Alpha's Redemption: His Forgotten Fated Mate

Fractured Control

Hunter's POV

I watched her hand tremble on the zipper.

The silver fabric parted inch by inch, exposing pale skin marked by faint scars. Tears tracked down her cheeks, splashing silent on the bedspread.

Something snapped in me. Not the heat—the drug's fire raging under my skin, twisting my gut into knots. No. This was different. Her eyes, wide and broken, hit me square in the chest. Enough.

"Stop." My voice came out rough, barely mine.

I grabbed her wrist, gentle as I could manage with the haze clouding my head.

She froze, breath hitching, those brown eyes locking on mine—fear, raw and real.

Jasper snarled inside, a low rumble that vibrated my ribs. What the hell are you doing?

But I ignored him. Pulled her hand away, zipped the dress back up with shaking fingers.

"Don't."

She blinked, confusion cutting through the tears. Didn't move. Just stared, chest rising fast.

I shoved off the bed, legs unsteady, and bolted for the bathroom. Door slammed behind me. Faucet twisted full blast—cold water exploded from the showerhead, drenching me head to toe. Shirt clung heavy, pants soaked through.

I braced my palms on the tile, head bowed under the spray. "f**k," I muttered, teeth gritted. The chill bit deep, but it wasn't enough.

Not yet.

Find who did this, Jasper growled, his voice a feral edge in my skull. Rip them apart. Feed the pieces to the rogues.

"Yeah," I ground out, fist slamming the wall. Tiles cracked under my knuckles, pain blooming sharp.

Alpha blood ran hot—human roofies were a joke to us, barely a tickle. But this? Wolf-grade, laced for our kind. Someone in the pack knew what they were doing. Tomorrow, I'd tear through the hotel cams. Every face, every hand near the drinks.

No one f****d with me.

Water pounded relentless, but the fire clawed back, heat pooling low, insistent. Sweat mixed with the spray, vision blurring at the edges. I couldn't stay out here forever.

"Sloane!"

No answer. Just the roar of the shower. Frustration boiled over.

"Sloane! Get in here!"

Footsteps—hesitant, soft. The door creaked open. She stood in the frame, dress smoothed back in place, face flushed unnatural, eyes red-rimmed. Guard still up, walls high, but she saw it.

The water. The fight in my stance. Relief flickered, faint.

"Call room service," I said, jerking my chin at the phone on the sink. "Ice. Buckets of it."

She blinked, gaze dropping—following the line of my soaked shirt to where the evidence strained against my pants. Her cheeks went scarlet.

She jerked her eyes up, stammering. "I—yeah. Okay."

Turned quick, fumbling for the extension in the main room. Her voice carried muffled, polite and clipped. Two buckets. ASAP.

Minutes dragged. I stripped the wet clothes, sank into the tub—water sloshing over the rim, soaking the bathmat. Cold seeped in, numbing the burn just enough to think straight. Door knocked soft. She grabbed the buckets, ice rattling, and paused at the threshold. Hesitated.

"Come on," I rasped, voice gravel from the strain.

She didn't budge. Stared at the floor, arms locked around the buckets like a shield.

"Sloane. Now." Sharper than I meant.

She flinched, but stepped forward—slow, deliberate. Ice clinked with each footfall. Almost there. Two steps. Then her knee buckled.

Bucket tipped. She pitched forward, ice spilling in a crash, body tumbling right into the tub with me.

I caught her on instinct—arms wrapping tight, pulling her flush against my chest to keep her head from cracking the porcelain.

Water surged over the sides, soaking the floor. She gasped, sputtering, hands splaying wet on my bare shoulders. Close. Too close. Her scent hit then—faint, sweet, like wildflowers crushed underfoot. Rose and honey, subtle under the fear.

Jasper howled, a howl ripping silent through my veins. Mate? No. Couldn't be. But the pull... god, the pull.

Reason shredded. I crushed my mouth to hers. Hard. Desperate. She stiffened—shock, then yield, lips parting soft under mine. The kiss dragged deep, tongues tangling, heat feeding heat. Her fingers dug into my arms, nails biting skin.

I angled her closer, one hand tangling in her damp hair, the other sliding down her back—possessive, starving. She melted into it, a soft sound escaping her throat, body arching just so.

Air broke us apart. I pulled back, chest heaving, staring down at her.

Eyes shut, lashes dark and wet—tears or tub water, didn't matter. Dress clung translucent in spots, hair a wild halo, lips swollen from me.

Beautiful. Broken open. Mine to ruin or save.

Jasper whined, low and urgent. Take her. Claim her.

But I saw it—the tremor in her frame, the way her breath hitched not just from want. Fear lingered, buried under the drug's haze.

I released her slow, hands lifting away. "Go."

