The Alpha's Forbidden Coyote Mate

“This is not Australia.” My mother doesn’t even blink. “You’re a genius, Maryelle—too clever for the world.” “Mom, seriously? You promised me Australia. Sunshine, kangaroos, gelato. Instead, we’re… here.” I gesture at the cracked pavement outside Atlanta’s airport, the humid air sticking to my skin like a warning. I should’ve known something was off when she steered us toward the rental cars instead of the connecting gate. The ticket agent’s side‑eye suddenly makes sense—her muttered good luck under her breath. She knew I wasn’t leaving the country. Everyone knew. Except me. We drive until the city thins into silence, until the houses sag like they’ve given up. The one she stops at looks like it’s been abandoned by hope itself. Paint peels in strips, the door hangs crooked, and the windows are filmed with grime thick enough to hide ghosts. One pane dangles loose, ready to guillotine whoever walks beneath it. If I weren’t a werecoyote, I’d be worried about asbestos poisoning just from breathing near the place. Teenagers sprawl across the yard, watching us with the lazy hunger of predators sizing up fresh meat. “Welcome to Rome, Georgia.” My mother’s smirk is sharp enough to cut. I stare at her. “If this dump is Rome, then I’m Caesar. And we’re about to get stabbed.” “Enjoy your stay, Caesar. Watch out for Brutus.” Her laugh is too quick, too brittle. I shake my head. “Pretty sure you meant enjoy our stay.” She pats my shoulder, her grin all teeth. “You’re on your own, kid. Everyone else finished combat training years ago. You’re the one who stalled—running off every summer with that werepanther boy and the siren’s daughter.” Her tone curdles at Anna’s mother’s name. “Mar, I like your friend Anna. But her mother? Hostile. She’s not stupid enough to touch you. But you need to be trained for combat.” I know she just wants me safe, able to defend myself, so I don’t argue. I just hug her, breathing in the familiar scent of lavender perfume, knowing it’s the last comfort I’ll get for a while. “Eat your veggies. Stay out of trouble.” “Enjoy your flight. Try not to end up in jail.” My voice is light, but my chest aches. We’re not just mother and daughter—we’re best friends who bicker like it’s a sport. And I’ll miss her. Her eyes harden as she catches a glance at the group in front of us. “Stay away from the tattooed boy.” I grin, reckless. “Too late, Mom. I’m already planning our shotgun wedding. You brought me here instead of Australia. So when in Rome, right?” My drawl is exaggerated, mocking, but her smirk vanishes like smoke. “Maryelle Arie Cirale, that is not funny. Behave yourself. You’re not here for boys, you’re here to train.” She shoves my purse at me, kisses the top of my head, closes the car door, and peels away, tires screaming like they’re glad to escape. And just like that, my Australian summer vacation evaporates in exhaust fumes. A grunt splits the air seconds later. My head snaps toward the yard. Two boys are locked in combat, shirtless, sweat gleaming across sculpted torsos in the Georgia sun. This isn’t a scuffle—it’s a war. Every punch lands with bone‑cracking force. The crowd doesn’t flinch; they feed on it, eyes bright, entertained. The taller, dark‑haired one—broad‑shouldered, chest cut with muscle, abs carved like stone—moves with predator’s grace, every strike precise. Then his eyes catch mine. Sapphire, flecked with gold, cool yet burning, like they’ve been waiting for me. The world tilts. For a heartbeat, it feels like time stops. My lungs forget how to work; breath stalls in my chest. He looks away, slams his fist into the blond’s ribs, but I barely register it. I’m still caught in his gravity. The blond is leaner, wiry strength coiled tight, his grin flashing through blood. He spits red into the dirt. He looks at Sapphire eyes and says, “Phantom, did your uncle send over a babysitter ’cause he heard I was kicking your ass? Run along, sweetheart, I’m not done rearranging his ugly face.” Phantom’s response is a dangerous smirk that doesn’t reach his steely gaze. He doesn’t waste words. His jaw tightens, shoulders roll back, and the air shifts—commanding, magnetic. He raises his fist, ready to cave the blond’s jaw. Instinct takes over—I’m moving before I think. My hand clamps around his wrist, stopping