I Married a Cold Alpha and Turned Him into My Puppy

Soren's eyes dropped to Dorian's hand on my wrist. His grin got wider.

"Relax, big guy. I know why she's here." He winked at me. "The Trade Festival. Every Alpha in the north eats in this back room this weekend. You knew I'd come."

I stared at him. "You think I drove two hours to find *you*?"

"You drove further in high school." He slid out of the booth. Heads turned at the other tables. Three Alphas, two Betas, a woman from the Ridgewater council. "Everybody, this is Briar Calloway. Loves a strong man. Chases them like a puppy chases cars." He tipped his chin at Dorian. "Looks like she upgraded."

My face burned. "Careful, Soren."

"Or what? You'll cry in my truck again?" He leaned in. "Like the night you found Lacey's earring on my dash? You still didn't leave. Took you three more months. You couldn't."

Someone laughed behind a napkin.

I opened my mouth. Nothing came out. Six years, and he still knew exactly where to attack.

Then Dorian stepped between us.

He didn't shove. He didn't raise his voice. He just stood there, tall and silent, until Soren had to tilt his head back to see him.

"Say her name again," Dorian said.

Soren laughed. "Briar—"

"Luna Voss." Dorian's voice didn't rise. It dropped. "She is my wife. You'll address her correctly, or you won't address her at all."

The room went dead.

Soren's grin flickered. "Your… wife?"

"Married Tuesday." Dorian pulled out his phone. "You're Redfen Pack. Soren Marsh. Your father runs freight through the Voss corridor."

"So?"

"So he did." Dorian typed. Three taps. "Garrick, pull Redfen's protection agreement. Border patrol support ends tonight. Trade road closes Monday."

Soren went pale all at once, like somebody had pulled a plug. "You can't do that over a *joke*."

"I just did."

"Wait. Wait." Soren turned to me, hands up. "Briar. Luna. I'm sorry, okay? I didn't know. I was out of line. Tell him."

Every eye in the room swung to me.

I thought about the earring. The truck. The three months.

"No," I said.

"No?"

"You're not sorry. You're scared." I picked up my purse. "Those aren't the same thing."

Soren's face twisted. He grabbed his jacket off the booth.

"Fine. Enjoy your iceberg, Briar." He paused at the door. "Give it a year. You'll wish you'd picked warm."

The door slammed.

Dorian didn't let go of my wrist until we reached the car.

---

We never made it to the cabin. He said the festival meetings ran long. He said it looking at the road.

At the estate, Maeve met us in the foyer with news already in her mouth.

"I heard! The Marsh boy!" She clapped. "Oh, sweetheart, you have terrible taste. Well, *had*. There was the Marsh boy, and that musician, and the one with the motorcycle—"

"Mom," Dorian said.

"—and the pastry chef, I liked the sound of him—"

"*Mother*."

He went upstairs without another word.

---

Three days later, I noticed.

He didn't pull out my chair at breakfast. He just sat and opened the paper.

At night, he didn't ask if I had enough blanket. He'd done it every night for a week, stiff and awkward, like reading off a list. Now he just clicked off the lamp.

"Did I do something?" I asked the dark.

"No."

"You're doing the frozen-lake thing again."

"I'm tired."

"You're lying."

He rolled over. That was the whole answer.

Fine, I thought. The real Dorian was back. The warm one had been a fluke.

---

Finnian found me in the rose garden on the fourth day. Dorian's younger cousin. Nineteen, all elbows, and he ran the pack's security cameras like a nosy grandmother.

"So," he said, crouching by the dirt. "You and my cousin are fighting."

"We're not fighting. He's just cold. Apparently that's his factory setting."

"Uh-huh." Finnian pulled a weed. "You know he watched the diner footage? Like, six times."

I sat back on my heels. "Why?"

"Not the Soren part." He squinted up at me. "The part where Soren said you *chased* him. Dorian asked me, dead serious, 'Did she ever chase me?'"

"I kissed him at the altar!"

"Yeah, but you got told to marry him. That's not chasing." Finnian shrugged. "You chased a guy with a motorcycle, Luna. You didn't have to chase Dorian. You just got delivered."

I didn't say anything.

"He's never had a girlfriend," Finnian added. "Never. Not one date. Aunt Maeve tried setting him up at twenty and he wrote the girl a *schedule*." He stood and brushed off his knees. "You're not his fourth or fifth. You're it. And he just found out he's number six on your list."

He walked off whistling.

I stayed in the dirt a long time, turning my sapphire ring around and around.

---

That night, I sat cross-legged on our bed with a small box, a roll of silver paper, and ribbon.

Dorian came in. Stopped. His eyes went to the box, then away.

"Don't mind me," I said, tearing tape with my teeth.

He hung up his jacket. Slowly. Then he loosened his watch. Slower.

I folded a corner. Creased it. Smoothed it with my thumbnail.

"Who's it for," he said. Flat. Not a question.

"Someone."

His jaw flexed. "Someone."

"A man I've been thinking about." I tied the ribbon in a bow. "I'm trying to win him over. It's harder than it looks."

The watch hit the dresser a little too hard.

"Is it the pastry chef?"

I bit the inside of my cheek so I wouldn't laugh. "Why do you care? Article twenty-three. You're not allowed."

"I'm aware of the article."

"So you don't care."

"I don't care."

"Great." I set the box on my nightstand and switched off my lamp. "Night, Dorian."

Silence. One minute. Two.

Then the mattress dipped hard.

"I care," he said into the dark. His voice was rough, like it scraped on the way out. "I care that you ran after all of them. I care that you never once ran after me. I'm jealous. Of a pastry chef I've never met. It's humiliating."

I rolled over. His face was inches away, silver flickering in his eyes.

"There it is," I said softly.

"Is the box for him?"

I picked it up and pressed it into his chest.

"Open it tomorrow," I said. "I'm chasing you, idiot. Keep up."

He held it like it might break. Then, for the first time in four days, he reached over and tugged the blanket up to my shoulder.

---

In the morning, I came down to breakfast smiling.

Nobody smiled back.

Pip was holding the tablet. Maeve's lips were white. Garrick stood by the window, phone pressed to his ear.

Dorian sat at the head of the yellow table, the silver box unopened by his plate. He turned the tablet toward me without a word.

The headline filled the screen.

*THE PACK SOCIALITE'S LOVE HISTORY: Every Man Luna Briar Voss Chased Before Her Alpha.*

Below it were photos. Soren's truck. The motorcycle. The musician.

And one I'd never seen before. One I didn't remember anyone taking.