Alpha's Redemption: His Forgotten Fated Mate

Sloane's POV The heat in the bakery's back kitchen hit me like a slap every damn morning. Flour dust hung thick in the air, mixing with the cloying scent of burnt sugar. My shift started at dawn, just like always, and by now, I wiped sweat from my forehead then grabbed the metal baking sheet. My arms were already aching from kneading dough for hours. Steam billowed up as I yanked the sheet free. But in my haste, my grip slipped. Just a fraction. The edge of the sheet caught my bare wrist, right where the mitt ended. Pain exploded like fire. I yelped, dropping the sheet onto the counter. I yanked my hand back, staring at the red welt blooming across my skin. Blisters were already forming. Shit. My wolf, Juno, stirred faintly inside me. But she couldn't help. Not anymore. Not since the inhibitors they'd pumped into me years ago — Juno is so weak that no one knows her existence except me. "Sloane! What the hell was that noise?" My mother's voice was sharp as a knife. Victoria burst through the swinging door from the front. She was all sharp angles—tall, with that thick brown hair swept into a bun. I cradled my wrist, biting my lip to keep from hissing. "It was nothing, Mom. Just—dropped a..." Her eyes narrowed as she stormed over, grabbing my arm without asking. For a split second, I saw it—a flicker of worry in those brown eyes, the same ones I'd inherited. Like maybe, just maybe, she still cared about the little girl I'd been. But then her lips pressed into a thin line, and the moment shattered. "Nothing? Look at this mess!" She gestured wildly at the counter, where crumbs and a spilled tray of muffin batter had joined the chaos. "You can't even handle a simple bake. One job, Sloane. That's all I ask. And you screw it up every time." The words stung worse than the burn. "I'm sorry," I mumbled, staring at the floor. "It was an accident. I'll clean it up." "Accident? That's your excuse for everything." Her voice rose, echoing in the small space. She let go of my arm. "If you weren't such a klutz, maybe we wouldn't be scraping by. Maybe your father—" She cut herself off, but the damage was done. My throat tightened, hot tears pricking at the corners of my eyes. Don't cry. Not here. But it was too late. The sadness welled up, a wave crashing over me, making my chest ache. Why did it always come back to this? Before I could respond, the door swung open again. William shuffled in, wiping his hands on his chef's whites. His one good eye—dark and beady—locked onto me immediately, that blind one scarred over his face. He was the pack's omega, tall and stocky but with a low bloodline. Everyone in Moonblood Pack looked down on him, whispered about the accident that had taken his eye when he was a kid. But back here, in this kitchen that was his domain, he acted like a king. "Sloane, darlin', what happened?" His voice was all false honey. He stepped closer. In his hand, he held a small tin of salve—the burn cream. "Let me take a look. Poor thing, you gotta be more careful." I shrank back against the counter, the edge digging into my spine. My heart hammered, Juno's presence a faint echo of fear in my gut. "It's fine, Will. Really. I'll just run it under water." "Nonsense." He reached for my wrist anyway, his fingers brushing my skin before I could twist away. That touch—clammy, insistent—sent ice down my spine. I dodged, sidestepping toward the sink, but he followed, his grin widening just a touch. "Come on now. Won't hurt a bit." Victoria snorted, crossing her arms. "See? Even Will knows how to handle it. If you'd listen for once instead of flailing around like a headless chicken." Her words pinned me in place, and William's hand closed around my wrist. He popped the tin open with his thumb, the herbal scent of the salve cutting through the bakery smells. As he dabbed it on, his fingers lingered, tracing the burn in slow circles. His breath was hot against my ear, too close. "There we go. Feels better already, doesn't it? You're always so tense, Sloane." Fear coiled in my stomach. I jerked my hand free, the salve smearing across my palm. "I said I'm fine." My voice came out small, trembling. I hated it—hated how it made me feel like prey, cornered in my own damn kitchen. Victoria rolled her eyes, waving a hand dismissively. "Stop being dramatic. Will's just trying to help, and you're making a scene. God, Sloane, you should know that we are already struggling to make ends meet this month. If you cause any more losses, our whole family will be waiting—" "Enough." William's tone sharpened. His good eye flicked to her, then back to me, something dark and hungry lurking there. "She's had a rough morning. Let her finish up." Victoria huffed, but she turned toward the door. "Fine. But clean this up before the lunch rush, or you're out on your ass. We can't afford your mistakes." She paused at the threshold, her shoulders slumping just a