the blow mid‑air. His skin sears mine, heat flooding my veins. My pulse stutters, then races, betraying me. My breath comes shallow, uneven, like my body is trying to keep up with the fire he ignites. “You’ll kill him!” My voice cuts through the noise, but it’s thin compared to the roar inside me. “I’m not that fragile, sweetheart.” The blond laughs, blood streaking his lips. Phantom doesn’t. His gaze drags over me, slow, deliberate, curious. For a heartbeat his eyes soften, hunger flickering before he masks it with a cool smirk. His chest rises faster, thumb flexing against my hand. He’s fighting more than the blond—he’s fighting the pull between us. My own breath falters, caught in the weight of his stare. When his eyes lock on mine again, it’s not curiosity. It’s want. Raw, magnetic. My lips tingle, traitorous, the sensation spreading, dizzying. My heartbeat pounds against my ribs, loud, insistent. The crowd senses it too; their jeers falter, silence thickening. “You’re absolutely right. This entire scene is beneath me. Let’s go home,” he quips. Then he takes my hand. Not a touch—a claim. Electricity detonates under my skin, leaving me raw and exposed. His thumb lingers against my knuckles, deliberate, sending a shiver up my arm. My breath catches, shallow and quick. My heartbeat is a drum, loud enough for every werecreature here to hear. His smirk deepens, but his eyes betray him—bright, intent, locked on me like I’m the only thing in the yard. He knows. He feels it too. And that knowledge is more dangerous than his fists. I yank my hand back, shocked at his brazen words, at myself, at the way my body betrays me. “I don’t know you. And I’m not going anywhere with you,” I say, but the tremor in my voice betrays the false bravado. He winks, lethal charm wrapped in menace. His gaze sweeps over me again, no longer hiding the fact that he’s checking me out. “Looking forward to changing that. I guess I’ll see you around.” Then his glare slices toward the blond. “Touch my sister again, and I’ll kill you.” He’s gone, the crowd parting like shadows to let him pass. My skin still burns where he touched me. My breath hasn’t steadied. My pulse hasn’t slowed. And I know—I’m already in trouble. “Are you finished drooling yet? Or should I give you another moment to explain why you’re still on my property?” Blond Boy asks. I roll my eyes. Fantastic. Rome, Georgia’s got comedians. “Which one of you is Gaston?” I ask, ignoring his jab. “That would be me.” He raises his hand. Of all the rotten luck… “I’m Maryelle.” His confusion doesn’t fade, so I add, “My mother paid you to train me. For the mandated combat exit test.” “Oh, right.” His expression clears. “Sorry you had to witness that mess with Phantom. I wasn’t expecting you ’til tomorrow. Come on.” I follow, gravel crunching under my shoes. “I’m calling dibs on this one. She’s hot,” another voice cuts in. A boy rises from the porch steps, messy black hair falling to his shoulders, grin wide. “Hey, cutie. I’m Sebastian. My room’s upstairs, second door on the right.” Gaston’s silver eyes flick toward me, sharp and assessing, as if waiting to see how I’ll respond. His gaze is cool, disciplined—steel where Phantom had been fire. It makes me straighten instinctively, breath catching before I force it even. “What time does training start?” I ask. Sebastian’s grin only grows.“Why don’t you let me take you to dinner and we’ll discuss it over food?” He waggles his brows. Um… no. I open my mouth, but Gaston cuts in first. “Bash, I don’t think the little coyote is interested in wolves—or in you.” Shock flashes across my face. Wolves? My pulse skips.Gaston reads it easily. “The werecoyotes who signed on to train you opted for a summer vacation in Australia. Apparently there’s a ten‑day festival being held there.” “Figures,” I mutter. “They didn’t think one trainee was worth sticking around for. Lucky for you, my pack needed the money, so I took the job.” His words are blunt, his gaze steady. Cool, disciplined. Nothing like Phantom’s burning stare. So I’ll be living in a house full of wolves. The odd woman out. The pariah. “Training starts at five. Everyone on the field by four‑thirty,” Gaston says. “You can stay out here and make friends with the riffraff.” He gestures toward the scattered crowd. “Come inside when you’re