The Alpha's Hidden Flame

Chapter Three

VIVI

The library reeks of WD-40 and mildew. Someone's been reading Chilton manuals between the poetry sections, leaving grease stains on Whitman. I line up my tablets, digital recorder, consent forms. Everything clean. Everything proper. Everything that keeps me from thinking about last night's dreams—fire and pine and hands that left no bruises.

My first interview shuffles in twenty-three minutes late.

"Ricky Martinez." No apology. Mid-twenties, beta, forearms crosshatched with scars that spell out scripture in scar tissue. "Luka says I gotta talk to you."

"Have a seat."

He pours himself into the chair, boneless sprawl that doesn't match his rabbit-quick heartbeat. Eyes catalog exits while fingers drum against denim-covered thighs.

"This is voluntary. You can refuse—"

"Nah, I'm good." Picks at a hole in his jeans until threads give way. "What you want to know?"

I start simple. Age—twenty-six. Time with pack—four years. Previous pack affiliation—

"Silver Creek." The name drops like a stone in still water. "Oregon territory. Traditional pack, real traditional. The kind that thinks gay wolves are possessed by demons that need burning out."

My pen hovers. "The Council has anti-discrimination statutes—"

His laugh could strip paint. "Yeah? Tell that to the 'therapy camp' my alpha father sent me to. Five years of silver burns and scripture. Council investigated twice. Called it internal pack discipline both times."

I pull regulations on my tablet. Article seven, subsection three, clear as daylight. "Conversion practices were banned in—"

"2019. I got out in 2021." He leans close enough that I smell old pain and new defiance. "Funny how bans don't mean s**t when your alpha's golf buddies with the regional Council rep. When he signs off on treatment plans. When he watches them hold you down."

The scars make sense now. Leviticus 18:22 carved into his left forearm. Romans 1:26 across the right. Bible verses written in silver burns that would never fully heal.

"Why seek Council recognition if you don't trust Council authority?"

"Because without it, we're meat." He settles back, rage cooling to exhaustion. "Three packs in NorCal want us gone. We're too close, taking in their broken toys. Council recognition means they can't hunt us without consequences. Means maybe they think twice before sending kill squads."

"They're hunting you now?"

"Had a kid show up last month. Sixteen. Half his ribs broken, punctured lung. Parents kicked him out for kissing a boy. Cascade Pack tracked him here, demanded we return their 'property.' Luka told them to f**k off." Teeth flash white in fluorescent light. "They've been testing our borders ever since. Night raids. Scouts. Last week they poisoned our water supply."

I make notes. Territorial disputes. Minor refugees. Cascade Pack—I know their alpha. Richard Henley. Old money, older values. Father's golf partner. Mother's charity board.

"The boy?"

"Jamie. Room next to yours. Wants to be a nurse." Ricky's voice goes soft as torn silk. "Still wakes up screaming. Still checks his pulse every hour to make sure the conversion drugs are really out of his system."

My pen stops. Thin walls. I heard crying last night, calculated square roots until it stopped.

"Any other packs threatening your territory?"

"Red Mountain to the east. They don't like that we harbor addicts. Say junkies make us weak, attract wrong elements." He counts on scarred fingers. "Timber Ridge up north thinks female alphas are abominations. They really hate that our best fighter's a woman. Tried to take Diana out last spring. She sent three of them back missing pieces."

"Not Rosie?"

"Rosie's our mechanic. Diana's our killer." Something sharp flickers across his face. "You'll meet her. If she decides not to gut you first."

Two hours bleed by. He paints pack life in small details—movie nights where everyone piles together like puppies, communal childcare where cubs learn math and knife work with equal focus, the garage that doubles as therapy for wolves who need to fix something outside their own skin.

"Last question. What would Council recognition mean to you personally?"

Silence stretches until I look up. Tears track silver down his cheeks.

"Means I could call my sister. Let her know I'm alive, that I made it out." His voice cracks like ice under weight. "Can't risk it now—my birth pack monitors everything. But with recognition... Been seven years since I heard her voice. She probably thinks I'm dead. Probably better that way."

