MARRIED TO THE ALPHA KING, MATED TO THE MASKED WOLF

CHAPTER 5

Chapter 5

I have a routine. Not one I chose. One that appeared in my Google Calendar via a woman named Sandra who works for Kyle and emails me at 7 AM every single morning with my schedule for the day. I’ve never met Sandra. Sandra has never asked what I want. Sandra just sends calendar invites with titles like Hair Appointment - Giovanni’s, Madison Ave and Manicure - 2pm, Côte Salon and Dress Fitting - Blackthorne Gala like these are things I agreed to. I didn’t agree to anything. But the binding magic has opinions about what counts as leaving, and apparently going to a hair appointment on Madison Avenue doesn’t trigger it. So every morning I wake up, check Sandra’s email, go do the thing she scheduled, and wait for midnight. K comes at midnight. That part I chose.

Giovanni’s was on Madison in the upper class. The kind of salon that doesn’t have prices on its website. Just photos of beautiful women with perfect hair and a phone number you’re supposed to call. The woman who did my hair was named Celeste. She had this precise blonde balayage that probably took hours to maintain. She picked up a strand of my hair and examined the ends with the expression of someone who’d found a crime scene. “When did you last have a trim?” she asked. “Few months ago maybe.” “And before that?” “I do it myself usually.” Long pause. “With what?” “Kitchen scissors.” She set the strand down carefully like she needed a moment.

I called Mia while Celeste gathered her supplies.

Me: I’m at a salon on Madison. Can you meet me here? I’m losing my mind

Mia: Address

I sent it.

Mia: On my way. Twenty minutes.

Twenty minutes later, Mia walked into Giovanni’s looking completely out of place in her thrifted jacket and combat boots. She spotted me in the chair and grinned. “This place is insane,” she said, sitting in the empty chair next to mine. “Did you see the chandelier?” “I know.” Celeste appeared with foils and a color tray. She glanced at Mia, then at me. “Is this…?” “My sister,” I lied smoothly. “She’s keeping me company.” Celeste’s smile was professional. “Of course.”

For the next three hours, Mia sat with me while Celeste did things to my hair I didn’t ask for and explained each one in a tone that was both professional and deeply concerned. Balayage. Gloss treatment. Something called a bond repair. “Two hundred and fifty dollars for the bond repair alone,” I whispered to Mia. “For your hair?” “For my hair.” “That’s obscene.” “Everything here is obscene.” Mia scrolled through her phone while I sat there. We talked about nothing and everything. Maya’s science project. The cat who lived in Mia’s building. Anything except the fact that I was sitting in a salon chair getting my hair done because Sandra scheduled it and I had no choice. When Celeste finally turned me toward the mirror, I barely recognized myself. My hair was this warm brown with lighter pieces through it that caught the light. I looked expensive. I looked like I belonged on Kyle Blackthorne’s arm. Which was exactly the problem. “You look amazing,” Mia said. “I look like someone else.” “Same thing.” I tipped Celeste twenty dollars because that’s what I had in cash. She smiled like it was perfectly fine. It definitely wasn’t fine but there was nothing I could do about it.

Mia and I left together. Stood on Madison Avenue in the cold. “Coffee?” she asked. “I have a dinner thing tonight. Kyle’s business associates.” Mia made a face. “Fun.” “Yeah.” “You okay?” I looked at her. “No. But I will be.” She hugged me right there on the sidewalk. “Text me after. Tell me everything.” “I will.” She left. I watched her disappear into the subway. Then the driver arrived to take me back to the apartment to get ready for dinner.

The dinner was at some restaurant in Midtown. Beautiful ceilings. Soft lighting. Sandra’s calendar had said: Business Dinner - 7pm - Wear black dress from Tuesday fitting. The black dress was hanging in my closet. I put it on. Did my makeup. Looked at myself in the mirror. Perfect hair. Perfect dress. Perfect stranger. Kyle was waiting in the living room when I came out. Black suit. Silver tie. He looked at me the way he always did—clinical assessment, nothing more. “Ready?” he said. “Sure.”

The car ride was silent. Kyle on his phone. Me watching the city. Until we arrived at the restaurant. A host led us to a private room in the back. Three other couples were already there. Business associates, Kyle had said in the car. That was the only information I’d gotten. The introductions were quick. Names I didn’t retain. Handshakes. Polite smiles. We sat. Kyle next to me. His hand went to my knee under the table. I’d gotten used to this. The performance. His hand warm and heavy and completely impersonal. For them.

Dinner was ordered. Wine was poured. Conversation started. The men talked about territory expansion. Pack politics. Business I didn’t understand and didn’t care about. One of the women—Christine, I think—turned to me. “So Laura,” she said with a polite smile. “What did you do before you married Kyle?” The table went quiet. Just slightly. Everyone listening. I could feel Kyle’s hand tighten on my knee. A warning. I looked at Christine. Then at Kyle. Then back at Christine. “Delivery work,” I said clearly. “DoorDash mostly. Food delivery. I had a regular route through Queens. Good tips if you knew which neighborhoods to work.” Silence. Christine blinked. “Oh. How… interesting.” “Very,” I agreed. “You really get to know the city that way. The real city. Not just—” I gestured around the private dining room. “This.” Kyle’s hand on my knee was now gripping hard enough to hurt. One of the men—Robert—cleared his throat. “Well. That’s certainly… different.” Kyle smoothly redirected the conversation. Something about a development project. The table followed him because of course they did. His hand stayed on my knee. Tight. I’d crossed a line. I knew it. Didn’t care.