ready.” Without waiting, he disappears down a path toward the backyard. “If you change your mind…” Sebastian smirks, tossing me another wink. “Hey, Gaston. Hold up!” He jogs after him, leaving me in the humid air, pulse still uneven from Phantom’s touch, now caught between wolves with their own ideas about me. ********************** I let out a sigh and decide to find my room now rather than later. It’s roughly four in the afternoon. The sun hangs low, casting a molten glow across the damp grass, turning it into a field of emeralds. At least the wreck of a house has a decent front yard. Swinging my bag over my shoulder, I head for the front door. The first step inside makes the floor groan, wood bending like it might collapse beneath me. The air reeks of rot, damp and sour, convincing me the place is one storm away from caving in. “Hey, new girl! Heads up!” I spin just in time to see a copper blade flashing toward my face, teeth jagged, spinning fast. My reflexes are sharp, but there’s no time to dodge without falling through the loose board beneath me. Before the knife can split my forehead, something hard slams into my shoulder, yanking me sideways. My breath catches as my eyes fly open—and lock onto Gaston’s silver‑gray stare. “You still with me?” His voice is low, steady, scanning my face for injury. “She looks fine,” the girl who threw the knife says. I wrench free, land hard, and in one motion pin her face against the loose board. My grip is iron; she squirms, but she’s not going anywhere. “You try that again, and I’ll break both your knees and make you eat this board.” “Go for it. I love the taste of decaying wood,” she hisses. I release her. Beating down someone clearly unhinged feels like kicking a kitten. “For the record, Gaston is off limits. He’s done dating werecoyotes,” she spits, as though he isn’t standing right there. “There are stalking laws in Georgia, you know? And restraining orders.” I shake my head, snatch my bag from Gaston’s hand. “Freya,” Gaston says evenly, nodding toward the knife‑thrower, “plays rough, but she means no harm. I don’t want you feeling uncomfortable in a house full of wolves. We’re not all crazy. If it helps, I look forward to teaching you every combat trick I know. I’m glad you’re training with us.” His smile is apologetic, almost disarming. “Thank you for having me.” I return it, polite but guarded. “Could you be any more obvious?” Freya scoffs, glaring. Sebastian chuckles from the sidelines. “Freya, if she were any more obvious, they’d both be naked and making that floorboard jealous.” I sigh, ignoring him. “Which one’s my room?” “Far left, upstairs,” Gaston replies, brushing past Sebastian’s howling laughter. Unwilling to entertain more foolishness, I rush upstairs. At my doorway, a voice greets me. “I guess you met Freya. Careful, the little witch‑wolf gets vindictive toward any girl breathing the same air as Gaston. I’m Al. Short for Alice, but spare me the Wonderland jokes.” She offers her hand. I step inside and take it firmly. Al is three inches shorter, olive skin freckled, blond curls cropped into a mushroom cut. Her AC/DC shirt is frayed, jeans ripped, combat boots patched with duct tape. Her silver eyes gleam with streaks of neon blue—the mark of a wolf. “I’m Maryelle.” My voice is steady, though the realization hits: still no werecoyotes. Just wolves. And beneath it all, my pulse hasn’t fully steadied since Phantom. “You’re the only one,” Al says simply. “This training’s for wolves. Your people scattered when they found out you were the only candidate. Vacation sounded better.” “Gaston mentioned it,” I sigh. “I was just hoping…” “Do you have a problem with wolves?” I rub my temples. “No, Al. But so far? One tried to kill me, one nearly tore a coyote apart, and another can't seem to stop making inappropriate jokes.” “Every group has its crazies and creeps. You just met one—okay... maybe two.” She shrugs, then smiles slyly. “Gaston must’ve checked you out. He has a thing for werecoyotes. Freya’s been in love with him since we were kids, so don’t take her too seriously.” “I don’t know what you’re talking about. And Freya,” I emphasize, “needs meds.” My eyes scan the room—four beds, two bunks. “Which one’s mine?” “The one you’re looking at,” Al says, smiling. “And in case you were wondering, I’m the nice wolf.”