Page 1 of The Alpha’s Chosen Mate

Chapter One

EMILY

Six Years Old, June 1979

There’s a troll under the bridge.

I’m sure of it.

I’ve never seen the troll. But I know it’s there.

No one else believes me. They stroll over the bridge without a worry, as if there is no danger lurking in the darkness. As if the noises coming from beneath their feet are the natural sounds of the river running through our pack lands.

I know the truth.

The gurgling? It’s not water running over the stones in the riverbed. It’s the troll’s stomach digesting its most recent meal. Or maybe it’s rumbling because he’s hungry again. The roaring? It’s not the surging river echoing off the underside of the bridge. It’s the troll asserting his dominance and warning anyone nearby that he’s on the hunt, ready for his next victim—his next meal.

Most days I avoid the bridge. Our pack lands are large enough that there isn’t much reason for me to journey this far out. I tend to stay closer to the packhouse.

But today I don’t have a choice. Alpha Justin ordered all the omega children to stay away from the packhouse and the omega house. We were all given jobs to keep us occupied for most of the day. He assigned me the task of picking berries for our cook to use in her cobbler for dessert this evening. And according to her, all the best blackberry brambles are in the forest.

On the other side of the troll bridge.

My knees tremble as I stare at the line marking where the field ends and the bridge begins. I have to cross, but I’m unsure if I can. The single step required to start across the bridge feels like it’s miles wide, and my bare feet refuse to lift from the grass.

“What’s wrong?”

I gasp and whirl around, heart thudding in a wild rhythm.

A young boy stands a few steps away. His head is cocked to the side, brown eyes appraising me as he waits for a response.

I lean away from him, lifting my chin and angling my nose to match the slight incline of the ground so I can catch his scent. I search for the hint of lupine that lingers within the scents of all our pack members, but don’t find it.

He’s an outsider. A stranger.

Don’t talk to strangers. The warning clangs through my brain like the bell that signals training sessions for our warriors. I back up a step, still conscious of where the bridge begins, ensuring I don’t cross over the boundary. I study the male as intensely as he studies me, that warning still echoing in my head.

He stays in his spot, rooted to the ground like the giant trees that grow in these mountains, and the warning fades. The boy is a stranger, yes, but he isn’t scary. He can’t be much older than I am. His dark-brown hair—messy and almost too long—falls into his eyes, and he wears a cheeky half smile on his face as he waits for me to decide if I should trust him. There are dirt smudges on the knees of his jeans, and his left shoe is untied, the laces damp and tinged green from the grass.

Surely grown-ups don’t mean someone like him when they warn about strangers. Right?

“There’s a troll under the bridge.” The words tumble out of me, torn from my tongue by the unfamiliar boy. “He eats children. Even werewolf children. And I’m supposed to pick blackberries. I have to cross the bridge to find them, but if I cross the bridge, then I may be his next meal, and then the pack won’t have any blackberries.”

While I ramble, he raises his brows, peering around me to glance beneath the bridge. I curl my fingers tighter around the handle of my basket, waiting for the howling, teasing laughter that usually follows when I tell someone about the troll. But it never comes.

“How long has he lived there?” the boy asks.

“As long as I can remember. Probably since before the founding of Lupine River.”

He hums to himself as he peers into the endless darkness where the troll lives. Water splashes violently across the rocks, rippling towards the shore, and we both jump backwards. My shriek pierces the air, but he is sturdy and serious, his hand clasping my empty one to prevent me from running away.

“Trolls can smell fear…” His free hand strokes his chin, and his forehead wrinkles with thought. Then his eyes light up with the spark of an idea. “Hop on my back.”

“What will that do?”

“It will hide your scent.”

“How?”