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

Crimson rain hammered the tin roof of our cabin. The unnatural downpour made the wooden porch look like a slaughterhouse under the dim bulb. I stood on the top step, a dry towel gripped tightly in my hands, scanning the dark tree line.

A shadow broke through the pines. Silas.

"You promised you'd be home before the moon rose." I pitched my voice over the roar of the storm.

He trudged up the wooden stairs. Water sluiced off his broad shoulders, dyed a violent rust color by the bizarre weather.

"The western border was compromised." Silas stopped on the second step, just outside the porch awning. "I had to double the perimeter."

"Alpha Miller told the omegas the borders were secure." I stepped forward, holding the towel out.

"Miller sits in an office." Silas scoffed, swiping wet hair from his forehead. "He sends boys to do men's work. The southern ridge was entirely unguarded."

"You went all the way to the southern ridge?"

"Someone had to."

"That's outside our territory, Silas. If the neighboring pack caught you—"

"They didn't catch me."

"You shouldn't be crossing borders. Not with the treaty negotiations next week."

"The treaty is a piece of paper. It won't stop what's coming out of the woods."

"What is coming out of the woods?"

"Nothing you need to worry about. Go back inside."

"Not until you dry off."

"It's just water, Elara."

"It's red, Silas. It's unnatural."

"It's just dust in the atmosphere. Stop acting like a frightened pup."

He finally stepped under the awning. The yellow porch light flickered, casting harsh shadows across his jaw.

"Did you track anything?" I asked.

"Just shadows and paranoid squirrels."

I watched the red rain wash over his neck. Something was wrong.

For three years, Silas smelled like winter snow and crushed pine needles. It was the scent that bound us, the anchor that calmed my wolf during the worst nights.

Right now, I couldn't smell the pine.

A clump of gray, mud-like paste slid down his collarbone. The water dissolved it, peeling it away from his skin in thick sheets.

"Did you fall?" I asked.

"What?"

"Your neck." I pointed at the dissolving gray sludge. "You're covered in something."

"Mud." He swiped a hand over the spot. "The riverbanks are overflowing. I slipped near the gorge."

"You never slip."

"The ground gave way. It happens."

He didn't wipe it all away. More of the gray coating flaked off, washed down his chest by the crimson water.

Then the smell hit me.

My stomach violently seized. I clamped my jaw shut to keep from gagging.

It wasn't mud. It wasn't river water.

It was the foul, rotting stench of an open sewer. The unmistakable, stomach-turning odor of a Rogue wolf.

A sharp, breathless laugh escaped my lips.

Silas paused. "What's funny?"

"Nothing." I swallowed hard against the bile rising in my throat. "Just... tired."

"You look pale."

"It's the lighting."

"Give me the towel."

I extended my arms.

Silas reached up to take the terrycloth fabric. The overhead bulb illuminated the back of his hand.

My fingers locked. I didn't release the towel.

"Elara. The towel."

"Your hand," I whispered.

Where the gray sludge had washed away completely, his skin was missing. A raw, weeping patch of ulcerated flesh covered his knuckles. It looked dead. Rotting.

"It's nothing." He yanked the towel from my grip.

As he pulled, his palm slid against mine.

It wasn't wet from the rain. It was thick. Slimy. A synthetic, greasy paste coated his skin, slick and entirely wrong.

I dug my fingernails deep into the center of my palms. Pain grounded me. I forced my arms to drop to my sides instead of wiping my contaminated hand on my jeans.

"That doesn't look like nothing," I said, keeping my voice flat. "It looks infected. It looks like it's decaying."

"I scraped it on a jagged rock." He scrubbed the towel roughly over his face. "It will heal by morning. You know how my wolf works."

"A rock doesn't cause flesh to rot in three hours."

"Are you a pack medic now?"

"No. But I have eyes."

"Then use them to see I'm exhausted and I want to go inside."

"Not until you tell me what happened."

"Nothing happened!"

"You're yelling."

"Because you won't drop it."

He lowered the towel. The gray paste was entirely gone from his neck now. The horrible sewer stench radiated off him in waves, suffocating me.

Three years. I had kissed that neck. I had buried my face in his chest, inhaling the winter pine.

It was all a lie. A coating. A disguise.

"Did you fight a Rogue out there?" I asked.

"No."

"Are you sure?"

"I think I would know if I fought a Rogue, Elara."

"Then why do you smell like one?"

Silas froze. The towel hung limp in his hand.

The rain battered the tin roof above us, deafening and relentless.

"What did you say?" His tone dropped the irritation. It became dangerously flat.

"You heard me."

"Repeat it."

"You smell like a Rogue."

"I smell like wet dog and swamp water." Silas stepped closer. "Don't let your imagination run wild just because the sky decided to bleed tonight."

"It's not swamp water." I held my ground. Retreating would show fear. "It smells like death. It smells like the scavengers that attacked the eastern border last winter."

"You're overreacting."

"I know what I smell."

"Your nose is confused by the storm."

"My nose knows my mate."

"Exactly. I'm your mate."

"Then let me clean your hand." I reached out again, forcing myself to endure the proximity. "If it's just a scrape, a little antiseptic won't hurt."

"I don't need antiseptic."

"Let me see it."

"I told you to leave it alone."

"Silas—"

He dropped the towel and snatched my wrist.

His grip was iron. The slimy paste smeared against my skin. The stench of decay flared, so strong my eyes watered.

"I said drop it," he warned.

I stared up at him. The man I married. The mate I chose.

His jaw was rigid. Water dripped from his dark hair onto my cheek.

"You're hurting me," I said.

"You're pushing me."

"I'm asking a simple question."

"And I gave you a simple answer."

He didn't release me. His thumb pressed heavily into my pulse point.

I needed to act normal. I needed to pretend my entire world hadn't just shattered on this wooden porch.

"Fine," I said, relaxing my arm. "Fine. I'll get you some dry clothes."

He didn't move.

Instead, he tilted his head. The porch light caught his eyes.

For a fraction of a second, his irises weren't their usual warm amber. They flashed a brilliant, unnatural red.

A chill ripped down my spine.

"Silas?" I whispered.

He leaned in, his nose brushing my temple. The rotting sewer smell enveloped me completely.

"If it's just the rain," he murmured, his voice dropping to a low, unnatural rasp.

"It is," I lied.

"If you're just tired."

"I am."

He tightened his grip on my wrist, his thumb resting directly over my racing vein.

"Then tell me, Elara," he said, his red pupils glowing in the dark. "Why is your heart beating so fast?"