The Feral Alpha King's Unwanted Guide

Chapter 5

Harper

"Vane! Behind you!"

The words ripped out before I knew I'd opened my mouth.

He moved on instinct. The second Rogue down with a snapped neck, already pivoting toward the third mid-leap.

A beat too slow.

The Rogue slammed into him. Both bodies hit the ground in a tangle of fur and blood, rolling once, twice, until the Rogue ended up on top, jaws snapping toward Vane's exposed throat.

My hand was on the sidearm before my brain caught up.

Six months of training had consisted of someone showing me which end the bullet came out of. But adrenaline is a funny thing. I lifted the weapon with both shaking hands, pointed it at the very large monster trying to eat my partner, and squeezed.

The recoil knocked me back a step. The shot hit the Rogue's foot.

The Rogue shrieked—a high, wet sound that scraped down my spine. Silver rounds. Apparently even a foot wound was enough to convince a feral werewolf the menu wasn't worth it. It wrenched itself off Vane and disappeared between the containers.

Silence.

I lowered the gun. My hands wouldn't stop shaking.

"Vane." I jogged over, dropped to my knees beside him. "Are you—"

He shoved me away.

Not hard. Just enough that I rocked back onto my heels, one palm scraping concrete. He was already pushing himself up, blood streaking down his ribs, breath coming in tight controlled bursts.

"What was that." It wasn't a question. "The most basic Link in the manual. The first thing every Guide learns. And you couldn't do it."

"Vane—"

"You're not a Guide." His voice was low, vicious. "You're a liability with a clearance badge."

Something hot and sharp cracked open in my chest.

Carried like a sack of potatoes at 5 AM. Dragged into a combat zone I had no business in. Just fired a gun for the first time to save his ungrateful neck. And this was what I got.

I looked up and met his eyes dead-on.

"A link is two-way," I said. "I slammed into your walls so many times I almost blacked out. You're sealed up tighter than a bomb shelter and you want to blame me for not getting through?"

His jaw clenched. I kept going.

"And while we're at it, what kind of Sentinel charges thirty meters ahead of his Guide on their first mission? You didn't wait, didn't communicate, didn't even check if I was still alive back there. So before you call me useless, maybe ask yourself what kind of partner you've been."

The silence that followed could've cut glass.

Vane stared at me. Something flickered in his eyes, the amber darkening, and something fractured behind his expression. Like a switch flipped in a circuit no one had tested.

Then reality caught up with my mouth. I'd just screamed at a destabilized Alpha whose collar was still pulsing orange. In the middle of a Rogue-infested kill zone.

His fist clenched at his side. One breath. Two. The collar flickered once more, then dimmed.

He walked past me without a word. Close enough that his shoulder nearly grazed mine. I stood there listening to his footsteps fade against concrete until the silence swallowed them whole.

I should've felt relieved. I felt worse.

________

Mission report hit the system an hour later. Bond evaluation: failed.

I sat in the mess hall poking at cold chicken, wondering how I'd gone from counting bottles to the worst-performing Guide in Camp 07's history.

"Oh my god. Harper, you're alive!"

Priya materialized across the table, flanked by our other two roommates, Bex and Sonia. Three pairs of eyes locked onto me with the intensity of people starving for information.

"Debatable."

"Spill." Priya planted both hands on the table. "What does he look like? Is he really—"

"He's a jerk." I stabbed the chicken. "Mission went sideways. He blamed me."

"They sent you on a mission?!" Bex choked on her water.

"What did you think E-class plus 001 looked like? A raise?" I shoved the chicken in my mouth. "Spoiler. No raise. Possibly a tombstone."

I got three sentences into the bathroom-floor blanket-burrito story before the table went quiet. A shadow fell across my tray.

"Tough day, E-class?"

The voice was syrup. I looked up.

Lyra. The strongest Guide in Camp 07, hair somehow still perfect after combat, trailed by two B-class Guides like backup dancers. She set her tray on our table without asking.

She tilted her head. Compassionate. Practiced. "I heard the mission ran into difficulties."

I set my fork down.

"Honestly," she said, soft as cotton, "001 is a special case. He needs someone who can match his intensity. It's not your fault the system mismatched you."

Her eyes met mine. The sympathy peeled off like a sticker.

"I'm the Guide he should have."

I let out a slow breath.

Oh, honey. She thought she wanted him. They all did—every A-class who'd seen the jawline and the bloodline and decided that was the whole story. None of them had been dumped on a bathroom floor at 5 AM as a blanket burrito.

I shrugged.

"Go for it."

Lyra blinked.

"Seriously." I picked up my tray. "Match with him. Honestly you'd be doing me a favor. I've had it up to here with the egomaniac."

Her mouth opened. Whatever rehearsed comeback she'd loaded was now visibly stuck behind her teeth.

I stood up. I'd had enough of this day, this mess hall, this entire planet.

Then I froze.

Because someone was standing in the doorway.

Vane.

He'd changed his shirt. The bandage from his medical wrap-up peeked out above his collar, white against his throat. He was leaning against the doorframe with his arms crossed, like he'd been there a while. Long enough to hear plenty.

And the look on his face said he'd heard exactly the parts I'd most prefer he hadn't.

My stomach dropped straight through the floor.

The mess hall noticed him three seconds after I did. Whispers cut off like someone pulled a plug.

Lyra recovered first. Of course she did.

She rose from her seat with a smile that could've sold real estate and stepped toward him.

"Sentinel 001." Her voice carried, perfectly pitched for the room. "I'm Lyra. A-class. 98.6 percent match success rate. I understand today's operation had complications."

She stopped in front of him and lifted her hand toward his collar. Manicured. Steady. A-class wristband on full display.

"Let me try."

The room went still. I stood there clutching my tray like an extra who'd wandered onto the wrong set. I should be thrilled. Lyra wanted the job, the dream restored—three meals, a nap, my old life back.

My chest did something painful and involuntary.

Vane looked at her hand. The whole second stretched out, slow and humming. He raised his own hand.

He brushed it aside.

Light. Almost careless. Like sweeping a strand of grass out of his path.

"Not necessary."

Lyra's smile stayed pinned in place. The hand at her side curled into a fist.

He walked past her like she wasn't there. Straight toward me.

I stepped back on instinct. My shoulder blades hit the wall.

He stopped in front of me. Close enough that I had to tilt my chin up. Close enough that I could see the gold threading through the amber of his irises, the faint flecks of crimson still buried underneath.

"Whether you like it or not." His voice was low, pitched for me alone. "You're tied to me now."

His fingers closed around my wrist.

Not tight. Not hurting. But absolute.

He pulled me past Lyra's bloodless face, past Priya's open mouth, past every stare in the room. My tray clattered onto a stranger's table.

My brain went completely offline. The only signal cutting through the static was the heat of his fingers on my pulse point, right where my heartbeat was doing something embarrassing and completely beyond my control.

He didn't let go.