Alphas Hidden Mate

Thirteen Years Ago: The snow was red, stained by blood, thick and vivid against the white silence of the forest. Rye knelt in the middle of the forest clearing, arms wrapped around the broken body of the only woman he had ever loved. Her golden hair, usually so bright it shimmered like sunlight, was now soaked with blood. It tangled around his fingers as he pressed her closer, as if his warmth could keep her here. As if he could stop her from fading. His mind kept focusing on the red. The red in her hair and the red in the snow. Her blood was everywhere, but his mind refused to see it. He couldn’t face that. Not yet. So instead, he focused on the red. It didn’t belong here. It didn’t belong on her. He looked down at his wife. Her eyes were wide. Glassy. Unseeing. Beside them, their daughter whimpered; small, scared, smeared with crimson where she’d crawled through the snow. Small fingers clutched the edge of Eira’s scarf, already stiff with frost. She didn’t understand what had happened. And maybe that was a blessing. But Rye knew. The wolves who had turned on them, once allies, once friends, had been driven by jealousy and fear. A hunger for what Eira carried in her blood. They had planned it. Ambushed her while she was out gathering herbs. She fought to the end. Held them off long enough for Birdie to survive. Long enough for Rye to find her. Eira died protecting their child. She had died. His beautiful wife was gone and the pain of facing a life without her weighed so heavy on his chest, he swore it would explode. He couldn’t shift. Couldn’t breathe. Couldn’t howl for help. Because it was too late. He had failed her. The betrayal burned in his chest. Trusted wolves had turned on them. They’d been hunted like prey. And for what? Jealousy? Power? Fear? “Eira died protecting Birdie.” He repeated the words like a prayer over and over in his mind. At times, he found himself whispering the words out loud as if sharing his secret with the forest. “Birdie was still here”. And now, Rye had only one mission; keep Birdie alive and safe. Even if it meant never shifting again. Even if it meant burying the truth. Even if it meant hiding from the very world he was born into. That life didn’t matter anymore, not when half the light in his heart had faded. “Eira is dead. She died protecting Birdie”. Rye’s wolf wanted out. Gray was howling, snarling, clawing at his insides, desperate to avenge her. To shift. To take over. But Rye wouldn’t shift. He couldn’t. Because if he gave in to Gray, he wouldn’t come back. If he shifted, the rage would consume him. The pain would unmake him. And Birdie would lose both of her parents that day. So he buried his wolf. He caged Gray with sheer will and a grief so raw it burned through his bones. He couldn’t afford to let out his grief. Not yet. He kissed his wife on the forehead, a kiss wrapped in grief, regrets and goodbyes. With hands that wouldn’t stop shaking, he lifted her into his arms. Birdie clung to his shirt, silent and confused. Rye readjusted, cradling Eira’s body in one arm and holding Birdies tiny hand in his other. When Birdie grew tired, he wrapped his free arm around his daughter, holding them both as tightly as he could. Rye knew that this would be the last time he would be able to hold them both in his arms together; focussing on breathing, he tried to find comfort in having them both near to him now. He carried them through the forest, snow crunching beneath his boots, each step a goodbye he hadn’t been ready to say. He brought her to the grove, their grove. A sacred hush blanketed the clearing, untouched by violence, shielded by the ancient trees that had once listened to her laughter. Nothing here had been tainted by red. This is where she would rest. He laid her down carefully, as if the earth itself might hurt her. He gave himself more time than he should have. More time to say goodbye to his fated mate. To the love of his life. To the mother of his child. Then he gathered flowers, the ones hardy enough to bloom despite the snow, the wind, the cold. The ones that reminded him of Eira. He wove them into a ring and placed them gently around her. He prayed to the Moon Goddess to welcome her home. To let her find peace. To let her rest. He stood back for a moment, watching her, as though committing every detail of her to memory. She didn’t deserve this. She should’ve been laid to rest among her people, with ceremony, with honor. But Rye couldn’t take her home. He couldn’t go back. He couldn’t face what remained. Birdie wasn’t safe there anymore. This was no longer their home. He looked at Eira one last time and whispered his love for her into the wind that stirred the branches overhead. A growl in the distance snapped him back to reality. Stepping away, his voice low and ragged, he offered one final prayer to the Moon Goddess. “Forgive me.” The sounds of growls drew closer, seeming to curl around the edges of the clearing like a warning. A warning to Rye that he was running out of time. That Birdie was no longer safe here. Rye turned to Birdie. She was crouched in the snow beside her mother, her tiny frame dwarfed by the vast, white silence around them. He watched as she placed a flower, one of the few still clinging to life in the frost, into Eira’s open hand and leaned forward to kiss her forehead, just like she’d seen her father do. Then she turned and looked at him. Her eyes were wide and solemn, old in a way no child’s eyes should ever be. It nearly undid him. The grief he’d been holding back cracked wide open, threatening to flood every inch of him. His knees buckled, his throat burned with the weight of everything he couldn’t say. For one terrible second, he almost let go, of the moment, of the fight, of himself. He nearly allowed Gray to take over completely. But then a growl rolled through the trees. Low. Threatening. Too close. His body snapped back into urgency. The urgency to protect his pup. He picked her up. And he ran.