Conquered By The Blind Alpha

Burning Flesh

ALLE

Clarisse's face fills my dreams and I can't wake up.

Her skin is melting, peeling away in sheets of blackened flesh that reveal the raw muscle and bone beneath. Her eyes—those green eyes that used to light up with mischief—are wide with agony, tears evaporating before they can fall. Her mouth opens in a scream I can hear echoing in my skull, high-pitched and so f*****g animalistic it tears me apart from the inside out.

The flames consume her wedding dress first, the white fabric curling into ash, and then her hair catches—that beautiful red hair she'd spent hours styling—turning to ember and smoke. The smell hits me next, burnt flesh and charred bone, sweet and rancid and wrong in ways that make my stomach heave.

I try to move, try to reach her, but my body won't respond. The drug keeps me pinned to the ground while my best friend burns alive ten feet away. I can feel the heat of the flames on my own skin, blistering and searing, phantom pain that feels real enough to make me sob.

"Alle," she gasps, her voice wet and broken. "You promised. You promised you wouldn't let me die."

But I did let her die.

I failed.

I wake up drenched in sweat and tears, gasping for breath like I've been drowning. My throat is raw—I must've been screaming in my sleep but I don't remember, don't want to remember. The sheets are tangled around my legs, trapping me, and for a moment I'm back there on the grass unable to move, unable to save anyone.

I kick free violently, nearly falling off the bed, my heart slamming against my ribs so hard it hurts.

The room is quiet. Empty. Safe.

Clarisse is still dead.

I press my palms against my eyes, trying to stop the tears, trying to breathe through the grief that threatens to choke me. My chest aches with it, this constant weight that never f*****g lightens no matter how many days pass.

Eventually I force myself up, stumble to the bathroom, splash cold water on my face until my skin goes numb.

When I look in the mirror, I barely recognize myself. Dark circles shadow my eyes. My skin looks ashen, stretched too tight over my cheekbones. The scratches on my skin had faded to thin pink lines but they're still visible, reminders of my desperation.

I look haunted.

I look broken.

Good.

Maybe Winter will finally see what he's f*****g done.

Sun light pours through the floor-to-ceiling windows when I step onto the balcony, pale and cold and somehow too bright for how I feel inside. I'm exhausted—those nightmares kept me awake most of the night—but staying in that room feels like suffocating, so I brave the freezing air in nothing but the sweater and jeans from yesterday.

The view should piss me off with how beautiful it is. Endless snow-covered fields stretch out before me, perfect white broken only by the dark line of forest in the distance. Mountains rise beyond that, their peaks sharp against the morning sky. It's the kind of view that belongs on a postcard, the kind of landscape that people pay money to see.

I hate that I notice. Hate that some part of me can still appreciate beauty when everything inside feels ugly and ruined.

Movement catches my eye near the tree line and I force my attention away from my own misery.

Warriors are training in the distance, their formations incredibly skilled and deadly even from here. I can see them moving through drills, hear the faint sounds of combat carrying on the wind. They're good. Disciplined. Everything my warriors should have been if I'd trained them better, prepared them better, been better.

My fingers grip the balcony railing hard enough to hurt.

Then I see something else farther out, past the training grounds, nestled against the forest's edge. At first I think it's just more of the estate's ridiculous architecture—this place seems to go on forever, buildings and structures spreading out like some kind of compound designed by someone with too much money and not enough sense of scale.

But then I realize what I'm looking at.

A greenhouse. Massive, gleaming glass and steel that steals the morning light and throws it back in scattered prisms. It's beautiful in a functional way, utilitarian but elegant, and completely out of place among all the modern luxury surrounding it.

And inside, moving between rows of green that shouldn't exist in winter, is him.

Winter.

Shirtless despite the cold that's currently turning my fingers numb.

My breath catches and I tell myself it's from the freezing air, not from the way my traitorous eyes map every inch of his body without permission.

He's too far away for me to see details clearly but somehow I see everything anyway. His hair is pulled back in what looks like a haphazardly messy bun, not the neat ponytail from last night. Even from this distance I can see strands falling loose around his face, sticking to skin that must be damp with sweat. His eyes stare ahead at nothing—always at nothing—but his hands move with an efficiency that seems impossible for someone who can't see. Like f*****g witchcraft.

He's carrying bags of soil that must weigh hundreds of pounds, slinging them over his shoulder like they're filled with feathers instead of dirt. Werewolf strength, sure, but his seems greater somehow. More controlled. More dangerous.

His body is a map of scars and I find myself counting each one I can make out. The large one running from shoulder to lower back stands out even from here, raised and vicious-looking. Smaller ones scatter across his chest, his arms, his sides—a lifetime of violence written on his skin.

Alphas heal fast. Faster than normal wolves, faster than humans, fast enough that most injuries don't leave marks.

Which means those scars came from wolfsbane or melted silver.

The thought makes something uncomfortable twist in my chest. Both options are cruel, designed to cause maximum agony, to leave permanent damage. What kind of life leaves someone covered in scars like that?

I shove the sympathy down hard because I don't f*****g care about his pain. I don't.

But I keep watching.

