The Alpha's Forgotten Mate

Into the Woods

Tuesday night. 11:43 PM.

Ella gripped the edge of the bathroom sink, staring at her reflection in the mirror. She was burning up.

It had started an hour ago—a deep, bone-aching chill that no blanket could fix, followed by a fever that made her vision swim. But that wasn't what had her terrified.

She looked down at her forearm.

The bite mark wasn't just bleeding anymore. The edges of the torn flesh had turned a bruised, angry purple, and faint, silvery veins were spider-webbing out from the wound, crawling up toward her elbow. It looked like frostbite. It felt like liquid fire.

*Because that wasn't a normal wolf.*

Damon’s parting words from that afternoon echoed in her skull.

A violent shiver wracked her body. She stumbled out of the bathroom, her fingers trembling as she grabbed the heavy black card from the kitchen counter.

*Silvermoon Timber Co.*

She didn't even have his personal number. Just a corporate landline that probably went to a voicemail. But she had no choice. She grabbed her phone, dialed the number, and pressed it to her ear, waiting for the inevitable automated prompt.

Instead, it rang once.

"Come outside."

The voice was a deep, freezing baritone. Damon.

Ella froze. "How did you—?"

"Outside, Ella. Now."

The line went dead.

Heart hammering against her ribs, she grabbed her coat and unlocked the front door.

The street was empty, bathed in the sickly yellow glow of the streetlights. But parked in the shadows across the road was a matte-black SUV. The engine was idling, a low, predatory rumble in the quiet night.

He hadn't just been waiting. He had been watching.

Ella crossed the street, her legs feeling like lead. She opened the passenger door and slid into the leather seat. The interior smelled overwhelmingly of him—crushed pine, ozone, and dark electricity. It made her dizzy.

Damon didn't look at her. His hands were gripped tightly on the steering wheel, his knuckles white. His jaw was clenched so hard a muscle feathered in his cheek.

"Show me," he commanded, his voice rougher than it had been that afternoon.

Ella pushed back her sleeve.

The silver veins pulsed faintly in the dim light. Damon’s breath hitched—a sharp, jagged sound. For a terrifying second, his eyes flashed a luminous, glowing silver in the darkness of the car. A low, vibrating growl built in his chest, completely involuntary.

Then he blinked, and the silver vanished. The mask of glacial indifference slammed back into place, though his chest rose and fell a little too fast.

"It's spreading," he said flatly.

"What is it?" Ella whispered, her teeth chattering. "An infection? Silver poisoning?"

"A claim." He put the car in drive. "Hold on."

***

The drive was a blur of winding forest roads and encroaching darkness. The cell signal died within twenty minutes. The trees grew impossibly thick, their branches intertwining overhead like a tunnel.

Ella’s fever spiked. Her head lolled against the cold window. Every time she shivered, she felt Damon’s gaze snap toward her, heavy and burning. He didn't offer his coat. He didn't speak. But the heater in the car was blasting on full, and his hand kept twitching toward her, as if fighting an invisible war against his own limbs, before snapping back to the wheel.

Finally, the trees broke.

Silvermoon Manor loomed out of the mist like a Gothic fortress. Stone walls, towering windows, and a sprawling lake that reflected the moonlight. It was beautiful, ancient, and utterly terrifying.

Damon killed the engine. He was out of the car and opening her door before she could unbuckle.

He didn't ask if she could walk. He simply wrapped a massive, scorching arm around her waist, taking her weight against his side. The heat radiating off his bare skin through his shirt was intoxicating.

"Walk," he murmured, his voice a low rumble near her ear.

They reached the massive oak doors. They swung open before they even touched them.

A man stood in the foyer. Mid-forties, built like a lumberjack, with a steady, weathered face.

It was the man from the porch. The one who had brought the dying wolf.

Marcus’s eyes widened as they landed on Ella. He didn't look suspicious. He looked relieved. He bowed his head, a gesture of profound, instinctual respect.

"Alpha," Marcus said, his voice thick with emotion. "You brought her. The healer."

"I brought a liability," Damon corrected coldly, though his arm tightened imperceptibly around Ella’s waist. "Prepare the East Wing. And get the physician."

Marcus nodded quickly, his eyes lingering on Ella's pale face. "Right away."

As Marcus hurried off, another figure stepped out from the shadows of the grand staircase.

Younger. Mid-twenties. Broad-shouldered, with a hard, cruel set to his jaw. He looked at Ella not with respect, but with undisguised disgust.

"You're bringing a human into the manor?" the young man sneered, stepping into their path. "A fragile, bleeding human? The pack is already on edge, Alpha."

He stressed the title, twisting it into something that sounded more like an insult than a sign of respect. "This is a weakness we can't afford."

Damon stopped.

The temperature in the grand foyer seemed to plummet. Damon didn't raise his voice. He didn't bare his teeth. He simply looked at the young man with eyes that were suddenly, terrifyingly silver. The sheer, crushing weight of his Alpha dominance flooded the room, making the air hard to breathe.

"Garrett," Damon whispered, the sound scraping like ice over stone. "Step aside."

Garrett’s throat bobbed. The biological instinct to submit warred with his pride, but the dominance in the air was suffocating. He took a rigid step back, lowering his chin just a fraction.

Damon didn't acknowledge the submission. He just kept walking, carrying Ella deeper into the fortress.

He kicked open a heavy wooden door at the end of the East Wing corridor and carried her inside, depositing her gently onto a massive, fur-lined bed.

Ella looked up at him, her vision blurring from the fever. "Why did you bring me here?" she rasped. "You said I was a complication."

Damon stood over her. He looked down at her arm, where the silver veins pulsed in time with her racing heart. His hand twitched again. This time, he didn't pull it back.

His large, calloused fingers lightly brushed the skin just above the wound. The touch was feather-light, but it sent a shockwave of pure, electric relief through her burning body.

"You are a complication," Damon said, his voice dropping to a gravelly whisper that vibrated in her chest. "But you are *my* complication. And no one touches what is mine."

He pulled his hand back as if he'd been burned, his eyes flashing with sudden, violent confusion at his own words. He stared at his own fingers, as if they belonged to a stranger.

"Sleep," he ordered, his tone turning rigid and cold once more as he turned his back to her. "We deal with the infection tomorrow."