She blinked up, dazed. Like waking from a dream she didn't want. Then reality crashed in—eyes widening, color draining. She scrambled back, water sloshing, nearly slipping out of the tub. Grabbed the edge, hauled herself up. Dripping, flushed, she fled the bathroom—door clicking soft behind her.

I sank deeper into the water, head thumping the porcelain.

"You i***t," Jasper muttered, amusement lacing the growl. Pushing her away. After that?

"Shut it." But he had a point.

Her breathing filtered through the door—shallow, ragged. Even with the wood between us, my senses sharpened, picking up every hitch, every shift on the carpet. She paced once. Twice. Then the sofa creaked—springs protesting as she curled up, knees to chest. Fabric rustled. A sigh, long and weary.

I closed my eyes, forcing breaths even. The cold clawed deeper, but her presence anchored it. Steady rhythm, like a heartbeat syncing mine. Minutes bled into hours. Moonlight faded through the blinds, dawn creeping gray.

Jasper chuckled soft. You're something, Whitman. Saint Hunter, turning down a gift.

"Bite me." But the heat ebbed, finally. Drained clean. I hauled out, water sheeting off me, grabbed a towel.

Door opened quiet. She was out—curled tight on the sofa, face slack in sleep, brows pinched even now. Exhaustion won.

She slept through that? Jasper snorted. Doesn't know how close you came to devouring her whole?

I crouched beside her, close enough to catch that scent again. Sweet. Elusive. No wolf trace—faint, buried deep. Inhibitors? Or something else? Her lashes fluttered, but she didn't stir.

I reached for her clutch—small, silver, tucked under her arm. Snagged it gentle. Inside: lipstick, keys, a crumpled receipt. Then—glint of green. Emerald ring. Joanna's. The one she'd screamed about last night, accusing thieves left and right.

My jaw tightened. Slipped it into my pocket. Tomorrow, I'd handle it. Quiet. For now...

I brushed a strand from her face, thumb lingering on her cheek. Soft. Too soft for this world. Smile tugged unbidden—then died.

What are you doing? Straightened quick.

"Sloane. Wake up."

She stirred, eyes cracking open—hazy, guarded. Blinked at me, piecing it together. The room. The night. Color flooded back, cheeks pink. "I—"

"Home," I cut in, soft. Held out a hand. She took it, rising slow—legs wobbly. I grabbed her wrap from the chair, draped it over her shoulders. "I'll drive."

The ride back was silent. City stirred awake—dawn traffic humming low, coffee shops flicking on lights. Dropped her at the bakery steps, engine idling. She paused at the door, hand on the latch. "Hunter... last night—"

"Forget it." Sharper than I meant.

She nodded, slipping out. Door clicked shut. I watched her vanish inside, that slouch-shouldered house swallowing her whole. Throat tight. Go after her. Explain. But no. Not yet.

Home loomed—Stormcrest estate, gates parting silent. Pulled into the garage, engine cutting. Footsteps echoed in the marble hall—Sienna's heels, sharp and measured. Dad's voice boomed before I rounded the corner.

"Where the hell were you last night?"

I froze. There he stood—Richard Whitman, arms crossed, face carved from granite. Gold hair clipped military-short, green eyes like chipped jade—cold, unyielding. Suit pressed sharp, no tie, like always. Power clung to him, thick as smoke. Sienna flanked him, face blank slate, briefcase at her side.

Ignored them. Headed for the stairs. Let him stew.

"Hunter." Low growl. Stopped me cold. Turned slow.

He stepped forward, voice dropping to that command timbre—alpha through and through.

"Don't walk away. I asked where you were. Parading around with some omega nobody, ignoring Wraithbone's heir. Then vanishing till dawn? You look like a fool. A disgrace."

Air thickened, tension coiling tight. Jasper bristled, hackles up. Say it. Let it out. I met his stare, even.

"And you? Pushing me at every alpha's daughter like I'm your damn trading card? Night after night, smiling through the bullshit so you can seal your deals? That make you look good?"

His jaw clenched, eyes narrowing. Silence stretched, heavy. Respect warred with hate—him, the king who'd built Stormcrest into iron. Ruthless. Brilliant. Saved us from the purges, expanded borders twice over.

But Mom... that crash. The "accident." Whispers of rivals, deals gone sour. He moved on quick—alliances first, grief later. Never remarried, but the girls? Endless parade. Marry this one. Charm that one. Me, the tool. The flower boy in a crown of thorns.

"You think this is a game?" His voice dropped, edged steel. "Stormcrest doesn't survive on tantrums. It survives on bonds. Strength. You want to throw it away for—what? A low-rank omega who reeks of desperation?"

Heat flared—anger, old and festering. "Desperation? Like yours? Mom dies, and you shove me into skirts before the dirt's dry? I'm not your pawn, Dad."

Sienna shifted, subtle warning. But he didn't flinch. Just stared, calculating. "Watch your tone. Or you'll learn what a real pawn feels like."

I held his gaze, chest tight. Turned away.