After he leaves, I sit in empty quiet, staring at neat notes that say nothing about how he broke apart on 'seven years.'

Pulse check: seventy-two.

Tom Chen arrives precisely on time, carrying coffee that smells like hope and heartbreak. Tells me about meeting his wife at a farmer's market, how she sold honey and smiles. How his pack broke three ribs and his jaw when he refused to reject her. The Council ruled it internal discipline. Pattern emerging in blood and bureaucracy.

Then Rosie, who spreads engine schematics across my desk while explaining her pack's sterilization protocols. "Traditional packs believe females who refuse their alpha's hand-picked mates are defective. Need correction. They took my womb with hot silver and no anesthesia." She rolls blueprints with rock-steady hands. "Figured if they were gonna hollow me out, might as well take my whole life. Ran that night. Luka found me three states later, bleeding out in a drainage ditch. Held my guts in while his medic sewed me up."

"The Council—"

"Did jack s**t. Alpha's right to arrange matings. Female wolves who resist face correction. That was eight years ago. My mate's here now—Sofia. Escaped her own pack two years after me. We're trying to adopt, but without recognition, no agency will approve us. They see rogues and slam doors."

Diana arrives like violence in waiting. Six feet of controlled murder wrapped in tactical gear. She moves like she's dancing with ghosts, every step calculated for maximum damage.

"Won alpha challenge at nineteen. First female in pack history." She doesn't sit, just leans against the wall like she might need to move fast. "The males couldn't stomach it. Drugged my victory dinner with wolfsbane concentrate. Enough to kill most wolves. I'm not most wolves."

"The Council—"

"Found no evidence. Fifteen wolves swore I'd been drunk, hysterical, making accusations from wounded pride." Her fist clenches hard enough to crack knuckles. "Lost my wolf for two years. Couldn't shift, couldn't heal, couldn't feel anything but poison burning through my veins. Luka's people taught me to walk again. Now I train cubs. Make sure nobody ever drugs them into submission."

Story after story. Gay wolves tortured into straightness. Trans wolves denied their truth. Omegas bred against their will. Each file a variation on Council failure, laws that exist on paper and nowhere else.

By sunset, I've filled three notebooks and my skull throbs suppressant-sick. I skip dinner, lock my door, swallow pills that taste like compromise.

The knock comes at 11:47.

"Open up, Queenie. Pack meeting. Emergency protocols."

Sarah Chen. Tom's human wife who moves like a wolf, fights like a wolf, everything but the shift. I crack the door.

"Not optional. Cascade Pack's at the border. Forty wolves and climbing."

The main hall is ten storage containers merged into one unit. As I enter, it vibrates with controlled chaos. Wolves strip down for faster shifts, weapons emerge from hidden caches, cubs swept to reinforced safe rooms. Luka stands dead center, and the air temperature drops ten degrees when he spots me.

"Thought you'd want to observe." His voice could freeze flame. "See what your Council recognition's worth out here."

Someone shoves binoculars in my hands. Through windows, I count shapes in moonlight. More than forty. Closer to sixty. Cascade Pack colors bold as blood. Richard Henley at point, and my stomach recognizes him before my brain processes. Father's Wednesday golf. Mother's charity galas. The man who smiled at me over champagne when I was seven, told me I'd grow up pretty.

"Jamie." Richard's voice carries mountain-clear. "Come home, son. Your mother misses you. She's sick with worry."

Movement. The boy from next door materializes beside me, shaking hard enough to rattle teeth. Ricky wraps around him, anchoring.

"He's sixteen," I say without planning.

"So?" Luka doesn't break his window vigil. "Council law says minors belong to birth packs. No exceptions for abuse. No exceptions for torture. No exceptions for anything."

"But if he's unsafe—"

"Prove it." Now he turns, eyes green as poison. "Prove to your precious Council that a respected alpha's abusing his son. That conversion therapy happened. That broken ribs were discipline, not accident. Go ahead. I'll wait."

Richard calls again. Promises forgiveness, therapy, help for Jamie's 'confusion.' The boy shakes harder, pressing into Ricky's solid warmth.

