My Fake Alpha Mate Uses My Life to Save His Human Mistress

"Why is your heart beating so fast?" he demanded.

His red pupils glowed in the dark, searching my face.

A jagged streak of lightning fractured the sky above the pines. A second later, thunder rattled the tin roof so hard the porch floorboards vibrated under my boots.

I jerked my head toward the noise.

"The storm," I said. I pointed a trembling finger toward the flashing horizon. "That strike was too close."

"The storm?"

"You know I hate the thunder."

He stared at me. The unnatural red faded from his irises, replaced by the familiar, warm amber I had trusted for three years.

"You're shaking," he noted, his voice losing its dangerous edge.

"It scared me."

"It's just noise, Elara." He released my wrist and stepped back. "Nothing is going to hurt you here."

"I know." I rubbed my arm where his fingers had dug in. "I just want this rain to stop."

"It will pass by morning." He turned toward the front door. "I need a hot shower. My bones are freezing."

"Go," I told him. "I'll lock up out here."

"Bring me a clean shirt."

"Cotton or flannel?"

"Flannel. The heavy green one."

"It's in the bottom drawer."

"Just grab it for me." He pushed the door open and stepped into the hallway.

I waited on the porch until his heavy footsteps faded into the house. The metallic taste of fear lingered on my tongue. I swallowed hard, forcing the blood-tinged saliva down my throat.

I walked into the bedroom, pulled the green flannel from the dresser, and carried it down the hall. I stopped a few feet away from the bathroom.

He hadn't closed the door all the way. A narrow sliver of yellow light spilled onto the hardwood floor.

"Did you lock the deadbolt?" his voice echoed off the bathroom tiles.

"Twice," I called back.

"Check the back windows, too."

"I already locked them before you got home."

"Check them again."

"You said the borders were secure," I challenged, stepping closer to the gap in the door.

"I said I secured them," he corrected. "That doesn't mean I want to take chances."

"With what?"

"Just check the windows, Elara."

"They are locked." I pressed my shoulder against the doorframe. "Are you getting in the water or not?"

"It's taking forever to heat up."

I peered through the two-inch crack. He stood with his back to me, peeling the soaked, ruined shirt over his head. He tossed it into the corner.

"Did you check the boiler today?" he asked.

"It was fine this morning."

"It's spitting ice."

"Give it a minute."

He stepped under the spray. The water hit his shoulders, instantly turning a muddy, putrid brown as it washed over his skin.

The last lingering traces of winter snow and crushed pine needles vanished. The scent dissolved down the drain, completely overpowered by the raw, rotting stench of a feral wolf.

I clamped a hand over my nose to stifle a gag.

"Elara?"

"I'm here," I rasped.

"You sound strange."

"My throat is dry."

"Get some water."

"I will." I didn't move an inch.

I watched the water strip away his disguise. Under the harsh vanity light, the smooth, muscular back of Alpha Silas melted away. Dark, hardened patches of dead skin emerged along his spine. Thick black scales covered his shoulder blades.

They were the undeniable marks of a low-ranking Rogue. A scavenger.

"Hand me the soap," he ordered over the rush of the shower.

"It's right on the shelf."

"The bar is practically gone."

"Check the cabinet under the sink."

"I don't see any."

"Look deeper."

He stepped out of the water and crouched down, disappearing from my direct line of sight for a fleeting second. When he stood back up, he didn't have a new bar of soap.

He held a black glass bottle.

No label. No brand.

"Found something," he muttered.

"What is it?" I asked, keeping my tone perfectly even.

"Just body wash."

He unscrewed the cap. A sharp, chemical odor instantly spiked through the air, burning my nostrils. It smelled like sulfur and pine extract mixed with industrial cleaner.

He poured a thick, pungent liquid into his palm.

"Smells strong," I observed.

"It's medicinal," he replied quickly. "For the muscle aches."

"I didn't know we bought medicinal wash."

"Miller gave it to me last week."

"Alpha Miller gave you body wash?"

"It's for joint pain, Elara. Stop interrogating me."

"I'm just making conversation."

"Well, make it about something else."

He began scrubbing the liquid furiously over the black patches on his back. His hands moved with desperate speed, slapping the paste onto his shoulders and rubbing it into the hardened scales.

"You're being quiet again," he called out a moment later.

"Just thinking."

"About what?"

"The treaty negotiations."

"Don't worry about the treaty." He worked the paste down his ribs. "I'll handle the neighboring packs."

"You think they'll sign?"

"They don't have a choice."

"They always have a choice, Silas."

"Not when I'm sitting at the head of the table."

"What if they smell weakness?" I asked.

"They won't."

"The southern ridge was unguarded. That looks like weakness."

"Which is why I went out there to fix it."

"Alone."

"I work faster alone."

"You could have taken the beta guards."

"They ask too many questions."

"Like I'm doing right now?"

"Exactly like you're doing right now."

The arrogance in his voice made my stomach turn.

A subtle shift in power settled over the hallway. He spoke like an Alpha, commanded like an Alpha, but the mirror told a different story. He wasn't a feared leader. He was a pathetic fraud, scrubbing a disguise onto his rotting flesh to hide what he truly was.

I bit down hard on the inside of my cheek. The sharp sting grounded my racing thoughts. Warm, rusty blood flooded my tongue. I forced myself to swallow it, refusing to make a sound.

"Did you get the flannel?" he barked.

"I have it."

"Bring it in here. I'm freezing."

I looked down at the neatly folded green shirt resting in my hands. All I had to do was push the door open. One push, and I would expose him. I could confront the monster wearing my husband's face right now.

My fingers dug into the fabric.

No. I needed more information. I needed to know what happened to the real Silas.

I took a half-step back into the shadows of the hall.

Instead of handing him the clean clothes, I tossed the flannel straight into the wicker dirty laundry basket by the wall.

"Elara!"

"It's outside the door," I said.

"Why didn't you bring it in?"

"My boots are muddy from the porch. I don't want to track dirt on the tile."

"Take your boots off."

"The laces are knotted."

"You're being difficult tonight."

"I'm just tired."

"Fine. Leave it there."

Through the crack, I watched him lean over the vanity to inspect his work. The black scales were hidden again, buried under a fresh layer of fake pine scent and gray paste.

But he missed a spot.

On the edge of the marble sink, a single, unblended drop of that gray mud had escaped his frantic scrubbing.

It hung heavily on the rim.

I held my breath as gravity pulled at it.

The drop slowly slid over the edge, plummeting toward the pristine white floor.