Alpha's Redemption: His Forgotten Fated Mate

Tangled Bonds

Sloane's POV

The next day dragged me back to routine. Dawn hit the bakery kitchen like clockwork, flour dust already thick in the air. I tied on my apron, arms sinking into dough that needed kneading.

Same old grind.

Mom hovered near the oven, pulling trays of muffins, her eyes flicking my way every few seconds. "So, Sloane? That night with the alpha boy. Spill. What happened after the party?"

I kept my gaze on the counter, hands working the dough steady. "Nothing. Dropped me off. End of story."

Truth, mostly. But the rest? Locked tight. No way I'd drag last night's mess into this oven heat.

William shuffled in from the front, his good eye narrowing as he wiped his hands on his whites. "Nothing, huh? Looks like more to me. You come home looking like a ghost. That Whitman kid touch you?"

Heat crept up my neck, but I didn't flinch. "Drop it, Will." Pushed the dough harder, knuckles whitening.

They traded looks—Mom's curious, his sour. But the lunch rush hit, saving me. Orders piled, customers barking for rolls and pies. I lost myself in the rhythm, steam billowing, timers buzzing. Quiet moments, though? That's when it crept in.

Mind wandering over the mixer hum, I'd flash back. The suite door slamming. His hand over my mouth, body pinning mine. The zipper's rasp under my fingers. Expected the worst—pain, violation, another scar to hide.

But he stopped. Yanked away. Dove into that shower like it burned him worse than me. The kiss, though... god. Heat crashing, lips bruising, his arms locking me close. I should've hated it. Fought harder. But my body? It leaned in. Craved more, even as terror clawed my throat.

Complex didn't cover it. Hunter Whitman. Playboy alpha, rumor mill's favorite villain. One minute, parading me like a trophy, smirking through the stares. Next? Guarding my line like it cost him everything. Ice bath till dawn, teeth chattering, just to keep hands off. I saw the strain—veins bulging, jaw locked. He hurt. For me. Trust flickered, warm and confusing.

But doubt nipped at it. What's the angle? Guys like him didn't play hero without strings.

And that pull. Low in my gut, tugging when his scent hit—pine sharp, grounding.

Mate bond? Stupid thought.

I whispered Juno's name soft, under the dough slap. She stirred faint, a tired huff in my chest. No surge. No howl. Just weakness, bound tight by inhibitors.

Of course not.

How could she sense a mate when she could barely wake? I was no destined luna. Just Sloane Rhodes—omega drudge, scraping by in Moonblood's shadows. The drug messed with my head. That's all. Expected touch turned want. Nothing real.

Shook it off. Focused on the loaves rising. But the question lingered, quiet and insistent. What if?

A crash yanked me back—Mom's shriek from the front.

"No way!" I bolted out, apron strings flapping. She clutched a letter, face split in a grin, tears streaking. "Will! We got it! The bid—Silverridge Academy! Our bakery's in. Tomorrow we move. No more debts hanging over us!"

William lumbered over, snatching the paper. Scanned it quick, brow furrowing.

Mom grabbed my hands, squeezing hard. "See? You did good, Sloane. That date? Nailed it. Hunter pulled strings. We're set!"

I stared at the letter, words blurring then sharpening. Official seal. Contract details. Silverridge. He did it. No bluff. My chest tightened—relief, yeah, but tangled with everything else. Gratitude warred with wariness. "For real?"

"Damn straight." Mom laughed, wiping her eyes. Pulled me into a hug, rare and quick. "Proud of you, kid. This changes everything."

William snorted, folding the letter sharp. "Changes? Yeah. Wonder how." His eye fixed on me, dark and probing. "What'd you trade for this, Sloane? Sleep with him?"

Air sucked out. I froze, heat flooding my face. Mom swatted his arm, half-laughing. "Will! Don't grill her like that. But hey, if she did? Smart girl. He's loaded. Blood's hot at that age, right?"

I yanked my hands free. Turned back to the kitchen, dough waiting. "Forget it." William's stare burned my back as I walked away—close, too close. Ignored it. Ignored her chatter. Just kneaded harder, flour caking my nails. Not like that. But the words stuck, sour.

Mom burst in minutes later, all energy. "No more work today. Pack up. Silverridge covers dorms—free rent. Two-bedroom setup. We're out tomorrow."

I nodded numb. Untied the apron. Walked home in silence, streets blurring under summer haze. House loomed—sagging porch, attic stairs creaking welcome. But the box waited. Plain brown, addressed neat: Sloane Rhodes. Ripped it open. My sweats from that dawn pickup—clean, folded, faint lavender scent. And the phone. Black, sleek. Hunter's gift.

Picked it up, thumb hovering the screen. Heart kicked up.

Messages? Calls? Nothing. Blank slate. Breath eased out—relief? Or that hollow dip? Couldn't tell. Shoved it in my pocket. Climbed to the attic. Packed light: textbooks stacked, photo tucked safe, clothes in a duffel. Stared at the walls a beat. New start? Maybe. But Hunter's shadow clung.

Dawn next day, truck rumbled loaded. Mom chattered nonstop, William silent at the wheel. Silverridge gates parted smooth—academy sprawl unfolding, lawns manicured, buildings stone and ivy. Bakery site first: storefront primed, ovens gleaming new. Mom squealed, measuring counters. "Ours! All ours!"

William grunted approval, already sketching layouts. "Prime spot. Good traffic."

I slipped out. Staff dorms sat tucked behind—modern blocks, clean lines. Key in hand, door clicked open. Two-bed, one bath, kitchenette compact. My room: single bed, desk, window overlooking quad. Simple. Safe. Bath next—door solid oak, lock sturdy. Window sealed tight, no gaps. Tested the knob twice. Clicked firm. Tension uncoiled a fraction. No more peeking shadows. No William's breaths in the dark.

Unpacked quick. Bed made. Texts shelved. Phone buzzed—Mom. Store now. Someone asking for you.

Dread pooled. Grabbed my jacket. Walked the path, academy hum building—students milling, laughter echoing. Storefront bustled already, a crowd clustered out front. Dresses flashy, scents overpowering. Alphas and betas, packs mingling.

For a second, hope spiked. Hunter? But no. The girl front and center—blonde hair piled high, red lips curled mean. Joanna Hale. Eyes locked on me, venom sharp.

She stepped forward, arm thrusting out. "There she is. The thief."

My stomach dropped. Crowd murmured, heads turning. "What?"

Joanna's voice rose, shrill and clear. "My emerald ring. Gone after the party. You were there. Snatching hands in the chaos. Give it back, you little crook!"

Accusations hit like slaps. I backed a step, crowd closing in. No. Not this. But her glare pinned me, triumphant. Guilty before words.