The Alpha's Forbidden Oath

Episode Six

Rosalia

If I had a dollar for every time someone tried to decide my future without asking me, I’d be sipping mocktails on a private island, not stuck in a Chicago mansion that feels like a gilded cage. But here I am, sitting on my bed, staring at the leather portfolio of my father’s will like it’s a puzzle I’m too stubborn to solve. Angelo’s moving in tomorrow. Tomorrow.

The guy who looked at me like I was a math problem he didn’t want to solve is now my unofficial babysitter. Great. Just what every eighteen-year-old dreams of—a brooding, green-eyed bodyguard who smells like cedar and bad decisions.

I toss the portfolio onto the nightstand, flopping back onto my pillows. My room’s too quiet, the kind of quiet that makes you hear your own heartbeat. Or maybe that’s just the adrenaline from today’s circus of a council meeting. Angelo, standing there like some dark knight, declaring he’ll “protect” me but not claim me. The audacity.

I mean, sure, I don’t want to be claimed—gross, I’m not a prize at a claw machine—but the way he said it? Like I’m a duty, not a person? Rude.

My phone buzzes, and I grab it, grateful for the distraction. It’s Camila, my best friend and the pack’s resident healer, who’s probably the only person keeping me sane right now.

**Camila:** You okay? Heard about the council drama. Angelo’s back for good? Spill.

I smirk, typing back.

Me: Not okay. He’s playing Alpha babysitter but won’t marry me. Rude. Also, I’m basically a political pawn now. Send help.

Camila: LOL, he’s too old for you anyway. Bet he’s got a secret girlfriend in NY. Want me to snoop?

I snort. Camila’s nosiness is legendary, but I love her for it. Still, the idea of Angelo with some glamorous New York chick stings more than I’d like to admit. I shake it off and reply.

Me: Snoop later. Come over tomorrow? I need a buffer when Mr. Duty moves in.

Camila: Deal. I’ll bring snacks and my best anti-brooding-wolf vibes.

I’m about to reply when a faint creak echoes from downstairs. My fingers freeze over the screen. The manor’s old, sure, but that wasn’t a “settling house” creak. That was a “someone’s sneaking around” creak. My wolf stirs, hackles rising, and I sit up, straining to listen. Another sound—soft, like a drawer sliding shut. In my father’s study.

My heart kicks into overdrive. Nobody’s supposed to be in there. The staff’s gone for the night, and Enzo’s off doing whatever sketchy Beta stuff he does. I slip off the bed, barefoot, and grab the silver letter opener from my desk. Not exactly a sword, but it’ll do. I’m not the helpless princess everyone thinks I am. Dad taught me better than that.

The hallway’s dark, the air heavy with the scent of polished wood and lingering grief. I creep toward the staircase, keeping to the shadows. My wolf’s on edge, urging me to shift, but I hold back. If someone’s poking around, I want to know who—and why—before I go full furry. The study door’s ajar, a sliver of moonlight spilling out. I inch closer, gripping the letter opener, and peek inside.

A figure’s rifling through my father’s desk, papers rustling under gloved hands. Black hoodie, face hidden. Definitely not pack. My pulse races, but I force myself to stay calm. Whoever this is, they’re bold, breaking into an Alpha’s study days after his murder. I ease the door open just enough to slip inside, my bare feet silent on the rug.

“Find anything good?” I say, voice light but sharp, like I’m commenting on their Netflix queue.

The figure freezes, then spins, and I catch a glimpse of a scar slicing across their cheek before they bolt for the window. Oh, no you don’t. I lunge, grabbing their sleeve, but they’re fast, wrenching free and diving through the open window.

I scramble after them, leaning out into the chilly night air. They’re already sprinting across the lawn, disappearing into the woods. My wolf snarls, itching to chase, but I’m not stupid. Solo midnight hunts in the forest? Hard pass.

I turn back to the desk, heart still pounding. Papers are scattered, drawers half-open. Whoever they were, they wanted something specific. I scan the mess, spotting a small, leather-bound journal I’ve never seen before, tucked under a pile of ledgers. It’s not my father’s usual style—too plain, too worn. I flip it open, and my breath catches. The pages are filled with his handwriting, but it’s not pack business. It’s… personal. Names, dates, cryptic notes. One word jumps out: Bloodline.

Before I can read more, footsteps thud behind me. I whip around, letter opener raised, only to see Enzo in the doorway, his cold eyes narrowing.

“Rosalia,” he says, voice like gravel. “What are you doing in here?”

I slip the journal behind my back, forcing a casual shrug. “Couldn’t sleep. Thought I’d… reminisce.” My smile’s all sugar, but my wolf’s growling. Enzo’s timing is 'too' convenient.

His gaze flicks to the open window, then back to me. “You shouldn’t be here alone. It’s not safe.”

“Yeah, well, I’m not exactly defenseless,” I say, twirling the letter opener. “What about you? Late-night paperwork?”

Enzo doesn’t smile. “I heard a noise. Came to check.” He steps closer, and I tense, clutching the journal tighter. “You look shaken. Did something happen?”

“Nope,” I lie, smooth as silk. “Just jumpy. Grief, you know?”

He studies me, and I swear he can hear my heartbeat. Finally, he nods. “Get some rest, Rosalia. Tomorrow’s a big day.”

As he turns to leave, I notice his shoes—mud-caked, like he’s been outside. My stomach twists. Was he watching the intruder? Or was he *with* them?

I wait until his footsteps fade, then stuff the journal under my shirt and hurry back to my room, locking the door. My hands shake as I open the journal again. The first page has a single line in my father’s scrawl: *The Santoro bloodline must be protected at all costs.*

Protected from what? Or who? And why didn’t he tell me? I flip through, catching phrases like *hidden heir* and *traitor within.* My head spins. This isn’t just a diary—it’s a map to something bigger. Something dangerous. And if Enzo—or whoever that intruder was—wants it, I’m in deeper trouble than I thought.

A knock at my window makes me jump, nearly dropping the journal. My wolf snarls, but when I pull back the curtain, it’s not an intruder. It’s Angelo, balanced on the ledge like some rogue Batman, his green eyes glinting in the moonlight.

“Rosalia,” he says, voice low and urgent. “We need to talk. Now.”

I stare, heart racing. How did he get here? Why is he sneaking around like a thief? And why does he look like he knows something I don’t?

Before I can answer, a howl splits the night—close, too close. Not pack. Rogue. My blood runs cold. Angelo’s expression hardens, and he grabs my wrist, pulling me toward the window.

“Move,” he growls. “We’re not alone.”