fraction. For a heartbeat, her gaze softened, like she wanted to say more. But she didn't. She never did. The door swung shut behind her, leaving the kitchen feeling smaller, heavier. I stood there, wrist throbbing, tears blurring the edges of everything. Why me? The question echoed in my head. I scrubbed the counter mechanically. By the time the lunch crowd thinned, my shift was over. I untied my apron and slipped out into the alley without a word to anyone. Moonblood Pack's streets narrow and shadowed, lined with weathered cottages that sagged under the weight of days. Our place was at the edge, a crumbling two-story. Upstairs was home, if you could call it that. My room was the attic—a sloped-ceilinged garret with a single window that rattled in the wind. The stairs creaked under my feet as I climbed. I pushed the door open. The space was tiny: a sagging mattress on the floor, a rickety dresser, and a bulb that flickered like it was on its last breath. Dust motes danced in the sliver of afternoon light. I collapsed onto the bed, curling my knees to my chest, and let the tears come. My eyes drifted to the drawer. There, buried under a pile of threadbare socks and crumpled receipts, was the photo. Faded at the edges. I pulled it out, fingers trembling, and held it to my chest. Dad. Robert Rhodes. He was smiling in that picture—wide and genuine, his brown hair tousled from a run in the woods, his arm slung around Mom and me. I was maybe five, gap-toothed and giggling, perched on his shoulders like I owned the world. Mom looked happy then, really happy, her head tilted against his shoulder, no lines of worry etching her face. Those were the days. Back when life in Murkwood Pack was a fairy tale I didn't know could end. Dad was Alpha—strong, kind, the kind of leader who remembered every pack member's birthday and made sure the omegas got extra portions at feasts. He doted on me. Princess Sloane, he'd call me, scooping me up and spinning me until I squealed. Toys? Whatever I wanted. A new dress for the pack gathering? Delivered by morning. And Mom... she was soft back then, laughing as she braided my hair, whispering stories about our wolf ancestors under the stars. But it all cracked one rainy afternoon. Dad had been pouring everything into reviving Murkwood Pack—investments in new territories, alliances with stronger packs. He believed in us, in making us rise from the bottom ranks. But the deals soured. Money vanished into bad loans, debts piled up like storm clouds. And then, the wolfsbane. Not the weak stuff that barely tickled anymore—real poison, slipped into his tea during a meeting. He convulsed on the floor of his study, foam at his lips, eyes wide with betrayal. I wasn't there, thank the Moon. Mom shielded me, but I heard the screams. The pack's howls of grief. Twenty-eight years old, leaving me—seven and terrified—and Mom to pick up the pieces. Murkwood Pack crumbled without him. Creditors swarmed like vultures, demanding blood money we didn't have. Mom sold everything: the big house with its wraparound porch, Dad's leather-bound journals, even the golden locket he'd given her on their mating day. But it wasn't enough. The debts loomed, endless. We ran. Mom packed us into an old truck, just the two of us and a duffel bag of clothes. We bounced from pack to pack, her begging for scraps of work, me clinging to her leg, wide-eyed and hungry. Meals were whatever we could scrounge: stale bread from a sympathetic beta, wild berries that stained our fingers purple. Nights were the worst—huddled in motels that smelled of mildew, or under bridges when coins ran dry. Mom's face grew thinner, her eyes hollow. At first, she held me close, whispering, We'll make it, baby. For your dad. Her hands were gentle then, stroking my hair, sharing the last bite of whatever we had. But months dragged on—nearly half a year of dirt roads and empty stomachs. The resentment crept in slow, like poison in a well. I'd catch her staring at me sometimes, her gaze distant, lips twisted. Why you? it seemed to say. Why not him? I was the living reminder—the daughter of the man whose mistakes had dragged us into hell. The debt was his, the fall was his, and I carried his blood. To her, I became the anchor dragging her down. One crisp fall day, she changed. "I've got a surprise," she said, her voice brighter than it had been in weeks. A reward, she called it—for being so brave. We ended up at a rundown amusement park. I was thrilled, seven-year-old heart pounding as we rode the carousel. Mom even laughed—a real one—watching me wave from the top of the slide. But I tired fast. The sun dipped low, painting the sky orange, and my legs turned to jelly. "Just a quick rest," I mumbled, curling up on a splintered bench near the exit. The carousel music lulled me to sleep. Later, I woke to dusk, the park emptying out. Mom was gone. No note, no goodbye. Just the echo of laughter that wasn't mine anymore.