He moves with surprising grace for someone who can't see, each motion efficient and purposeful like he's mapped every inch of that space in his mind. There's a gentleness in how he handles the plants, a carefulness that seems at odds with the man who threw Rex into a wall last night.

Someone approaches him—tall, dark-skinned, his complexion slightly darker than mine, maybe three inches shorter than Winter's ridiculous height. He's wearing white sneakers that trigger something in my memory.

I know those shoes.

Recognition slams into me and my fingers tighten on the railing until my knuckles ache.

That's his beta. The bastard who was with Winter the night they took me. The one who stood there watching while I tried to attack Winter, who called me hot and said he wanted to test my "famed strength" like my reputation was a f*****g joke.

Rage burns hot in my throat but I force myself to keep watching.

They exchange words I can't hear from this distance. Then Winter throws his head back and laughs—actually laughs—and the sound doesn't carry but I can see it transform his entire face. Makes him look younger, almost...warm.

My heart does something complicated in my chest.

Something warm and unwanted that makes me want to punch through the glass doors behind me.

I hate that I notice. Hate that I can't stop watching the way his body moves, the casual display of strength, that unexpected softness in his expression when he's around his plants instead of around me.

Hate that my body responds with heat low in my belly, with that constant ache the mate bond creates, with the urge to go down there and—

What? Kill him? Fvck him? I don't even fvcking know anymore.

"He owns one of the largest agricultural companies in the country."

I don't jump but it's a near thing. Freda's appeared on the balcony behind me, carrying a breakfast tray and wearing that same gentle smile that makes me feel like I'm disappointing her somehow.

"Our pack is called Draven Pack," she continues, setting the tray down on the small table. "It was created centuries ago by a rogue who wanted something different. Something better, so he and his family created this and Winter has been carrying on in their stead." Freda explains without being asked, but I don't stop her, "The act makes all of this feel worth it, for him."

I don't turn around, keep my eyes on Winter even though every instinct screams at me to stop giving him this much attention. "What?"

"Winter. The farming keeps him grounded." Her voice goes soft, almost reverent. "He says he needs to feel the earth, smell growth, know things can live despite..."

She trails off and I finish for her, the words bitter on my tongue. "Despite the darkness."

"Yes."

I process this new information, adding it to everything else I'm learning about my captor. Winter Draven—the blind conqueror who destroyed my pack, who keeps me prisoner, who plans to mark me in three weeks—is a farmer. Spends his time nurturing life instead of taking it.

The contradiction is so jarring it almost makes me laugh.

"He spends more time in those greenhouses than anywhere else on the estate," Freda adds. "Sometimes days at a time. The pack knows not to disturb him there. It's his sanctuary."

Even monsters need sanctuaries, apparently.

"What does he grow?" I ask, then immediately regret showing interest.

"Everything. Vegetables, fruits, herbs, medicinal plants." There's pride in her voice now, genuine affection. "He supplies food for all fifteen pack houses, sells the surplus. The profits go back into pack resources. Housing, education, healthcare—it all comes from what he builds here."

Freda hesitates, shifting her weight, and I can feel her choosing her next words carefully. "He's not what you think, Alle. Not entirely."

That breaks my trance.

I finally turn away from Winter, from the greenhouse, from that damned image of him laughing. "He murdered my people. Good people."

My voice comes out flat, dead, and I see Freda flinch.

"I don't..." She hesitates, averts her gaze like she can't quite meet my eyes anymore. Opens her mouth, closes it, tries again. "Maybe I'm biased because he's my friend, but Winter is a good Alpha."

The words hit me wrong, scrape against something raw.

My father wasn't a good Alpha, but he also didn't kill innocent people just because he was hungry for more power.

"He might be a good Alpha," I bite out, my voice tight with barely controlled fury. "But is he a good man?"

Freda's mouth opens but nothing comes out. She stands there looking tongue-tied and uncomfortable, and her silence is answer enough.

It pisses me off more than any defense would have. More than excuses or explanations or attempts to justify what he's done. Her inability to answer such a simple f*****g question tells me everything I need to know.

The nightmare is still fresh in my mind—Clarisse burning, screaming my name, dying while I lay there useless. The memory claws at my throat, mixing with the rage building in my chest until I feel like I might explode.

"Please leave," I manage, each word careful and controlled because if I lose it now I might start screaming and never stop.

Freda looks reluctant, takes a half-step forward like she wants to say something, fix this somehow. Her mouth opens again.

"Now," I add, my tone leaving no room for argument.

She deflates slightly, nods. "I'll... I'll be back later. With lunch."

Then she's gone and I'm alone again with my thoughts and the image of Winter working in his greenhouse and the ghost of Clarisse burning behind my eyelids.

I tear myself away from the balcony, stumble back into the room, but Winter's image follows me. Burns itself into my mind.

Three weeks until the full moon.

Three weeks until he marks me.

I need to escape before then. Need to run, to fight, to do something other than stand here wanting the man who destroyed everything I love.

But as I stare at my reflection—at the want written plainly across my features despite my hatred—I realize the terrifying truth.

I'm not just running from Winter anymore.

I'm running from the sick, twisted part of myself that wants him despite everything.

And I don't know which is more dangerous.