Fated to the Wrong Alpha

Chapter 18 – Deals with Shadows

By the time dusk bleeds into the trees, we’re ghosts on the road.

Two unmarked SUVs, no pack insignia, plates that belong to some shell company Corren’s lawyers swear exists. No procession, no banners, no Council observers. Just five wolves driving toward a place everyone pretends is abandoned.

Corren drives the lead car. Dael rides shotgun, eyes flicking between the road and the rearview. I sit in the back, sandwiched between Riya and Lyssa, the map folded on my knees.

“We’re absolutely not supposed to be doing this,” Lyssa says around a mouthful of candy. “I’m thrilled.”

“You’re supposed to be quiet on comms,” Dael’s voice crackles from the front. “That’s the whole point of stealth.”

“We’re on a road in the middle of nowhere, Dael,” she says. “The raccoons won’t tattle.”

Riya hides a smile. “Raccoons have excellent gossip networks.”

I trace the route on the map with one finger. The old temple complex sits in a gray zone—technically outside both our pack territories, but under “shared oversight” of external clans. In practice, that means nobody takes responsibility and everyone sneaks here to do the things they don’t want their own to see.

My mark throbs as we get closer. The third thread in our bond pulls, subtle but relentless.

“Feeling it?” Corren asks without looking back.

“Yes,” I answer. “Like we’re driving toward a magnet.”

“Good,” Lyssa says. “Maybe we’ll stick to something useful this time instead of almost dying under an elevator.”

Dael grunts. “Settle down. We’re a kilometer out.”

We slow at the edge of an overgrown track that barely qualifies as a road. Trees lean close, branches knitted overhead. The SUV’s headlights catch the faint outline of old stone pillars half-swallowed by ivy.

“This is us,” Corren says. “Phones off. Human lights minimal.”

We park under the trees and continue on foot, boots silent on the damp earth. The air cools quickly, a chill that sinks into bone. Night birds call once, then fall quiet as we pass.

The temple rises from the hill like a broken tooth—stone steps cracked and crooked, columns leaning, the roof long gone. It’s smaller than I imagined and somehow more menacing for it.

“Charming,” Lyssa murmurs. “Definitely the kind of place you want the guy who mutilates bond magic to hang out.”

Riya’s eyes scan the ground. “Careful. There are old wards here. Most inactive, but some might not appreciate visitors.”

We pause at the base of the steps. Corren glances at me. “You’re sure about this.”

It isn’t a question. Still, I answer.

“No,” I say. “But I’m sure I’m done being afraid of places other people chose for me.”

He nods once. “Then stay between me and Dael. Lyssa, flank with Riya. Eyes up, noses open.”

We climb.

At the top of the steps, a figure steps out of the shadows of a half-collapsed archway.

Not Vaelis.

A woman. Late twenties, maybe. Dark hair braided close to her scalp, scars like thin silver threads crisscrossing her forearms. Her eyes flick from face to face, lingering on the way Corren and I unconsciously align, on the bracelet at my wrist, on the set of Riya’s healer’s bag.

“You’re late,” she says.

My wolf bristles. “We weren’t invited.”

“I invited you,” she replies. “Or rather, my teacher did. In absentia.” Her mouth twists. “He thought you might come looking.”

“Vaelis,” Corren says, the name a stone dropping into a still pool.

Something flickers across her face at the sound—pain, anger, reluctant loyalty.

“He taught me,” she says. “He doesn’t own me.”

“Who are you?” Dael asks, already angling his body so he can intercept if she moves wrong.

“Liora,” she says. “Last surviving apprentice. Current very unofficial caretaker of this mess.”

Her gaze slides to the broken sigils etched faintly into the temple threshold. “And I’d put the threats away unless you want the wards to decide you’re hostile before I do.”

Corren doesn’t lower his stance, but he eases off half a degree. “Where is he?”

“Gone,” she says simply. “Not dead. Not here. He knew the Council would turn on him eventually. He didn’t think you’d get this far this fast.”

“Helpful,” Lyssa mutters. “Truly.”

Liora’s eyes cut to her. “You’re not the only one who’s angry, Lyall.”

She knows our names. Our faces. My mark prickles.

“You helped set the elevator trap?” I ask.

“No.” Her jaw clenches. “That was someone using his work without his consent. And without his skill. You’re both standing here, aren’t you?”

That stings. Because it’s true.

Riya steps forward, voice careful. “If you’re not with whoever attacked them, why are you here?”

“Because Vaelis left something,” Liora says. “For the ‘wolves at the center of the tangle,’ as he called you. Instructions. A warning. Maybe a chance not to burn the whole world down trying to fix what he did.”

My heart kicks. “Why would he help us?”

“Because he hates the Council more than he hates himself,” she says. “And because,” her gaze settles on me, then Corren, “he never stopped believing some bonds were too strong to kill. Only…redirect.”

The bond between us hums, sharp and alive.

“Show us,” Corren says.

Liora studies us for a long, measuring moment. Then she steps aside, into the shadowed archway, and gestures us in.

“Fine,” she says. “Come see what the monster left for his favorite mistakes.”