"Please." Jamie's whisper barely reaches me. "Please don't let them take me. I'll die. I'll kill myself before I go back."

"Council law—" I start.

"f**k Council law." Luka moves for the door. "Jamie stays. Anyone wants different, they go through me."

He walks out alone. No backup. No weapons visible. Just an alpha between his pack and sixty wolves who want blood.

Through binoculars, I watch Richard's face twist from paternal concern to something uglier. Watch him signal his wolves forward. Watch Luka plant himself like he grew from the mountain.

"This violates treaty," Richard shouts. "Harboring a minor without pack consent. The Council will hear—"

"The Council's already here." Luka jerks his chin at the building. "Their observer's inside, taking notes. Ask her about Council law. Ask her about protecting cubs. Ask Vivian Silverman what her parents would say."

Every eye turns. Richard finds me through glass and distance, recognition sharp as silver. He knows exactly who I am. What red lines I'm supposed to hold.

"Vivian? David and Esther's girl?" His smile turns predatory. "Come out here, sweetheart. Let's discuss this properly. I'm sure we can reach an understanding."

I should go. Should mediate. Should quote regulations about proper channels and temporary custody.

Instead, I watch Luka face down sixty wolves for a boy he's known four weeks.

"We're done here," Richard finally spits. "But this isn't over. The Council will hear about your defiance. About their observer's failure to act."

"Looking forward to it."

They melt back into trees, but not before Richard catches my eye again. Points two fingers at me, then at his own eyes. Message clear: I see you. I know you. You're mine.

Luka waits until they're gone before turning. Stone face cracks when he sees Jamie. Something raw and protective bleeds through.

"You're safe. Nobody's taking you anywhere. Not while I'm breathing."

The boy launches at Luka, sobbing into worn leather. The alpha holds him like spun glass, murmuring promises too low for anyone but Jamie to hear.

I retreat to my room. Sit on my bed. Stare at notebooks full of testimony the Council will burn before reading.

My phone lights up. Unknown number.

Saw you in the window. Your parents would be disappointed in their daughter.

Delete.

Another: The Council protects the righteous. Remember your place, little girl.

Delete.

A third: That boy needs help. Real help. Not enabling his delusions. You could save him.

I throw the phone hard enough to crack drywall. Screen spiderwebs into modern art. Good.

Knock at my door. I ignore it. Another knock, softer.

"Go away."

"It's Jamie."

I open to find him hovering, eyes red-rimmed but spine straight.

"Thank you for not coming outside. For not... making me go back."

"I didn't do anything."

"Exactly." His smile wobbles but holds. "Ricky says that's the first useful thing a Council observer's ever done. Nothing. Sometimes nothing saves lives."

He ghosts away. I close the door, lean against wood, count my pulse. Ninety-eight. Suppressants failing or just failing to suppress what's been building since I smelled pine and possibility.

I should call Mother. Report the territory dispute. File complaints about Luka threatening Council authority.

Instead, I write:

Cascade Pack attempted retrieval of minor pack member. Ironwood Pack provided sanctuary per subsection 7.4, emergency protection protocols. Situation resolved without violence.

Truth twisted into compliance. Nothing about an alpha risking everything for a damaged boy while I hid behind glass and regulations that only protect the powerful.

Outside, the compound bristles with new vigilance. Extra guards walk walls. Lights burn where sleep won't come. Someone's welding—probably reinforcing the gates that won't hold if Cascade comes back in force.

I dry-swallow nighttime pills. They scrape down like ground glass, like all the compromises I've learned to choke on.

The fire dreams will come tonight. Always do after days like this, when the world shows its teeth and I pretend blindness. But first, more interviews tomorrow. More stories of Council failures written in scar tissue. More evidence that everything I've built my life on is lies dressed in law.

My pulse won't drop below eighty-five. The white pills aren't working. Haven't been since I arrived. Since I smelled danger and wanted to roll in it.

One hundred seventy-seven days to go.

The number tastes like things burning that can't be saved.

Like truth.

Like me.