The Alpha's Hidden Flame

Chapter Two

LUKA

She's mine.

The knowledge hits like a silver bullet to the chest, stops me cold on the container while I watch her pick through our compound like it's contaminated. My wolf goes belly-up the second her scent hits—except there is no scent. Just blank space where an omega should bloom, chemical nothing that makes my teeth ache.

Vivi Silverman. Council princess. The recognition tears through me even as she stands there in her pressed suit, taking notes on her tablet like we're some science experiment she can't wait to dissect. My mate, wrapped in suppressants so thick she can't even smell what we are to each other.

Better that way. I've kept clear of omegas for eighteen years. Not touching that particular fire again.

Rosie shoots me a look when I dump our guest on her. "Play nice?"

"Nice as I know how."

Which isn't saying much. But I can't stop tracking her movement through the compound, the way she catalogs everything with those dark eyes that should see me but don't. Her heels click precise rhythms on asphalt. Every wolf we pass does a double-take—not at her beauty, though she's got that in spades, but at the wrongness of her. An omega who smells like nothing. A wolf who moves like prey.

By dinner, the whole pack's on edge. She sits at the end of the table like she's quarantined, spine straight enough to snap. Takes tiny bites while sixty-three wolves try not to stare. The way she holds her fork—precise, controlled, like eating's just another task to complete—makes me want to feed her with my fingers until she remembers food can be pleasure.

Dangerous thought. I shut it down.

"Tell me about your pack structure." Out comes the tablet again. Christ.

I make her put it away, make her actually look at us. She's good—spots our protection patterns, the democracy we've bled for. But she sees it all through Council eyes, like we're just data points in her dissertation.

"What's your story?" The question spills out before I can stop it. Need to know why my mate smells like a chemistry set, why she looks at me like I'm a problem to solve instead of the wolf who'd burn the world down for her.

She deflects. Of course she does. Everything about her is deflection—the pills, the clothes, the way she holds herself like touch might shatter her. When I leave her with that half-eaten plate, pulse hammering in her throat, I tell myself it's better this way. Safe distance. Old habits.

Harvey catches me outside the hall. "That's our observer? f**k me sideways."

"Leave her alone."

"Wasn't planning otherwise. Girl looks like she'd file assault charges if you sneezed in her direction." He spits tobacco juice into the dirt. "We're f****d, aren't we? Council sends someone like that, they've already decided."

Maybe. But I petitioned for recognition because the pack voted, not because I believe the Council's capable of justice. Almost twenty years building this place for wolves who don't fit their tidy boxes. Now they send an ice princess to judge if we deserve to exist.

I climb the water tower, old refuge when the world presses too close. The compound spreads below—our machine shop, gardens, school where pack kids learn math alongside knife fighting. Everything we've built from nothing. Movement catches my eye. Vivi's light still on, shadow pacing behind curtains.

My wolf whines. Mate. Alone. Distressed.

Yeah, well, my wolf's an i***t who forgot what happened last time we trusted an omega.

Sasha. Seventeen years old, me drunk on hormones and teenage stupidity. She smelled like spring and smiled like salvation. Said yes until her daddy found out she'd been slumming with the mongrel—Japanese-Irish-Apache mutt, not pure enough for their bloodline. Then suddenly it was assault, and the pack alpha didn't waste time on trials. Just fangs and fists and get out before we kill you.

I learned. Keep distance. Build walls. Omegas are nuclear weapons wrapped in soft skin, and I've got the scars to prove it.

But Vivi...

Her shadow stops pacing. Light clicks off. I should go, but the wolf won't let me. Guard instincts, I tell myself. Nothing more.

Javier relieves the south tower guard at two. I catch his report—three vehicles on the highway, no threats. Routine. But something feels off. The mountain's too quiet. Even the coyotes have gone silent.

"Boss?" Park appears at the tower base, rifle casual in her arms. "Got movement. Northeast perimeter."

I drop down, land silent. We move through shadows, old habits from before the compound, when we were just rogues trying to survive. Park points—there, between the trees. Flash of eyes, gone too quick.

