My Arranged Marriage To The Broken Alpha

Aislinn POV:

I shoved the loosely hanging, partially broken door open just a crack, enough to see them, enough to let the wind whip a strand of hair across my face. The door had been wrenched off half its hinges the night before, hanging crookedly in the frame but still usable enough to swing open and shut if I handled it carefully.

"What?" I snapped, my voice laced with the irritation of someone dragged from sleep.

Two men stood on my porch, rain dripping from the brims of their caps. They were big, built like brick walls, and wore leather jackets emblazoned with the snarling iron skull of the Ironhead Rogues. The one in front, a brute with a flattened nose, shoved the door wider, forcing his way inside.

"We're looking for someone," he grunted, his eyes scanning the small room. "A man. Injured."

I crossed my arms, planting my feet to block his view of the rest of the cabin. A sarcastic smile touched my lips. "Does my cabin look like a charity hospital to you?"

Beneath the floorboards, I could feel a subtle shift in weight.The man,he was listening, every muscle tensed. I imagined his hand on the hilt of a knife, ready for the worst. I had to end this. Quickly.

I focused on the first man, Rocco, judging by the name stitched on his jacket. He seemed like the type to lead with his fists, not his brain. The one behind him, Finn, was quieter, his eyes sharper, more observant. He was the real threat.

I directed my scorn at the easier target. "Or have the Ironhead Rogues gotten so desperate for entertainment they've started breaking into women's cabins at night?"

Rocco's face flushed a dull red. He took a step toward me, his hand clenching into a fist. "Why you little—"

Finn put a hand on his partner's chest, stopping him. His gaze was cold and analytical as it swept over me, from my bare feet to my defiant expression. "Have you been here all night?" he asked, his voice low and even. "Seen anyone suspicious?"

I let out a theatrical yawn, leaning against the doorframe as if their presence was the most boring thing in the world. "I sleep like a rock. Unless your little lost mouse can roar like a bear, I wouldn't have heard him."

The performance was flawless, but Finn wasn't looking at me anymore. His eyes were fixed on a spot near the fireplace. A small patch of mud, diluted by rainwater, that I had missed in my haste.

My heart leaped into my throat. A cold dread washed over me.

I forced myself to stay calm, to follow his gaze casually. Then I made a sound of disgust. "Damn it," I muttered, "looks like I left the window unlatched again. Rain's getting in."

Finn's expression didn't change. He wasn't entirely convinced, but he had no proof. The turpentine fumes were doing their job, masking any lingering scent of blood.

Just as the silence stretched thin, a crackle came from the radio on Finn's shoulder. A clipped, authoritative voice ordered them to return.

Rocco shot me one last glare, full of frustration, before turning to leave. Finn lingered for a moment, his sharp eyes taking one last survey of the room before he followed.

I pulled the crooked, half-wrenched door shut carefully, the faulty latch clicking into place with a sound of finality. I leaned my back against the solid wood, my legs suddenly weak. A long, shuddering breath escaped my lips. When I looked down at my hands, they were trembling.

I waited a full minute, listening to the sound of their engines fading into the storm, before I moved the rug and lifted the floorboard.

Garrett pulled himself out, his movements stiff with pain. He looked at me, his blue eyes filled with an unsettling intensity.

"You're a good liar," he said. It wasn't a compliment or an accusation. It was a statement of fact.

"I'm a better survivor," I replied, my voice flat. I walked to a small wooden chest in the corner and pulled out a metal box. My first-aid kit.

I set it on the table with a thud. "Take off your shirt," I ordered. "I need to get that bullet out before you lose the arm."

He hesitated, searching my face. Whatever he saw there made him compliant. He took off his soaked jacket, then stripped off the shirt underneath and sat on my bed awaiting my orders.

My breath caught.

His torso was a roadmap of old scars. Faded white lines crisscrossed his powerful chest and abdomen, testaments to a life of violence. But I didn't let my eyes linger. I forced my attention to the ugly, puckered wound high on his left bicep, still sluggishly oozing blood.

I lit the oil lamp on the table, the flame casting a warm, flickering glow over the tense scene. I took a small, sharp knife from the kit and held the tip in the flame until it glowed red. The smell of sterilizing metal filled the air.

"Who are you?" he asked, his voice low.

"Someone you're better off not knowing," I said without looking up.

I pressed the tip of the sterilized knife to the edge of his wound. His entire body went rigid, the muscles in his back and shoulders cording like steel cables. But he didn't make a sound. Not a whimper, not a gasp.

I worked quickly, my hands steady despite the tremor I still felt deep inside. The close proximity was unnerving. I could feel the heat radiating from his skin, smell the unique, earthy scent of him beneath the blood and rain-pine and winter air. It called to something primal within me, something I had to fight to keep caged.

I probed the wound with a pair of forceps. He let out a sharp, controlled hiss of breath through his teeth as I found it.

"Hold still," I murmured.

I gripped the small piece of lead and pulled. The bullet came free with a sickening squelch. I dropped it into a small tin dish, where it landed with a sharp clink.

The worst was over.

I began to clean the wound, stitch the torn flesh, and bandage it, my movements efficient and detached. All the while, I felt his eyes on me. He watched my every move, his expression unreadable in the dancing lamplight. The silence in the cabin was thick, broken only by the drumming of the rain and the sound of our breathing.

The mate bond was a silent, living thing between us. A current of energy that hummed in the air, making the simple act of dressing a wound feel dangerously intimate. He was a stranger, a violent man who had brought trouble to my door.

But my wolf, the part of me I kept buried and chained, knew him. And it wanted to claim him.