Rejected by My Alpha Mate

Our Lies in Public

The dress is the first betrayal.

“It’s a city council event,” Mara says, tossing the garment bag onto my bed. “Not a hunt. Try not to look like you’re expecting gunfire.”

“Gunfire usually doesn’t RSVP,” I say, staring at the bag as if it might bite.

“Welcome to politics,” she says. “Everything that matters is uninvited.”

I unzip the bag.

The dress is dark blue, almost black, the color of the river at night. Simple lines. No frills. It’s cut to flatter someone taller and more confident than I feel.

“Where did this come from?” I ask. “Your closet of bad decisions?”

“My closet of good investments,” she says. “You’re representing the pack in front of humans tonight. Garrick wants them reassured. Damon wants them distracted. You…”

She squints at me.

“…will put this on and try not to stab anyone with a cocktail fork.”

“No promises,” I say.

***

The city council building is all glass and marble, the kind of place where humans pretend they’re in charge while power moves in quieter rooms elsewhere.

We arrive in a black car with tinted windows, because optics, apparently, demand we look like exactly the kind of people conspiracy theorists whisper about.

Damon sits beside me in the back seat, suit crisp, jaw set. His hand rests on his knee, fingers drumming a pattern I recognize as barely leashed irritation.

“Remind me why I’m here,” I say.

“You live in my house,” he says.

“Lots of people live in your house,” I say. “You don’t parade them in front of human officials.”

He glances at me, eyes flicking over the dress, the pinned‑back hair, the borrowed earrings that feel too heavy on my ears.

“You’re my wife,” he says.

The word lands like a thrown stone.

“Contract,” I say automatically.

“They don’t know that,” he says. “They know what I tell them. Tonight, what I tell them is that the woman who lit up half the forest under a full moon is perfectly under control and very much in love with her Alpha.”

“Wow,” I say. “Ambitious script.”

His mouth twitches. “Can you play the part?”

“Can you?” I shoot back.

He looks away, out at the approaching building.

“I’ve been playing parts my whole life,” he says. “This one is just… more expensive.”

The car stops.

He steps out first, aura tightening like armor. Cameras flash. Human reporters call his name—his human name, the one on the front of the pack’s business holdings. He offers them his public face: cool, polished, politely untouchable.

Then he turns and offers me his hand.

The mark on my wrist pulses as I take it, heat blooming under my skin. I step out into the light like I’m not walking into a den of another kind of predator.

“Smile,” he says under his breath.

“You first,” I say.

We walk up the steps as a matched set.

To the humans, we must look like a power couple. Successful CEO and mysterious wife. To the pack, who will see the photos later, we’ll look like confirmation or betrayal, depending on which side of the council they’re on.

To me, it feels like walking a tightrope over a pit full of teeth.

***

Inside, the council chamber is buzzing. Suits, dresses, the clink of glasses. Wolves mingle among humans, wearing their human skins like tailored lies.

Garrick is already there, greeting the mayor with a smile that has too many teeth for a human room.

“Damon,” he says when we approach. “Evelyn. You both clean up well.”

His gaze lingers on my wrist, where the mark lies hidden under a bracelet Mara insisted I wear.

“You clean up often,” I say. “Practice makes perfect.”

He chuckles like I’ve told a charming joke instead of an insult.

“Remember,” he says softly, “tonight is about calm. The city saw flashes on the forest edge during the full moon. They heard rumors. We are here to tell them everything is fine.”

“Everything is not fine,” I say.

“Humans don’t need to know that,” he says. “Humans need to sleep.”

“Hunters are human,” I say.

“Hunters are a problem,” he says. “Tonight is about avoiding panic. Try not to look like an apocalypse.”

He moves away to shake more hands.

“He’s not wrong,” Damon murmurs.

“Whose side are you on?” I ask.

“Yours,” he says. “And the pack’s. Tonight that means lying with a straight face. Can you do that?”

I look around at the gleaming surfaces, the carefully arranged canapés, the humans who have no idea there’s a parallel war unfolding above their heads.

“I’ve been lying my whole life,” I say. “About how much it hurts. About how scared I am. About how much I want to run. This is just a different costume.”

He looks at me, something unreadable in his eyes.

“Stay close,” he says. “If you feel anything—mark, hunters, whatever—you tell me.”

“Yes, Alpha,” I say sweetly.

He huffs and leads me into the crowd.

***

The first few conversations are the easy ones.

Business leaders. Human council members. People who know Damon as Mr. Hart of Northbridge Holdings, not as Alpha. They talk about riverfront development, shipping regulations, tax incentives.

He lies effortlessly, promising safety and prosperity while leaving out all the parts about rogue attacks and silver traps.

I stand at his side, nodding, smiling on cue. When someone mentions the rooftop bar where our wedding‑not‑really‑a‑wedding happened, I feel the mark heat faintly under my bracelet, like it remembers the taste of public humiliation.

