Page 5 of Traded to the Alpha Wolf

None of this makes sense. She’s human, but not. She’s a hunter, but not. I don’t know what she is, only that if that man pulls the trigger, I will rip him apart before the bullet leaves the chamber.

I clench my hands, claws pushing through the skin. “What’s the play here?” I say, keeping my voice neutral. “You think I’ll just take her and leave? Why would I want her?”

The woman’s mouth twists in a smirk. “I think you’ll do exactly that. You’re one of those hero types, and you’ll regret it if you let him kill her.” She gestures, and the man cocks the gun, pressing it to the girl’s temple.

The girl goes deathly still, her voice flat. “I don’t know what this is, but it’s a mistake. I haven’t done anything wrong.” She looks at me then, and I swear I see something in her eyes. It’s fear, but also genuine confusion. She really doesn’t know why they’re offering her up like this.

I have about five seconds to mull the situation over before that guy pulls the trigger, and I know my wolf will lose his shit. Would that be the end of the world? These hunters seem completely disorganized, and I could put them down here and now. But somewhere at the back of my mind, the thought nags that killing them all like this wouldn’t feel preemptive; it would feel wrong. Without proof that they’re part of the group that’s been attacking us, is it wrong to kill them just because they’re bigoted toward shifters?

Do I really have proof that these are the hunters that are working with the Order and the European faction? They seem too weak for that.

I’m starting to sound like Rowan and the others. Far too much thinking time.

And then there’s the girl. I look at her for the first time, really look. She’s not what I’d expect to find in a place like this. I clock the soft, red-auburn hair escaping her beanie. Her clothes are tatty and oversized, the type a woman might wear to avoid being looked at too closely. Her eyes are steel gray, like a winter sky that will never break for sunlight. She’s young, so much younger than anyone has a right to be in a shithole like this. Her skin is porcelain and seems like the perfect canvas for the raw defiance I see in her expression.

I suspect she tends to run her mouth and gets herself into trouble often enough, given the way she’s tilting her chin, not wanting to give them the satisfaction of seeing her fear. Her lips are full and pink, and even with her whole body shaking, she’s holding herself up like she’s not going to let anyone see her break.

She’s too young for this. Too young for any of it, but especially too young to be offered up as a bargaining chip by people she obviously knows. Is she really one of them? Her face doesn’t fit, but I’m old enough to know that doesn’t always mean shit.

I let the man I’m holding drop, and as soon as he’s on the ground, I take a step forward. The guy with the gun tightens his grip on her arm, flinches back, but she just stands there, eyes locked on me. The others circle, waiting to see what I’m going to do. I can smell their fear; that much is genuine.

The woman who seems to be in charge of this keeps her hands in sight, a little too casual. She’s smart enough to know I’m probably about to do something unpredictable, but not smart enough to know what.

“You want her, you take her,” she repeats, voice soft now, almost reasonable. “Or we end it right here. Either way, our hands are clean, and this is on you.”

The girl’s eyes bounce from the barrel to my face. There’s fear there, yeah, but also calculation, like she’s already running through scenarios. Like how fast I could move, if I could get to her before the trigger pulls. Am I worse than facing the bullet anyway? All I know is that I can’t let this happen.

I take another step, slow and deliberate, hands up, claws in, wolf held back by a thread. “Let her go,” I say, and I can feel the growl in my chest, vibrating all the way to my teeth. “She’s not your problem anymore.”

The woman in charge laughs, a short, sharp sound. “None of this is my problem, wolf. I just don’t want to die tonight. Take her and go. You can do what you want with her.”

I watch the young girl’s eyes go wide, and she freezes as I grab her. The look in her eyes tells me she might be more afraid of me than she was of the gun. But there’s something else there, too, and it looks a lot like rage.

Chapter 4 - Mara

I’m going to kill them, each and every one, if it’s the last thing I do. I mean the ones who traded me, the ones who watched, the ones who just stood there, their faces blank in the city dusk. Every last one. It’s the main thing tethering me to the ground as I walk alongside the shifter, the alpha, the one whose name stings my ear in a way that tells me the rumors were all true.

It’s not that I’m afraid; I’m not. I’m fed up and humiliated. Months of infiltrating that faction, gathering intel, sleeping on that filthy mattress, playing dumb at the bar, biding my time, and earning what little trust one can earn among the Order, and for what? To be offered up as a consolation prize to this one. As if I were…as if I were a fucking sacrifice.

He’s got his hand on my shoulder, guiding me with just enough force to let me know that he expects me to behave, but not enough to leave a mark. It’s annoying. I’d rather he just drag me, or throw me over his shoulder, or break my wrist and be done with it. Show me who he really is—I’ve seen what shifters can do, after all. This halfway gesture makes me want to bite him, which would be funny, since he’s the one with the actual teeth.

The hunters, the ones still breathing, don’t make eye contact. There’s a new kind of fear in the way they look at me now. Even Trish looks away like I’m just a nobody. I was supposed to be one of them, and yet they dragged me out here and threw me at this man-mountain of a shifter as what…a bargaining chip for their lives? After all their talk, they were too scared to fight. Figures.

I consider my options. I can’t miss the bodies lying by the perimeter fence, so I know he’s not afraid to kill. I know the first patrol won’t be back for at least two hours, maybe an hour. These idiots managed to sound the alarm, but they’re probably right not to fight their way out of this. But I just don’t understand why he would even take me in a trade. I glance at him cautiously, assessing whether my luck fending off men who either seem like monsters or actually are has finally run out.

It’s one thing to fight off Salty when he’d had a few too many beers, barricade my bedroom door, or never turn my back on the regulars; it’s another to fight off a shifter. An alpha.

No chance.

Or maybe he wants information. That I have plenty of, but I’m not done here. I glance over my shoulder and catch Trish’s eye. She finally looks at me, and I see guilt written all over her face. In that moment, I know I have a way back in. If I can escape this alpha and get back, I can pretend to forgive them; I’ve got no place else to go. Maybe they’ll trust me even more because I’ve run back to them, and I can get what I need—find out what the Order has planned next and anything I can on my parents. Hell, I’ll hand it all over to this shifter and his friends when I’m done, and they can tear this place apart. But not until I’m done.

The alpha walks me out to the edge of the compound, through the battered gates, and doesn’t say a word the entire time, unless a grunt or two qualifies. I’m not sure he even notices me, not really, not when he’s still on high alert, expecting them to attack as we leave and vibrating with whatever supernatural anger is running juiced through his system.

He’s even bigger up close, and not in the way I’d glimpsed him at a distance from the roof before I got dragged down, butin the sense that his presence makes the air around us seem thinner. At all of five-two, I feel like a child next to him. His hand dwarfs my shoulder. I can practically feel the heat from his palm through my jacket, and I hate how it makes something deep in my chest stutter. Every inch of him is muscle, scars, and intent. I’ve seen plenty of men who kill for a living, but I’ve never seen someone who made it look so casual or easy.

His hair is longish, a little past his collar, dark brown with enough lighter streaks running through it to suggest he spends most of his time working outside. His jaw is heavy, sharp. There’s a thin scar running just below his cheekbone, the only imperfection on a face that would look at home in some kind of rugged outdoor commercial. His eyes are the most unsettling part, but not because they’re cold; because they’re not. They’re an impossible, clear blue, so light it’s almost silver, and when he pins me with them, I see them flash gold, which seems so improbable I find myself staring as they fade back to clear blue. His gaze doesn’t feel predatory, or at least not in the way I’m used to. It’s almost worse because it looks curious.

Far too interested.