Alpha's Redemption: His Forgotten Fated Mate

Cracks in the trust

Sloane's POV

I sat there in the library, the weight of Hunter's words still hanging in the air.

The party invite caught me off guard. Part of me wanted to say no right then. The whole date had been too easy. Church. Horses. Books. No games, no grabs. It made me trust him more than I should.

But doubt lingered. Guys like him didn't change overnight. I kept my guard up, just a little.

Before I could answer, he leaned in closer. "This party's no joke. It's a pack alliance thing. My dad's coming—Richard Whitman. Show up with me, meet him. Could seal that bakery bid for your mom's school contract. One chat, and it's done."

My mind flashed to last night. Mom on the couch, shoulders slumped, tears streaking her face. The bakery was her lifeline. Our lifeline.

I nodded slow. "Okay. I'll go."

His face lit up, quick and real. "Good call. Let's get you set up first."

He stood, offering a hand. I took it, his grip warm and steady. We left the library, his Maserati waiting like always. The drive was short, pulling up to a boutique downtown. Glass front, mannequins in silk and lace that screamed money.

Inside, racks of dresses lined the walls. Tags with numbers that made my stomach drop. One step, and it could cover my rent. I trailed my fingers over the fabric, smooth and cool. Self-doubt hit hard. These weren't for girls like me. Bakery scars and all.

"I can't pull this off," I muttered.

Hunter picked a silver gown off the rack. Simple lines, no gems or fuss. Floor-length, hugging the body.

"Try it. Trust me, sweats at a mixer? You'll be the talk for all the wrong reasons." His tone was light, teasing, but kind.

I slipped into the dressing room. The fabric slid over my skin like water. It fit perfect, molding to my waist, flaring at the hips. No frills, just clean silver that caught the light.

I stepped out, arms crossed over my chest. The mirror showed someone new. Taller. Curvier. The faint freckles on my nose stood out, but in a good way. My hair fell loose, chestnut waves framing my face.

Hunter's eyes widened. He took a step back, then forward. "Damn, Sloane. You look... incredible." His voice dropped, sincere. "That color's made for you. Brings out your eyes. And the fit? Perfect."

Heat rushed to my cheeks. I tugged at the hem, suddenly shy.

"It's just a dress."

But his words stuck. No one had said stuff like that in years. Not since Dad. I glanced down, spotting the faint scars on my arms from hot trays and slips. Bakery badges. I yanked my sleeves down, but they weren't there. The gown was sleeveless. Exposed.

He noticed. Stepped closer, gentle. "Hey. Those marks? They're you. Strong. But if it bugs you, makeup'll cover 'em. No big deal."

A stylist appeared—quick hands, pro kit. She dabbed foundation over the lines, blending smooth. Then eyes, lips, a touch of blush. The mirror shifted again. Smoky lids made my brown eyes pop. Red lips full and bold. I touched my cheek, hardly recognizing the girl staring back.

Pretty. Really pretty. For once, I liked what I saw. Hunter's compliments echoed—incredible, perfect. Not pity. Real praise. It warmed me inside, easing the knot from last night. He saw me. Made me see me. Good feeling. Rare one.

"Ready?" He held out the matching clutch. I nodded, grabbing it.

The drive to the hotel was quiet, city lights blurring past. My mind raced. This could fix things. For Mom. For us.

The ballroom glittered under chandeliers, gold trim on white walls. Tables groaned with silver trays—roast meats, crystal glasses clinking. Guests in tuxes and gowns milled around, scents mixing: cologne, perfume, alpha musk. Power hung thick. Everyone here had a pack, a title.

I smoothed my skirt, nerves kicking in. Eyes flicked our way. Curious. Judging. The confidence from the makeup room? Gone. I shrank a step.

Hunter noticed. Slid his arm out. "Here." I took it, his warmth steady under my palm. "You got this. Head up. They're just jealous." His voice was low, for me only. Encouraging. Real.

Gratitude swelled. I squeezed his arm. All the bad stuff—the bar, the threats—faded. He was here. With me. Trust settled in, solid.

Then the crowd shifted. People surged toward us, voices overlapping.

"Hunter! Long time." "Heard about that alliance—brilliant move." Alphas, betas, all smiles and backslaps. They talked deals, borders, like it was casual chat. I stood to the side, smile plastered, glass in hand. Invisible. Fine by me.

Until the doors swung wide. A man strode in—tall, broad, gold hair cropped short, green eyes sharp as blades. Deep suit, no tie, like he owned the room and didn't need flair.

Richard Whitman. Alpha King. Power rolled off him, making necks crane. Flanking him: Sienna, crisp in black, briefcase tucked. And on his right—a blonde stunner, willowy in emerald silk, blue eyes cool.

