Alpha's Redemption: His Forgotten Fated Mate

Veiled Confessions

Sloane's POV

Out there, inches away, turning my nightmare into sound.

Fear spiked through me, every muscle locking tight.

Breathe. Don't move.

Water droplets trailed cold down my spine, but I didn't dare wipe them. Juno thrashed faintly inside.

I twisted the shower knob quick—hot spray roaring back to life. Steam billowed, fogging the mirror, but I crouched in the corner, knees to chest, hands clamped over my mouth.

Just endure it, I told myself, teeth gritted.

He'll go. He always does.

Minutes stretched like hours. My fingers went numb, toes prickling cold. Every creak of the house settling made me flinch, imagining his scarred eye peering through the cracks.

Finally—footsteps. Fading. The front door thudded distant, then silence. Real silence. I waited, lungs burning, counting to a hundred before easing up. The spray shut off with a squeak, and I cracked the door—hinge groaning soft.

Empty hall.

Black night pressing against the windows. Like none of it happened. A hallucination from exhaustion.

But then—my eyes dropped.

Floorboards by the threshold, scarred wood gleaming faint under the hall light. Spots. White, sticky, unmistakable.

Semen.

Streaks drying in the dust. Revulsion hit like vomit rising, sour and choking.

God, no.

I gagged, hand flying to my mouth, bolting back upstairs two steps at a time. The attic door slammed. I sank against it.

Disgust coiled in my gut.

He's a monster.

Sleep? No chance. But dawn crept in anyway, gray light filtering through the rattly window, dragging me under in fits. Eyes heavy, mind screaming, I crashed hard just as the sky lightened.

However, the ringtone shattered it—shrill, unfamiliar, buzzing like angry bees. I jolted awake, throat dry as sand.

What—?

The phone. Hunter's. Screen glowing 05:53.

Shit. I fumbled it up, thumb swiping sloppy. "H-hello?"

Silence, then a huff. "Took you long enough. It's almost six. You still asleep?"

His voice crackled, edged with impatience, like I'd wasted his morning.

I rubbed my eyes. "Uh... yeah."

He snorted. "Whatever. Listen, I don't have time for chit-chat. Text me your address. I'll be there in an hour—max. Get your ass up and ready."

Click. Dead air.

I stared at the screen, anger bubbling slow through the fog.

Five-fifty-three? Who the hell calls at dawn?

"Asshole," I muttered, flinging the covers back.

Does he even sleep? But fingers flew anyway, punching in the address—crumbling building on the edge of Moonblood's slums.

I dragged myself to the sink, splashing water on my face, teeth brushed frantic. Mirror showed a ghost: dark circles, hair a rat's nest. Sleep shirt swapped for a plain white tee and gray sweats—nothing fancy. Who dressed up for a forced date with a predator?

Downstairs empty. Mom still out cold, William... gone, thank god. I paced the kitchen, coffee brewing black and bitter, but nerves jangled too wild to sip.

Should be terrified, right? Him showing up here, in this dump, sniffing around my life. But exhaustion dulled it all. More zombie than prey. I slumped at the table, lids drooping, head nodding on my arms.

Engine roar yanked me straight—low, throaty, vibrating the windows. Peered out: dust kicking up in the dawn haze, a sleek black Maserati purring at the curb like a panther in a pigpen.

Door swung open, and there he was—Hunter Whitman, stepping out like he owned the dawn.

From the polished leather loafers hugging his feet, up the slim-fit chinos, to the crisp white button-down hugging those ridiculous shoulders—every inch screamed money, effortless. Hair styled just-so, gel catching the light, that jawline sharp enough to cut glass.

For a split second, breath caught.

Damn. Playboy perfection, the kind that starred in bad dreams and worse fantasies. Juno stirred, a faint tug low in my belly—scent hitting faint through the window, pine.

He scanned the house, brow quirking, then spotted me. That smirk flickered—amused, a touch disdainful. "You coming out in pajamas? Classy."

Heat stung my cheeks. "These are sweats, not pajamas." I yanked my hair into a messy ponytail, grabbing keys. "And you're early."

He shrugged, popping the passenger door. "Traffic's light at this hour. Get in."

His tone dipped. I slid into butter-soft leather, the dash gleaming with gadgets I'd never touch. Engine purred alive, and we peeled out—silence thick between us.

Streets blurred from cracked sidewalks to smoother asphalt, Moonblood's pack fading into city sprawl. Curiosity nagged—what fresh hell was this date? Dinner? Some pack power play? But pride glued my lips shut.

Forty minutes in, he braked smooth before a wrought-iron gate, stone spires rising beyond like fingers to the sky. St. Elowen's—old pack chapel, neutral ground for the elite. Bells tolled faint, summer sun gilding the stained glass.

"Out," he said, killing the engine.

I blinked, door halfway open.

"Church? For a date?"

His green eyes flicked over, unreadable. "Just walk."

Inside hit cool and echoing, marble floors swallowing our steps. Choir voices swelled—hymns pure and haunting, organ humming deep. He led to a shadowed pew, back row, away from the scattering faithful.

No words. He just knelt, head bowed, hands clasped loose. Praying.

Hunter Whitman prays?

I sank beside him, knees tucked, mind reeling. This? Not what I'd braced for. No flashy brunch, no possessive grip. Just quiet, the air thick with incense and song. Irritation ebbed slow, replaced by something softer—peace, creeping in with the light through the rose window.

My fidgeting stilled, breath syncing to the melody. Juno uncurled a fraction, soothed.

