Betrayed by My Alpha Mate

I jolted awake, gasping for air as the nightmare faded. Fire. Always fire in my dreams. The sensation of falling, metal crushing around me, and flames licking at my skin. My hands trembled as I pushed damp hair from my face, trying to steady my breathing in the predawn darkness of my small Portland apartment.

"Just a dream," I whispered to myself, though the lingering scent of gasoline seemed too real.

Two months had passed since I'd woken up in Samuel's cabin with no memory of who I was or how I'd gotten there. Two months of piecing together a new life while the old one remained frustratingly out of reach. Samuel had explained he'd found me after a car accident, my body broken and barely alive. He'd brought me to his remote cabin and nursed me back to health when the nearest hospital was too far away.

Why he'd taken such care with a stranger, I still didn't know. Samuel Cortez was a mystery—quiet, watchful, with eyes that sometimes seemed to glow in certain light. But he was also the only person in my world who felt familiar, even if I couldn't explain why.

A soft knock at my bedroom door pulled me from my thoughts.

"Another nightmare?" Samuel's deep voice carried through the wood, concern evident in his tone.

I sighed. He always seemed to know when I was distressed, as if he could sense my fear. "I'm fine," I called back, though we both knew it was a lie.

The door cracked open, and Samuel's tall frame filled the doorway, his dark hair tousled from sleep. He leaned against the frame, arms crossed over his chest, studying me with those intense eyes that somehow calmed the storm inside me.

"I have an idea," he said after a moment. "Get dressed. I want to show you something."

An hour later, we pulled into a small local racetrack on the outskirts of the city. The place was nearly empty this early, just a few mechanics preparing cars for the day's amateur races.

"What are we doing here?" I asked, eyeing the track with a strange sense of déjà vu.

Samuel's lips curved into a rare smile. "Testing a theory." He led me to a man who introduced himself as Ray, the track owner. After a brief conversation and the exchange of what seemed like too much cash, Ray handed Samuel a set of keys.

"She's all yours for the next hour," Ray said, gesturing to a modest stock car. "Try not to wreck her."

My heart began to race as Samuel turned to me, holding out the keys. "Drive," he said simply.

"I don't know how," I protested, though something deep inside me stirred at the sight of the car.

"I think you do," Samuel countered, his expression serious. "Trust your instincts, Natalie."

Reluctantly, I took the keys, approaching the car with trepidation. But as soon as I slid behind the wheel, something clicked into place. My hands found the gear shift naturally, my feet working the pedals as if I'd done this a thousand times before. The engine roared to life under my touch, and a thrill shot through me.

I took the first lap cautiously, but by the second, muscle memory had taken over. The car responded to me like an extension of my body, taking corners at speeds that should have terrified me but instead felt exhilarating. Time blurred as I pushed faster, harder, my reflexes impossibly quick as I navigated the track with precision that left even Ray staring open-mouthed from the sidelines.

When I finally pulled into the pit, my body was humming with adrenaline, and for the first time since waking in Samuel's cabin, I felt truly alive.

"How did I do that?" I asked, breathless as I climbed out of the car.

Samuel's expression was unreadable, but something like pride flickered in his eyes. "You were a racer before," he said quietly. "Your body remembers, even if your mind doesn't."

"A racer," I repeated, the word feeling right on my tongue. As I said it, a brief flash crossed my vision—another track, another car, the sensation of being watched by hundreds of eyes. Then it was gone, leaving me dizzy.

Samuel steadied me with a gentle hand on my arm. "You're remembering," he observed. "It will come back in pieces."

"Did you know?" I asked. "Is that why you brought me here?"

He hesitated, and I sensed there was more he wasn't telling me. "I suspected," he finally admitted. "The way you talk about cars at the garage, how your hands move when you're fixing engines... it seemed natural to test the theory."

Six months later, I stood in the winner's circle of the Pacific Northwest Regional Championship, cameras flashing as I held up the trophy. Samuel watched from the sidelines, his tall frame easy to spot among the crowd of racing enthusiasts and sponsors who had flocked to me as my winning streak grew.

The "Portland Phantom," they called me—the mysterious female driver who had appeared from nowhere with uncanny speed and precision. Race after race, I'd climbed the rankings, my instincts at the wheel sharper than competitors with years more experience.

"You've done it again," my main sponsor, a luxury watch company representative, gushed as he shook my hand for the cameras. "Three consecutive wins! We knew you were a good investment."

I smiled and nodded, playing the part of the gracious victor while scanning the crowd for Samuel. He'd become more than my guardian and friend over these months—he was my anchor, the one constant in a life built on the quicksand of lost memories.

As I made my way through the crowd toward him, a man in a leather jacket brushed past me. Something about his scent—pine and leather with an undertone of something wild—stopped me in my tracks. He wore a patch on his jacket: a shadowy wolf silhouette against a ridge of mountains.

A flash hit me like lightning—the same symbol on a larger scale, mounted above massive iron gates. The sensation of belonging and yet not belonging. A man with cold eyes looking through me rather than at me.

My breath caught, vision tunneling as panic clawed up my throat. The trophy slipped from my fingers, clattering to the ground as I doubled over, clutching my head.

"Natalie!" Samuel was suddenly there, his strong arms around me, shielding me from curious onlookers. "Breathe," he commanded softly, his voice an anchor in the storm of fragmented memories.

"I knew him," I gasped, my eyes searching the crowd for the man with the wolf patch, but he had vanished. "That symbol—I've seen it before."

Samuel's expression darkened, his jaw tightening as he guided me away from the crowd. "Let's get you home," he said, his tone careful, measured.

As he led me to his truck, I couldn't shake the feeling that Samuel knew more than he was telling me—that the symbol on that jacket was significant in ways neither of us was ready to face. And somewhere deep inside me, something stirred—not quite a voice, but a presence, awakening from a long slumber.

Whatever—or whoever—I had been before the accident was trying to surface. I just didn't know if I was ready for what I might find.