The Alpha's Forbidden Oath

Episode Seven

Rosalia

So, apparently, my life’s now a buddy-cop movie starring me as the reckless rookie and Angelo as the grumpy veteran who’s one bad day away from retiring to a fishing cabin. Except instead of chasing bank robbers, we’re dodging rogue wolves and my own pack’s shady politics. Oh, and we’re currently sprinting through a creepy forest at midnight because, you know, normal Tuesday.

“Keep up, Rosalia!” Angelo snaps, his voice cutting through the howl that’s still ringing in my ears. His grip on my wrist is iron-tight as we crash through underbrush, thorns snagging my pajamas. Yes, pajamas. Because when your hot-but-infuriating bodyguard scales your window and says “move,” you don’t stop to change into hiking gear.

“Easy for you to say, Mr. I-Work-Out-Five-Times-A-Day!” I pant, ducking a low branch. “What’s chasing us? And why are you even here?”

“Rogues,” he growls, glancing back. His green eyes glint in the moonlight, all business, but there’s a flicker of something else—worry? Guilt? “And I’m here because I got a tip. Someone Is targeting you.”

“Targeting me? Shocker,” I mutter, sarcasm my only defense against the panic clawing my chest. “Any chance this tip mentioned why?”

“Not now.” He yanks me behind a massive oak, pressing us both against the bark. His body’s warm, too close, and my traitorous heart does a little flip despite the whole “we might die” vibe. “Quiet.”

I clamp my mouth shut, straining to hear over my pounding pulse. Distant snarls echo, closer than I’d like. Rogues—wolves without a pack—are bad news. They’re all instinct, no loyalty, and apparently, they’ve got a personal grudge against me tonight. Fantastic.

Angelo’s hand lingers on my arm, steadying me, and for a second, I almost believe he’s got this under control. Then I remember: this is the guy who swore to protect me but flinches every time I get too close. Trust him? Ha. I’d sooner trust a cat to guard my pizza.

“We need to move,” he whispers, scanning the darkness. “There’s a safehouse a mile east. Can you run?”

“Can I run?” I scoff, channeling my inner action heroine. “Watch me.”

We bolt, weaving through the forest, the air sharp with pine and the metallic tang of danger. My wolf’s itching to shift, but Angelo’s human form is faster, more controlled, so I follow his lead. For now. The snarls fade, then surge again, like the rogues are toying with us. My lungs burn, but I push harder, fueled by equal parts fear and spite. No way am I letting some mangy outcasts ruin my already terrible week.

We hit a clearing, and Angelo skids to a stop, cursing under his breath. Ahead, a rickety rope bridge sways over a ravine, the river below roaring like it’s auditioning for a disaster flick. On the far side, a small cabin glows faintly—our safehouse, I’m guessing. Between us and it? Three rogues, their eyes glowing red in the dark, blocking the bridge.

“Stay behind me,” Angelo orders, stepping forward, his posture screaming Alpha even in human form.

“Uh, no,” I snap, planting myself beside him. “I’m not your damsel, Bianchi. We fight together or not at all.”

He shoots me a look—half exasperation, half something I can’t read. “Rosalia, this isn’t—”

“Save it.” I bare my teeth, letting my wolf surface just enough to show I mean business. “You don’t get to bench me.”

The rogues growl, advancing, and there’s no time to argue. Angelo nods, a grudging respect in his eyes. “Fine. Stay sharp.”

The fight’s a blur—claws, fangs, and Angelo’s terrifying precision. I shift halfway, my senses sharpening as I dodge a rogue’s swipe and land a kick to its flank. Angelo’s a machine, taking down one wolf with a brutal twist of its neck, but the third rogue’s smarter, circling us, waiting for an opening. My arm’s bleeding from a graze, and Angelo’s shirt is shredded, but we’re holding our own. Barely.

Then the smart rogue lunges—not at us, but at the bridge’s ropes. The structure groans, swaying wildly. Angelo grabs my waist, pulling me back as the rogue slashes again. The bridge collapses, planks plummeting into the ravine, leaving us stranded with two very pissed-off wolves.

“Plan B?” I gasp, my voice shakier than I’d like.

Angelo’s jaw tightens. “Jump.”

“Jump?!” I stare at the churning river below. “Are you insane?”

“Trust me,” he says, and there’s a raw edge to his voice that makes me pause. His eyes lock on mine, steady, like he’s promising more than just survival.

I want to trust him. God, I do. But trust is a luxury I can’t afford, not when everyone’s playing chess with my life. Still, the rogues are closing in, and I’m out of bright ideas.

“Fine,” I grit out. “But if we die, I’m haunting you.”

He almost smiles—almost. Then he grabs my hand, and we leap.

The river hits like a sledgehammer, icy water swallowing us. I thrash, disoriented, until Angelo’s arm hooks around me, dragging me to the surface. We’re swept downstream, rocks battering us, but he doesn’t let go. My teeth chatter, my body screaming, but I cling to him, hating how much I need him right now.

We wash up on a muddy bank, coughing and soaked. The rogues are gone—for now—but the safehouse is a distant dream. Angelo’s breathing hard, his face pale, and I notice blood seeping through his torn shirt. Not just a scratch. He’s hurt, bad.

“You okay?” I ask, crawling toward him, my voice barely above a whisper.

“Been better,” he mutters, wincing as he sits up. “You?”

“Peachy.” I try for a grin, but it falters. “Why’d you come back tonight, Angelo? Really?”

He hesitates, and that pause says more than words. “I… heard something. About the pack. About you.”

“Cryptic much?” I snap, but my heart’s racing. “If you know something, spill. I’m done with half-truths.”

He looks away, jaw tight. “It’s not that simple.”

Before I can press, a twig snaps nearby. We freeze. A figure steps from the shadows—not a rogue, but Luca Moretti, Angelo’s right-hand man from New York. His eyes are cold, calculating, and fixed on me.

“Angelo,” Luca says, voice smooth as silk. “You’re making this harder than it needs to be.”

“Luca?” Angelo’s tone sharpens, betrayal flashing across his face. “What the hell are you doing here?”

Luca smirks, pulling a silver knife from his jacket. “Ensuring the Santoro pack falls. Starting with her.”

My blood runs cold. Luca’s one of Angelo’s closest allies—or was. Now he’s here, ready to gut me, and Angelo’s too injured to fight. I’m on my own, and the man I’m supposed to trust is staring at his best friend like he’s seeing a ghost.

“Run,” Angelo whispers, but I can’t move. Luca’s closing in, and the truth hits like a freight train: someone in the pack—someone close—wants me dead. And they’re done waiting.