The Alpha Who Tried to Unmate Me

Chapter 3 – The File with My Name on It

By morning, the clinic smelled like stale coffee, antiseptic, and bad news.

Our John Doe—now identified as Bren of the Karsen pack—was stabilized, sedated, and tucked into a reinforced recovery room. His chart looked like a horror story written in numbers. Half of them had my old case codes in the margins.

Arlen shoved a mug into my hands. “Drink. You look like you’ve been chewed and spat out.”

“I have,” I said. “By paperwork.”

She huffed. “Well, brace. Incoming.”

Bootsteps echoed down the hall: heavy, measured, familiar. A second later, Daxen Rull filled the doorway of the tiny staff conference room, all broad shoulders and permanent frown. Behind him, Ishan Verrek slipped in like a shadow, tablet tucked to his chest.

Daxen’s gaze swept over me, pausing on the dark circles under my eyes. “Vexen.”

“Rull.” I nodded at Ishan. “Verrek.”

“Liora,” Ishan said softly, inclining his head. He always had a courtroom’s manners, even in scrubs.

Arlen leaned back in her chair, folding her arms. “Welcome to Croft’s Den of Horrors. Coffee?”

“Later,” Daxen said. “We came for something stronger.” His eyes slid to the stack of folders on the table. “Answers.”

“Get in line,” I muttered. “What does the alpha want?”

“Truth,” Ishan said. He set his tablet down and tapped it awake. “And containment.”

The word tasted like a collar. I swallowed the snarl trying to rise.

“Start talking,” I said. “Because right now, all I see is a mauled wolf with my scent smeared all over him, and I know where I wasn’t last night.”

Ishan turned the screen toward me.

Grainy stills from city street cameras filled it—time stamps from the last forty‑eight hours. In three of them, a female figure moved through shadow: hood up, gait loose, like she owned the night. Features were a blur.

But the aura overlay—faint, color‑coded swirls only visible through the program’s filters—glowed in a pattern I knew too well.

My pattern.

My stomach clenched. “That’s not me.”

“We know,” Daxen said, too quickly for it to be a lie. “You were on shift with Croft the first time, and in this building the second. We checked.”

My lungs loosened a fraction. “Then why the show‑and‑tell?”

“Because humans have these,” Ishan said, tapping the screen, “and they don’t care where you were if the colors match.”

He swiped. A new file opened. My own ID photo stared back at me—five years younger, eyes brighter, hair longer, clinic whites pristine. Underneath, a neat block of data: Liora Vexen. Vaelir Pack affiliate. Bond candidate: C. Vaelir. Genetic compatibility: 98.7%.

My throat went dry.

“This is—”

“Your program file,” Ishan finished quietly. “Pulled from Volen’s system.”

I tore my gaze from the percentages and saw the next section. Status: Severance completed. Outcome: Stable. Risk: Low.

A bitter laugh scraped out of me. “Stable. That’s what we’re calling this?”

Daxen’s jaw ticked. “The term the humans used was ‘success story.’”

I wanted to break something.

Arlen’s hand brushed my arm under the table, a small anchor. “Keep going,” she said tightly.

Ishan scrolled down. Procedural notes, mostly redacted. One line wasn’t.

Subject’s olfactory and aural signatures retained for future reference.

“Future reference?” I whispered. “For what?”

“Internal calibration,” Ishan said. “At least that’s what their public docs say.”

“And their private ones?” I asked.

He hesitated, then flicked to another report. This one wasn’t about me. The name at the top read: Varra, Selyne. Bond candidate: redacted. Status: Severance attempted. Outcome: Unstable. Risk: High.

Under “notes,” a familiar phrase repeated, with an added line. Subject’s olfactory and aural signatures retained for replication protocols.

My pulse roared in my ears.

“Replication,” I said. “They’re copying scent profiles. Aural patterns. Splicing them into other wolves.”

Daxen’s gaze locked on mine. “Whoever hit Bren smelled like you. But under it, there’s another trace. Same as on two earlier scenes this month. We think it’s her.” He tapped Selyne’s name.

“Subject Varra was processed in the same experimental batch as you,” Ishan said. “Your files sit next to each other in the archive.”

Bile burned the back of my throat. I pushed back from the table, pacing the tight length of the room.

“So I’m not just a success story.” The words tasted like rust. “I’m a template.”

Silence stretched. Only the hum of the clinic’s vents filled it.

“The alpha doesn’t think you did this,” Daxen said, breaking it. “If he did, you wouldn’t be sitting here with coffee.”

“Comforting,” I said. It wasn’t. “Then what does he think?”

“That someone out there is using your broken bond and your stolen scent,” Ishan said calmly, “to make sure every crime scene points one way.”

I stopped pacing. “Toward me.”

“And toward the program,” Arlen added quietly. “Because if Volen’s little toys are being used off‑book, somebody is going to have to take the fall.”

Daxen’s eyes were flat and hard. “So here’s how this works, Vexen. Until we know who’s behind it, you don’t walk this city alone. Not because we doubt you.” He paused. “Because they do.”

My wolf bristled at the word leashed on his tongue.

“I survived them once,” I said. “I’m not letting them turn me into their monster now.”

Daxen’s mouth curved, humorless. “Good,” he said. “Because that’s exactly what they’re trying to do.”