Minutes slipped. Then his voice—low. "Surprised? Figured you'd peg me for a club or something sleazier."

I glanced over, his profile carved in shadow, lashes dark against his skin. "Yeah. Kinda. This isn't... you."

He straightened, elbows on knees, staring at the altar. No smirk now. Just raw edges.

"It's me. Or part of it." Pause, heavy. "Mom used to bring me here. Before everything went to hell." His fingers traced the pew's grain, voice dropping. "I was seven when she died. Car wreck—rogue pack hit, political bullshit. I was in the back seat. Saw it all: glass shattering, her blood on the dash, that last look she gave me."

I shifted, elbows brushing accidental. "I'm... sorry."

He shrugged, but it didn't land easy. "Since then I got Bipolar. It hit hard yesterday. But church quiets it."

Hunter got Bipolar?

Perhaps the suspicion on my face was too obvious, so Hunter mentioned Sienna's briefcase.

"Actually, my reports are in the briefcase. Every screw-up, every station visit, she's got the docs to smooth it. Meds, therapy logs. Proof I'm not just a loose cannon."

Green eyes met mine, steady—no games. "I know what you think. Playboy prick, breaking hearts for sport. Half true. Dad pushes the matches—pack politics, you know? I play along to shut him up. But it's empty. You're different. No agenda. No throne to climb. I want a shot to show you the rest. The guy who doesn't bite unless provoked."

Doubt lingered.

This Hunter was no longer the one I knew. But his scent wrapped steady, pine grounding the chaos. Juno nudged, curious.

"Okay," I said soft. "One shot."

His grin broke—real, lighting those eyes gold-flecked for a blink. "Good. Next stop: Silverridge."

The academy loomed like a kingdom—ivy walls, turrets piercing blue sky. I'd peeked inside before, tailing Jax to visits, dreaming of halls that didn't reek of flour and failure. Tuition? A wall I'd never scale.

But Hunter breezed through gates like they bowed, parking by the stables. Horses nickered, sun dappling the ring, air rich with hay and leather.

"Ever ridden?" He grabbed a helmet, chestnut mare saddled patient.

"Once. Pack picnic. Fell off." I eyed the beast, nerves twitching.

He chuckled, low and warm. "Not today."

Hand at my waist—gentle, steady—he boosted me up, fingers lingering a beat too long on my hip.

Heat sparked, unbidden.

"Easy, girl. She's gentle." His chest pressed close as he adjusted stirrups, breath ghosting my neck. "Like this—heels down, back straight."

Up behind me, his body molded solid, arms bracketing as he took the reins. The horse stepped off, smooth as silk, but my pulse? Wild.

His thigh brushed mine with every sway, voice murmuring tips close to my ear—"Loosen your grip, feel the rhythm."

Pine scent flooded, mixing with sun-warmed skin. Juno purred faint.

Damn him.

That jaw, shadowed now, so close I could trace it. Gentle hands guiding mine, calluses rough against my palms—strength wrapped in care. Heart hammered, not from the trot. From him. Close. Real.

We slowed to a walk, his chin nearly on my shoulder. "See? Natural." Voice husky, thumb grazing my knuckles accidental. Or not. Flush crept up my neck, but I didn't pull away. Not yet.

Lunch in the refectory—vaulted ceilings, chandeliers dripping crystal. Eyes hit us like spotlights: whispers rippling, stares lingering. Curiosity sharp as knives—Who's she? With him?

I hunched over my tray, salad wilting under the scrutiny. Hunter? Oblivious, piling steak like it was casual.

We claimed a corner table, but space cleared magic—bubbles of empty chairs around us, packs giving wide berth.

I poked at a cherry tomato, voice low. "They always stare like that? Like you're a sideshow?"

He paused, fork midway, those green eyes locking on mine. Intense. Then—smile. Pure, no edges, crinkling the corners. Boyish. My fork froze.

"What?" I asked, wary.

"You're curious. First time you've asked about me." Joy flickered, bright and brief, before dimming. He dropped his gaze to his plate, shoulders slumping fraction. "Yeah. Every day. But no one wants to know me. Just waiting for the next scandal."

Pity tugged, unwelcome. I knew that glare—the outsider branded. "Sucks."

He shrugged, spearing a bite. "Eat up. Library next."

The stacks soared three stories, oak shelves groaning under leather spines, air cool with dust and ink.

I wandered a row—herbology wing—fingers trailing spines. Pulled one random: Wolfsbane Variants: From Fable to Foe. Flipped it open.

"Page 47's the good stuff," Hunter said casual, leaning in. "Red-leaf strain—blood-fed. Kills clean, no reversal. Author's a hack on the history, though—skips the 18th-century purge."

I snapped it shut, staring. "How—?"

Another pull: Lunar Cycles and Mate Bonds.

He didn't blink. "Chapter three's myth-busting. Full moons don't force shifts; that's beta propaganda."

Jaw dropped. "No way. You've read all this?"

His laugh echoed soft, eyes warm. "Third of my life's here. Beats parties. Med school prep—herbs, anatomy, the works." Modest shrug, but pride glinted.

The playboy? Vanished. This Hunter—sharp, layered—shattered the rumors clean.

We stood there, books forgotten, eyes meeting. Air hummed.

His gaze softened, earnest. "Sloane. One more thing. Date's wrapping, but... party tonight. Come with me? Before it ends."

I blinked, pulse skipping.

"Give it a shot. Me—the real one."