Hunter tensed. "Dad."

The sycophants scattered fast, melting into the crowd. Richard nodded once, curt. "Hunter." No warmth. Eyes skipped me like I was furniture.

"Why the no-show on calls?" Richard's tone was flat, demanding.

Hunter grinned easy. "Phone died. Battery's crap."

Richard's jaw ticked. Then he turned to the blonde. "Meet Luxe Bennett. Wraithbone Pack's alpha's daughter. Transfers to Silverridge soon."

Luxe smiled, perfect teeth. Model tall, legs endless. "Pleased." Her voice lilted, eyes on Hunter. Interest clear.

Hunter barely glanced. Grabbed my hand instead, pulling me forward. "This is Sloane. My date tonight. Omega from Moonblood Pack."

Richard's gaze landed then—cold, assessing. Like scanning a faulty tool. It pinned me, heavy. Uncomfortable. Something off, but I couldn't place it.

Atmosphere thickened, tension crackling between father and son.

Luxe broke it. "Father, show me the terrace?" She looped Richard's arm, steering him away. Sienna followed, heels clicking.

Relief hit. I turned to Hunter. "Your dad seems—"

He yanked his hand free, face shut down. Cold stare, then he walked off. No words. Just gone, swallowed by the crowd.

I stood there, clutch tight. Awkward. Exposed. Without him, the room closed in. Gowns brushed past, laughs sharp. Outsider. I wandered, aimless, past marble pillars.

A waiter paused, tray out. "Champagne, miss?"

"Thanks." I took one, cool stem grounding me. Sipped. Bubbles sharp on my tongue.

"Sloane? Here?" Voice dripped acid. Familiar.

I turned. Joanna Hale. Red gown, diamonds at her throat. Eyes narrowed, lip curled.

"Nice dress," she said, fake sweet. "Slumming it with the help now?"

I gripped the glass. "Not your business." Turned to leave.

Her hand shot out, nails digging my wrist. "Wait. Hunter drag you here? As arm candy?"

Silence. My jaw clenched.

She laughed, low. Leaned in, breath hot on my ear. "He's using you. To piss me off. Rub it in. You're nothing. Ugly duckling stays ugly. Don't kid yourself."

Anger flared. "It's not like that. We're just—"

"Just what? Spreading for scraps?" She sneered. "Poor omega like you? First whiff of alpha, legs open. Grab what you can."

Rage boiled. Slut. The word hung unspoken, but there. "I'm not that. Never will be."

She released me, smug. "Sure. Keep telling yourself." Sauntered off, hips swaying.

I downed the champagne, fire in my throat. Grimaced—too bitter, head swimming light. Then Hunter loomed, face dark. "Where'd you go?"

"Just walking." Voice small.

"Don't wander." He grabbed my elbow, sharp. "Stay close."

He tugged me through the crowd, introducing. "Sloane, Moonblood omega. My date." Over and over. Faces twisted—smirks, whispers. Date? Her? Eyes raked me, amused. Gossip fodder.

It clicked. He wanted this. Me on display. Humiliation bait. Heat drained from my face. Bastard. I tried pulling away. "Let go. I'm done."

His grip tightened. "Not yet." Paraded me more. Laughter stung. Shame burned.

Then it hit—body wrong. Heat blooming low, skin flushing hot. Vision blurred at edges. Thighs slick, pulse throbbing insistent. No. Panic clawed. Drugged. The champagne. I twisted free when he turned, bolting for the hall.

Shouts erupted behind. "My ring! Gone!" Joanna's voice, shrill. "Thief! Check her!"

Chaos swelled—accusations, feet pounding. I didn't stop. Stumbled to a side door, empty suite beyond. Collapsed on the bed, breaths ragged. Room spun. Wetness soaked my thighs, ache building fierce. Fingers clenched sheets.

Bastard. Who?

Steps thundered outside. I lurched up, slamming the door. But a hand jammed it—strong, unyielding.

Hunter. Face flushed unnatural, eyes wild. Lust I knew too well. William's ghost flashed. Terror iced my spine. I screamed, scrambling back.

He lunged, palm over my mouth. Shoved inside, door locking click. "Quiet." Voice rough, strained.

I thrashed, nails raking. Useless. He pinned me to the mattress, weight crushing. "Strip. Now."

"No!" I bucked, tears hot. "Get off!"

Bread bakery. The debt. His eyes hardened. "Do it. Or your mom's done. Out on the street."

Heart sank. Cold dread. Tears spilled, silent. Fingers shook to the zipper. Tugged slow, gown parting. Fabric whispered down.

Sobs choked out. "This... fun for you? Trampling dignity? Why do men always pick on the weak?"