"Scout?" she whispers.

"Maybe." But it doesn't smell like wolf. Doesn't smell like anything.

We wait. Five minutes. Ten. Nothing moves, but the wrongness grows. Like the forest itself is holding its breath.

"Double the watch. Nobody goes out alone." I head back, unease crawling up my spine. "And Park? Keep eyes on our guest."

She nods. Good soldier, Park. Came to us after her pack threw her out for refusing an arranged mating. Half our wolves have similar stories—wrong bloodline, wrong sexuality, wrong politics. The Council calls us rogues like it's an insult. We wear it like armor.

I check the compound—gates secured, patrols steady. Everything normal except the itch between my shoulders that says storm coming. In her room, Vivi sleeps or pretends to. Either way, her window stays dark.

My phone buzzes. Unknown number.

Heard you've got a visitor.

I delete it. Another comes through.

Council sending observers means you're getting soft, Wakefield.

Delete. But they keep coming. Someone knows she's here. Someone's watching.

By dawn, I've had two hours of broken sleep and enough coffee to fuel a small army. The kitchen crew's already prepping breakfast when I stumble in.

"You look like shit." Diego doesn't glance up from his pancake batter. "Guest keeping you up?"

"f**k off."

He grins. "Rosie says she's pretty. Uptight, but pretty."

"Rosie talks too much."

"Rosie says exactly enough." The lady herself appears, already grease-stained from whatever engine she's rebuilding. "Girl's up, by the way. Doing laps around the compound like she's measuring for fence posts."

I find her by the east wall, tablet out, recording everything. Morning light catches her hair, turns it to polished obsidian. She's changed clothes but it's the same armor—black slacks, grey blouse, nothing that suggests she's anything but a Council drone.

"Sleep well?"

She doesn't startle. Points for that. "Adequately. I need access to your financial records."

"Good morning to you too."

"I have one hundred seventy-nine days to complete my assessment. Small talk wastes time."

Christ, she's serious. "Records are in the office. But first, breakfast. Pack rule—nobody works hungry."

"I have nutrition bars—"

"Pack. Rule." I'm already walking. After a moment, her heels click behind me.

The dining hall's fuller for breakfast. Kids getting ready for school, night shift coming off, day crew fueling up. Conversation flows until Vivi enters. Then it's that same suffocating pause.

"They always do that?" She takes the same isolated seat as last night.

"You're new. We don't get new often." I bring plates—pancakes, eggs, bacon enough to feed three wolves. "Eat."

She cuts her pancake into precise squares. Takes one bite. Her eyes close for just a second, and I catch it—the tiny sound of pleasure she tries to swallow.

"Who makes these?"

"Diego. Best cook in three states."

"They're adequate."

But she eats three of them, careful bites that can't hide her hunger. When did she last have a real meal? Those nutrition bars she mentioned?

Maya bounces over, seven years old and fearless. "Are you the spy?"

Vivi blinks. "I'm an observer."

"Mama says that's fancy talk for spy." Maya climbs onto the bench, studies Vivi like she's a new species. "Why don't you smell right?"

"Maya." I use my alpha voice. She shrinks back.

"Sorry, Alpha."

But Vivi's gone still. Fork suspended halfway to her mouth. "What do you mean?"

"You smell like the clinic. Like medicine. But underneath..." Maya's nose wrinkles. "Fire. You smell like smoke, but wrong. Trapped smoke."

The fork clatters to Vivi's plate. Her pulse jumps—I can see it in her throat, rabbit-quick.

"Excuse me." She's up and gone before I can stop her.

Maya's eyes go wide. "Did I say something bad?"

"No, baby girl. Just..." I ruffle her hair. "Some people don't like being smelled, yeah? Remember that for next time."

She nods and scampers off. I stare at Vivi's abandoned breakfast. Smoke. Trapped smoke. What the f**k?

I find her by the training grounds, watching our morning sparring session with laser focus. Back to normal, if you can call her normal. Tablet out, recording everything.

"Your fighters cross-train." Not a question.

