My Alpha Forced Me to Serve His Chosen Mate

The clinic smelled like dried rosemary and rubbing alcohol. It was a sharp, clean scent, but it always made my stomach knot. Maren Holt, the Briarwood healer, pressed her stethoscope to my chest. She moved the cold metal to my back. She didn't say a word for a long time. That was how I knew it was bad.

"She's quiet today," Maren finally said. She pulled the earpieces down and let them hang around her neck.

"She's tired," I replied softly. I pulled my shirt back down.

Maren gave me a hard look. She was a no-nonsense woman in her fifties, and she hated lies. "She's fading, Ellie. Faster than my last projection."

I looked down at my hands. My knuckles were pale. I tried to reach inward, feeling for the familiar warm presence in my chest. Nothing. Just an empty, hollow ache. My wolf had been disappearing for hours at a time lately. When she came back, she was weaker, her voice barely a whisper in the back of my mind.

"I need to adjust your treatment," Maren said, turning to her locked wooden cabinet. "But the Silverfang merger changed the supply chain. The concentrated wolfsbane extract and the silver-root I need to stabilize you... they are restricted now. I need Alpha authorization to order them."

My head snapped up. "No."

"Ellie—"

"No, Maren. You can't ask him."

"I don't have to tell him it's for you," she argued, gripping the edge of the counter. "I can just say it's for general pack stock. For emergencies."

"He's not stupid," I said, my voice trembling slightly. "Winston checks every requisition. He'll ask why a small pack suddenly needs stage-four fade suppressants. He'll investigate, and he'll find out."

Maren sighed heavily. The lines around her mouth deepened. "If we don't get those supplies, I can't slow this down anymore."

"How long?" I asked. I kept my voice steady. I needed to know the truth.

Maren looked away. She picked up a glass vial, wiped it with a cloth, and set it back down. "Months," she whispered. "Not years. If you're lucky, maybe six months before she goes completely silent. And when she dies..."

"I die with her," I finished for her.

"Tell him," Maren pleaded. She walked over and grabbed my hands. Her grip was tight. "He's the Alpha. He has resources. He can call in the Lycan King's personal healers. They might know a way—"

"Promise me you won't tell him." I stood up, pulling my hands free. "Promise me, Maren. If he finds out, he'll think it's some trick to get his money. Or worse, he'll keep me alive just to punish me more."

She looked at my desperate face. Her eyes watered. "You're a stubborn, foolish girl," she muttered. But she nodded slowly. "I'll manage with what we have. Quietly."

"Thank you."

I left the clinic and walked back to the pack house. The wind was sharp, biting right through my thin jacket. I kept my head down, avoiding the gazes of the Silverfang warriors patrolling the grounds.

When I reached the servants' wing, I walked to my assigned room. It was a tiny, freezing closet of a space near the drafty back door. I opened the door, ready to collapse on the lumpy mattress and sleep before my afternoon shift.

But the room was empty.

My meager belongings—a small duffel bag, my battered notebook, and my cracked pot of honeysuckle—were gone. My heart leaped into my throat. Had I been kicked out? Was he sending me to the rogue lands?

"Ellie," a deep voice called out.

I spun around. Silas Vane, Winston's Beta, stood at the far end of the hall. He pointed to the last door on the right. "You've been moved."

"Moved?" I asked, confused.

Silas didn't explain. He just gave me a curt nod, his face unreadable, and walked away.

I slowly walked down the hall and pushed the heavy wooden door open. A rush of warm air hit me instantly. This room was right above the pack house boiler room. It was the warmest room in the entire wing. My bag sat on the foot of a real bed with thick woolen blankets. My honeysuckle plant was carefully placed on the windowsill, catching the afternoon sun.

I stood in the doorway, staring. No one moved an Omega to the best room. It didn't happen. I touched the thick blanket. It was soft. I pressed my fingers to my wrist and tried to slow my racing pulse. Why? Was this a mistake? Or was this Winston?

No, I told myself. He wouldn't. He didn't even look at me when I served him.

Two nights later, the pack house hosted a large alliance dinner. I worked a brutal double shift. I carried heavy trays of roasted meat and poured wine until my arms burned and my feet went numb. Winston sat at the head table with Talia. He was cold, commanding, and perfect. He ordered me to refill his glass twice, his Alpha tone heavy and flat, staring right through me both times.

By the time the kitchen was finally scrubbed and the head cook locked the pantry, it was past midnight. I hadn't eaten since breakfast. My stomach cramped violently, but there was nothing I could do. Omegas didn't get late-night rations.

I dragged my feet down the quiet hallway toward my warm room. My joints ached. My wolf gave a weak, pathetic whimper of hunger before fading back into the dark silence of my mind.

"I know," I whispered to my empty chest. "I'm sorry."

I turned the corner and stopped dead in my tracks.

There was a silver tray sitting on the floor, right outside my door.

I looked up and down the hall. It was completely empty. The only sound was the low, steady hum of the boiler below. I carefully knelt down. The tray had a domed silver cloche over it. My hands shook as I reached out and lifted the lid.

Steam rose into the cool air. It wasn't kitchen scraps. It was a perfectly cooked steak, roasted potatoes, and buttered green beans. A thick slice of fresh bread sat on the side. It was a meal fit for the high table.

I stared at it. I leaned closer, and beneath the rich smell of the hot food, I caught something else.

Dark cedar and rain-soaked earth.

It was faint, like a ghost that had just brushed past. But my wolf surged forward, throwing herself against my ribs, crying out for it. He had been here. He had carried this here himself.

I picked up the tray and hurried into my room. I locked the door behind me and slid down the wall until I hit the floor, pulling the tray into my lap.

He hated me. He stripped my rank. He paraded his beautiful chosen mate in front of me every night. He looked at me like I was dirt on his shoes.

But he gave me the warmest room. And he fed me when I was starving.

I picked up the fork. I took a bite of the warm food, and a tear slipped down my cheek, splashing onto the back of my hand. I ate alone on the floor, chewing through the quiet sobs that shook my shoulders. It was a cruel, agonizing kind of torture. He was starving me of his presence, but making sure I didn't die of the cold.

I just didn't know how to tell him that the warmth wasn't enough to save me anymore.