The Disabled Alpha's Bride

Soon To Be Family

Valeria's POV

The next day, when I met the stylist, I could see two words written on her face: Emergency Assembly. Her eyes, nose, and mouth were so tense they nearly seemed to merge into one.

"Now, dear, tell me…" Adora, a werewolf and the Nightveil Pack’s resident stylist, raised her index finger and exaggeratedly circled it in front of my dress. "Did this dress offend you in some way? Are you intent on ruining this masterpiece?"

I awkwardly turned my head, letting my loose hair fall over my eyes, hiding half of my expression. “It’s just… pink feels too girlish.”

This dress had been a gift from Vicky. Last year, when Vicky and I attended a vampire-werewolf conference abroad, after work, she’d spotted it in a shop and insisted it was perfect for me.

The soft lotus pink fabric was light and delicate, with a fluffy skirt that fell just below my knees, showing my legs. "It goes with your long, slender legs," Vicky had said as she handed it over. I knew she was doing me a favor, wanting me to expand my wardrobe beyond its usual black.

The halter neckline crossed elegantly, creating a teardrop cutout on my chest that was supposed to be alluring. But I had thrown on an undershirt.

It’s not my fault if a lycan girl didn’t want to show too much of her skin in front of that lunatic Alpha at our first meeting.

“Why are you wearing something underneath?” Adora’s eyes flashed in annoyance. As a fashion expert, she probably found my sense of style a personal affront.

I lowered my gaze, instinctively lifting my hands to cover my chest. “I… I’m not used to wearing something so fancy and revealing.”

Adora squinted. “Where’s the ‘revelation’ you’re worried about? It’s the 21st century. Now, are you taking it off, or should I do it for you?” Her inner wolf seemed to be growling, mirroring her frustration.

I stepped back quickly. “I’ll do it myself…”

The rumors about Adora’s bad temper and impatience were, evidently, all true.

Nervously, I entered the changing room. I hadn’t imagined a day would come when this version of me—the one raised amidst bloodshed and survival—would become another version—wearing a pink fluffy dress and going to a meeting with the most infamous Alpha in town looking like that.

My short hair fell down like a wolf’s tail, hiding part of my face and my slender neck. After I emerged for Adora’s second inspection, she twisted my hair into a bun, sweeping my bangs back and leaving a few loose strands.

Now, with my forehead exposed, my features stood out—refined, narrow nose, and, to my surprise, bright eyes. In the mirror, I saw someone resilient, with a tear-shaped mole at the corner of my left eye, adding a final touch.

“Your tear mole at the corner of your left eye was the finishing touch. Everything makes you look so stunning.” Adora said, “Styling some werewolf who looks good is so simple,” She looked in the mirror with satisfaction, “Just show your face, and be confident, dear.”

But the scar on my forehead was too prominent.

“Where did you get that scar?” Adora asked.

I averted my gaze, “I fell. It was an accident.”

She silently examined the mirror’s reflection, then removed the bandage on my forehead, replacing it with a thin medicated patch that blended in with foundation and concealer, making it look like normal skin.

After a third and final check in the full-length mirror, I barely recognized myself. The halter-neck showed my graceful shoulders, the teardrop cutout now hinted subtly at my figure, and the waistline of the dress hugged my form as if custom-made.

I looked in the mirror. I looked… elegant, almost Luna-like. If not a Luna in reality, at least one with the potential.

“Scars must be hidden, dear,” Adora advised, “Don’t let any werewolf know where you’re vulnerable. Guard your wounds like your neck, showing them only to those closest to you.”

Two hours later, I arrived at the café. At the front desk, a group of lycan maids were buying coffee for Alpha Marcus and his family. Among them was the girl I had nearly skewered with a knife yesterday. Now, she just ignored me as I passed by.

“Did that girl look a bit like Valeria?” one of them murmured uncertainly.

“Valeria?” The girl glanced my way, then waved her hand dismissively. “No way. She only wears those tacky black clothes. She’d never be caught dead in a dress like that.”

I wanted to retort but held my tongue. This wasn’t the place—nor the time, especially in human territory, where werewolves bickering could draw too much attention.

So, I walked on quietly, their voices fading away.

At 2 p.m. sharp, the door to the private room opened. A man entered, flanked by nearly ten others. They were werewolves, their amber eyes fierce, each one radiating a menacing presence.

The man at the front had to be the infamous Alpha Eric. Just as described in the news, he sat in a motorized wheelchair, a lead-gray cashmere blanket draped over his legs, his white suit immaculate.

I noted the contrast—a werewolf dressed in layers, like he was weak or sickly. His short brown hair was meticulously cut, and his relaxed, lazy demeanor suggested he was entirely in control.

Eric’s alpha aura was unmistakable: powerful, arrogant. He had a distinct, mixed-race look too. Rumor had it his mother was from a Russian pack. His deep-set eyes, high nose, and gold-rimmed glasses completed the picture.

I wondered if he killed his three brides. He certainly looked like someone who could have done the crime.

I watched Eric carefully as he entered the room, every calculated movement from his entourage reflecting the silent acknowledgment of his power. Though seated in a wheelchair, his posture was anything but vulnerable. His eyes scanned the room with a cold sharpness that made the air feel thinner. It was as if he held the threads of every individual’s will in his hands, choosing with brutal precision which strings to pull.

When his gaze finally met mine, he didn’t react. No flicker of recognition, no hint of surprise. Just a blank, clinical assessment that made me feel like I was standing in front of a predator. I fought the instinct to look away, holding his gaze with all the steadiness I could muster.

“Valeria, I presume?” His voice was deep, carrying the faintest hint of an accent I couldn’t place.

“Yes.” I kept my tone steady, though my heartbeat hammered uncomfortably in my chest. I couldn’t let him see my fear.

Eric’s every movement was sharp and full of aggression. “A pleasure to finally meet you,” he greeted me, his voice smoky and entrancing.

Standing, I followed Mary’s etiquette lesson: feet together, shoulders back, offering a slight nod. “Alpha Eric.”

He pressed a button on his wheelchair, positioning himself opposite me at the table. “Sit down. We’ll be a family soon, no need for formalities.”

I forced down the knot in my chest, took a breath, and sat, determined to play along until he crossed the line.

And his word choice—“family.” Was he implying the Nightveil Pack was already set on this marriage?

“What would you like to drink… Eric?” I offered him the menu.

He took it, glancing at it for barely a second. “You should address me as Alpha Eric.”

I stifled my reaction, my hands under the table clenching slightly. After a brief pause, I countered, “Didn’t you say we’d be family? Calling you Alpha Eric seems too formal… and distant.”