"Krav Maga, Muay Thai, good old-fashioned brawling. Whatever keeps us alive." I lean against the fence, careful not to crowd her. "Maya didn't mean—"

"Children often perceive what adults miss." Her voice could freeze flame. "When can I see those financial records?"

Fine. Wall back up, thicker than before. I lead her to the office—converted shipping container that holds our legitimate face. Papers exactly where the government wants them, taxes paid, licenses current. The illegal s**t stays buried deeper.

She settles at my desk like she owns it, starts pulling files. I should leave her to it, but the wolf won't let me. Mate. Guard. Protect.

"Most of this is digital." She frowns at our paper system.

"Harder to hack paper."

"Harder to audit too."

"That's the idea."

She gives me a look that could peel paint. "I need complete transparency, Mr. Wakefield. How can I assess—"

"Luka." The correction comes out rough. "You're living in my house, eating my food. Least you can do is use my name."

Something flickers in her eyes. Goes too fast. "Luka. I need full access."

I boot up the computer, type in passwords. Watch her work. She's methodical, thorough, makes notes in some shorthand I can't read. An hour passes. Two. She never shifts position, never stretches. Like her body's just transport for that analytical brain.

"You're profitable." Surprise colors her voice.

"Legitimate business pays for the illegitimate rescue work." I pour coffee from the pot that's been burning since dawn. Offer her a cup. She shakes her head. "We fix bikes, cars, anything with an engine. Government contracts for wildfire suppression. Some security work."

"Mercenary work?"

"Protection. There's a difference."

"Is there?" But she's already moved on, pulling up employee records. "Eighty-three pack members but only sixty on official rolls?"

"Kids don't work. Neither do the elders or injured."

"The Council requires full census—"

"The Council requires a lot of things that get wolves killed." The words come out harder than intended. She flinches—tiny motion, but I catch it. "You want truth? Here it is. We've got wolves here who ran from packs that would murder them for existing. Trans wolves whose birth packs deny their reality. Gay wolves sentenced to conversion or death. Survivors of abuse the Council ignored because the perpetrator had pure blood or political connections."

I lean forward, and she rolls her chair back. Maintaining distance.

"Every wolf here has a story that ends with 'and the Council did nothing.' So yeah, we keep some names off official records. Call it insurance."

She's quiet for a long moment. Then: "Show me the real numbers."

I pull up the encrypted files. Full roster, including the ones we hide. She reads in silence, that brain cataloging every detail. Her fingers hover over names but never touch the screen. Like even digital contact is too much.

"These medical records..." She pauses at Ricky's file. "Conversion therapy?"

"Five years of it. Pack-sanctioned. His alpha father thought electricity and silver could burn the gay out." My hands fist. "The Council investigated. Ruled it internal pack discipline."

She reads more files. Each one a testament to Council failure. Tom, cast out for marrying a human. Rosie, sterilized by her pack for refusing their chosen mate. Diego, nearly beaten to death for being born omega male in a pack that considered it weakness.

"You collect damaged wolves." Not accusation. Observation.

"We collect survivors." I watch her process this. Watch the worldview shake but not break. "The Council sees rogues as failures. We see freedom."

She closes the files. Sits back. For one second, her mask drops and I see exhaustion. Something else—recognition? Understanding? Then it's gone.

"I need to interview pack members. Privately."

The wolf snarls. Let her alone with our people? But I nod. "I'll arrange it."

"Thank you." She stands, smooths invisible wrinkles. "I'll need an office space. Somewhere neutral."

"Use the library. Building D."

She leaves without another word. I slump in my chair, stare at the screen where our secrets lay bare. She could destroy us with what I just showed her. One report to the Council labeling us a threat, and they'd come with silver and fire.

But Maya was right. Underneath all that chemical nothing, Vivi Silverman smells like trapped smoke. Question is—when it finally breaks free, will it choke us or save us?

The phone buzzes. Another unknown number.

Pretty observer. Shame if something happened.

This time I don't delete it. Time to find out who's so interested in our guest. Because mate bond or not, Vivi Silverman is pack now. And we protect our own.