine.