The Alpha's Forbidden Coyote Mate

Chapter Two

The sun sinks low, melting into shades of blue, violet, and streaks of gold. I watch, captivated, as its buttery haze disappears behind the clouds. For a moment, it reminds me of Falls Quaker sunsets back home, and the ache of being stuck in Rome, Georgia eases.

Al’s bed is empty. She left for a run two hours ago and hasn’t returned.

I dial Israfil, one of my best friends. The line rings five times before his voice booms, asking me to leave a message. I hang up and try again. This time, the robotic woman informs me my call has been forwarded to voicemail. My jaw tightens. Did he just ignore me? Fuming, I stab at the screen again. Same message. Same infuriating voice. I want to strangle her almost as much as him. Fine. I’ll try later.

If boredom could kill, I’d already be buried in the backyard. I only brought a handful of clothes, so unpacking feels pointless. I’ve already spoken to Anna, my best friend, and managed to dodge her mother. Anna’s mom is a siren—and sirens bring a whole new meaning to the word enemy. By default, she sees Israfil and me as threats. I get it: sirens and werecreatures have been at war since before the universe was dust. But Anna and Israfil are family. I’d never hurt them. Granted, I’ve wanted to strangle them for being annoying, but that’s friendship, not lineage.

Anna had sounded hollow, repeating I’m fine until it rang false. Guilt gnaws at me for not being in California with her. Israfil, the i***t causing her misery, isn’t answering my calls. The two of them are in love, though they refuse to admit it. Before I left, Anna finally asked him out—only for her mother to block it, forcing Israfil and his father out of town before their first date. Sirens wield power in our world. Too much power.

Anna’s mother despises Israfil because he’s a werepanther. The tragic part? He doesn’t even know. His father muted his inner animal, keeping him ignorant of his heritage. Israfil has never shifted, never heard the voice of the beast inside him. I wish someone had done that for me. Being a werecreature means constant restraint—silencing the violent urges of the animal you share a body with.

I wonder why his father hides the truth. In our world, everyone knows the royals. For a king to cut ties, to keep his son oblivious, is unthinkable. My mother told me Israfil’s dad withdrew after his wife died. But she wouldn’t say how. Copper and sirens are lethal to us, so I’m willing to bet she was murdered. His father told humans it was childbirth. He told Israfil the same lie.

Most humans’ stories about us aren’t far off. They think we need full moons to shift—we don’t. We can change at will, though heightened emotions can trigger it. What they miss is our origin.

We came from the forbidden animals—colossal lions, wolves, panthers, hyenas. Beasts three times the size of their kin, faster, stronger, immortal. A shaman gave them power in exchange for loyalty. They fought his wars until they turned on him, killed him, and claimed peace in a sanctuary built by a witch.

Humans, greedy as ever, discovered them. They demanded favors, threatened exposure, and when denied, attacked. The forbidden animals fought back. Many humans died; those who survived carried bites that changed them. That curse birthed us—the werecreatures.

Shunned by the forbiddens, we built our own societies. Kings rose, civilizations formed. We learned we were immortal, though not indestructible. Sirens remained our greatest threat. Their power burns us alive, or drowns us in acid.

A sharp whistle snaps me out of my thoughts.

Al bursts in, grinning like a Cheshire cat. She’s dressed in a glitter‑drenched tank top and a black mini skirt that could outshine a disco ball. “We’re going out. You and me.” She points at me. “Nightclub. Maybe you'll meet a guy. So change into something that doesn’t scream nun on her day off.”

I bite back a retort—nuns don’t take days off or hit nightclubs—but one look at her outfit tells me it’s pointless. “Give me five minutes.”

The second she leaves, I dump my duffel bag onto the bed. I settle on a red halter top, jean shorts, and the black knee‑high boots I got for my sixteenth birthday. A brush tames my long, wavy black hair, and I swipe on the shimmery pink lip gloss my sister Marja insists I should always wear.

Thirty minutes later, I’m trailing Al out the door. She throws a grin over her shoulder and yells, “We're ou for the rest of the night, ” at Freya and Sebastian as we vanish into the night.