“And you must be Mrs. Hart,” one councilwoman says, turning to me with a politician’s practiced warmth. “We’ve heard so much about you.”

“Hopefully not from your tabloid section,” I say.

She laughs. “Only the tasteful parts.”

“Those are in short supply,” I say.

“Evelyn is still getting used to the spotlight,” Damon says smoothly. “She prefers the kitchen to the cameras.”

“Ah, a practical woman,” the councilwoman says. “We like those on our side.”

If only you knew.

We move on. More hands. More smiles. More lies.

At some point, my cheeks start to ache.

“You’re doing well,” Damon murmurs between clusters.

“You mean I haven’t set anything on fire yet,” I murmur back.

“Low bar,” he says.

“You set it,” I say.

His lips twitch.

“Come on,” he says. “They’re about to start the speeches.”

***

The mayor takes the podium, talking about cooperation and security and the way Northbridge has “always been a stabilizing presence in our city’s economy and safety framework.”

I tune him out, watching the crowd instead.

Hunters won’t be standing here with name tags and champagne.

But if they’re smart—and they are—they’ll have eyes. Phones. Someone recording this for later, to study every expression, every tell.

My mark stays mostly quiet. A low ember. It hums a little when the mayor mentions “recent disturbances in the forest” and Garrick smiles benignly through the lie about a “small wildlife incident promptly contained.”

I feel Damon’s hand find the small of my back. To human eyes, it probably looks romantic. To me, it’s a pressure point.

Stay.

Smile.

breathe.

When it’s his turn to speak, he steps up to the microphone with the ease of someone born to hold attention.

“Northbridge has always taken its responsibility to this city seriously,” he says. “Our people live here. Our families. Our friends. We want what you want: safe streets. Prosperity. The freedom to sleep at night without worrying what moves in the dark.”

His eyes skim the crowd, then land on me for the briefest flicker.

“We had an incident,” he says. “A rogue pack. An opportunistic attack on one of our patrol routes. It happens. We dealt with it.”

Half‑truths. Precision‑cut.

“There were rumors,” he continues. “Lights in the forest. Videos shared without context. I understand fear. I live with it too. But I ask you not to let fear be the only lens you use. What you saw was not a curse. It was a shield.”

Murmurs ripple.

He lets them.

“One of our own,” he says, “stepped between a child and a monster and did what needed to be done. If she glowed a little while she did it, I’m not going to apologize for that.”

My heart stutters.

He doesn’t say my name.

He doesn’t have to.

Humans applaud, moved by the story of anonymous heroism. Wolves in the room hear the subtext: Damon is staking his reputation on the idea that I’m not a walking disaster.

I don’t know whether to be grateful or furious.

Maybe both.

***

After the speeches, the mood loosens. Music starts. People drift toward the buffet. I stick close to Damon, because that’s the script, and because part of me doesn’t want to test whether I can feel hunters in a crowd this thick.

“You did well,” he says quietly.

“You mean I didn’t heckle the mayor,” I say.

“Among other things,” he says.

“You just told a room full of humans I’m a hero,” I say. “Bold choice.”

“I told them a story they could understand,” he says. “Child. Monster. Shield. They don’t need to know the details.”

“Hunters will,” I say.

“Hunters already do,” he says. “This was about everyone else.”

I open my mouth to answer.

My mark flares.

Not a full burn. A prickling, needling awareness, like the moment before a static shock.

I go still.

“What,” Damon says immediately.

“I don’t know yet,” I say. “Something. Not like the forest. Closer. Wrong.”

I scan the room.

People. Lights. Waitstaff weaving through with trays. A photographer snapping pictures of couples for the council’s social feed.

Then I see him.

A man near the back wall. Suit a little too plain. Hair a little too neat. Hands a little too still. He’s not watching the mayor or Garrick or Damon.

He’s watching me.

Our eyes meet.

He smiles. It’s the kind of smile that belongs on someone who already knows how the evening ends.

His hand dips into his pocket.

My skin crawls.

“Damon,” I say.

“I see him,” Damon says.

He shifts, putting his body slightly between me and the man. To humans, it probably looks like a subtle, possessive gesture. To wolves, it’s a move to block and shield.

The man pulls out… a phone.

He lifts it.

The screen glows as he starts to record.

On the surface, he could be any other guest capturing the moment. But my mark hums hard enough now that my wrist aches.

“Hunters,” I whisper.

“Eyes,” Damon says. “Not guns. Not here.”

“Yet,” I say.

He exhales through his nose.

“Smile,” he says through clenched teeth. “If we run, we prove them right. If we stay, we show them we’re not afraid.”

“We are afraid,” I say.

“We just don’t let them see it,” he says.

I bare my teeth at the camera in something that could pass for a smile.

Somewhere in the tree line outside the city, a video of me wrapped in silver light is already playing on repeat.

Inside this glass box, we’re filming a different version:

The Alpha and his Silverblood wife, standing under chandeliers, pretending the dark pressing at the windows is just night.