The rest of dinner was excruciating. I ate. Drank wine. Smiled when expected. Said almost nothing. Kyle’s hand didn’t move from my knee until we stood to leave. The car was waiting outside. We got in. The driver pulled into traffic. I waited for Kyle to say something. He didn’t speak until we were on the FDR Drive. “What the hell was that?” His voice was cold. Controlled. “What was what?” “DoorDash. You told them you did DoorDash.” “I did do DoorDash. It’s the truth.” “It’s inappropriate.” “Why? Because it’s not fancy enough for your business associates?” Kyle turned to look at me. His ice-blue eyes were furious in a way I’d never seen before. “Because it makes me look like I married someone who doesn’t understand the basics of pack politics.” “You married someone who doesn’t understand pack politics,” I said. “You knew that when you signed the contract.” “I expected you to have enough sense to—” He stopped. “You know what? Get out.” I stared at him. “What?” “Get out of the car.” “Kyle—” “I said get out. Driver. Pull over.” The driver pulled over. We were on the FDR. Not near anything. Just highway. Kyle looked at me. “Out.” “Are you serious?” “Do I look like I’m joking?” He was serious. “Fine,” I said. I got out. The car pulled away immediately. Didn’t even wait for me to close the door properly.

I stood on the side of the FDR Drive in a black dress and heels, watching the taillights disappear. Then I pulled out my phone. Called an Uber. It took forty-five minutes to get home. Traffic was terrible. I sat in the back of a stranger’s car and stared out the window and tried not to cry. I didn’t cry. I was too angry to cry. I got back to the apartment at 10:30. Let myself in. Went straight to my room. Changed into sweats. Sat on the bed. Heard Kyle come home an hour later. His door closed. No attempt to check if I’d made it back. No apology. Nothing.

At midnight, the pebble hit my window. I opened it. K climbed up. He took one look at my face. “What happened?” I told him everything. The dinner. DoorDash. Kyle’s hand gripping my knee. The car. Being left on the side of the FDR Drive in a dress and heels. K went very still as I talked. When I finished, he didn’t say anything for a long moment. “He left you on the highway,” K said. His voice was different. Dangerous. “Yeah.” “Alone. At night.” “Yeah.” “The Alpha King left his Luna on the side of the highway because you embarrassed him at dinner.” “That’s the situation.” K stood up. Started pacing. His hands were in fists. “I’m going to kill him.” “K—” “I mean it. I’m going to—” He stopped. Took a breath. “You could’ve been hurt. Anything could’ve happened.” “I’m fine.” “That’s not the point.” He turned to look at me. “He’s supposed to protect you. That’s what an Alpha does. Even if he hates you, even if the marriage is political, he’s supposed to—” He stopped again.

I watched him. Something was off. The way he was talking. Like he knew Kyle personally. Like this was more than just defending me. “K,” I said carefully. “How much do you know about Kyle Blackthorne?” K went very still. “Some things.” “What things?” Long pause. “Things most people don’t know,” he said quietly. “Like what?” K sat back down on the bed. Looked at me. “Kyle had a wife before you. Three years ago. She died. One month after the wedding.” My stomach dropped. “What?” “Officially? Accident. She fell from the apartment terrace. But there were questions. Things that didn’t add up. The pack investigated. Found nothing concrete. Kyle was cleared.” “But you don’t think it was an accident.” “I think the Alpha King has a pattern of marrying women he doesn’t love and treating them like they don’t exist. And I think you need to be very, very careful.”

I sat there. My husband—the Alpha King—maybe killed his first wife. And I was living in the same apartment where it happened. “The terrace,” I said slowly. “I sit out there. Every day.” “I know.” “K, if he—if he wanted to—” “That’s why I’m here every night,” K said. “That’s why I’m not leaving you alone with him.” I looked at him. At the mask that never came off. At the gold eyes behind it. “Please how did you get to know all this. Who are you?” I asked. “Really. Who are you that you know all this?” K reached over. Took my hand. “I’m the chosen one for you,” he said. “That’s all you need to know right now.” “That’s not enough.” “It has to be.”

We sat there. His hand in mine. I still think I need to know who K is. And somewhere on the other side of this apartment, my husband—who might be a murderer—was sleeping. Or maybe not sleeping. Maybe listening. “Stay tonight,” I whispered. “Please.” K didn’t hesitate. “Okay.” He stayed until dawn. I didn’t sleep. Neither did he. And I thought about a woman who’d stood on that terrace three years ago. And whether she’d jumped. Or been pushed.