Mother's Alpha, Daughter's Mate

The sun is high and wrong.

It should be raining. The sky should crack open and scream. But no. The sun just sits there. Fat and golden. Like nothing happened.

Like my father isn't dead.

I stand at the pack border. My hands are cold. The rest of me is numb.

Someone is crying behind me. I think it's my mother. I don't turn around.

The gate opens.

They carry him on a stretcher of branch and hide. Four warriors. Their heads are down. Their shoulders shake.

I can't see his face. A blanket covers him. But I know. I know because his hand hangs off the side. Pale. Too pale. And still.

So still.

My feet move before my brain tells them.

I walk toward the stretcher. The warriors stop. They look at me. One of them opens his mouth. Closes it.

I pull the blanket back.

His eyes are closed. Someone did that. Someone closed them for him because he can't anymore. His jaw is slack. There is dirt on his cheek. And blood. Dried blood in his hair.

I touch his face.

Cold.

My father is cold.

"Kiera." That's my mother's voice. Broken. "Don't."

I don't listen.

I push the blanket further. His chest. His chest is wrong. There is a hole. Not a hole exactly. A tear. Claw marks. Four of them. Deep. So deep I can see things I shouldn't see.

I look away fast.

My stomach heaves. Nothing comes out.

"Rogues," one of the warriors says. His name is Toren. He trained with my father. His voice is rough. "We were on the northern patrol. They came out of nowhere. A dozen of them. Maybe more."

My mother makes a sound. A small one. Like a rabbit being stepped on.

I stare at the claw marks again.

Rogues don't do that.

Rogues attack fast. They bite throats. They break necks. They don't stand there and tear a man open four times. That takes time. That takes anger.

That takes knowing someone.

"Where's the rest of the patrol?" I ask.

My voice sounds strange. Like someone else is speaking.

Toren looks at the ground. "Gone."

"Gone where?"

"Dead, Kiera. They're all dead."

Three wolves. My father and three others. All dead. Rogues don't kill an entire patrol unless something is wrong.

Unless someone told them where to be.

Unless someone wanted my father dead.

I look back at his face. There is something under his fingernails. Blood. Not his. He fought. He fought hard.

But he lost.

"Why?" I whisper. No one answers.

My mother is on her knees now. Someone is holding her. I don't care who.

I pull the blanket back up. Cover his face. I can't look anymore.

The warriors carry him toward the pack house. Everyone follows. Everyone but me.

I stay at the gate.

The sun is still high. Still wrong.

I look at the trees. The northern path. That's where they came from. That's where he died.

My feet start moving again. Toward the trees.

"Kiera. No." My mother's voice is sharp now. "You come here. Now."

I keep walking.

"Kiera!"

I don't stop. I can't stop. My father is dead and the sun is shining and nothing feels right.

The forest is quiet.

Too quiet.

Birds should sing. Bugs should buzz. But no. Everything is holding its breath.

I follow the trail. Blood on leaves. Broken branches. The smell of death.

My wolf is inside me. Pacing. Growling. She wants out. She wants to hunt. She wants to find whoever did this and rip them apart.

I let her come close. But not all the way. Not yet.

The clearing.

I stop.

The ground is torn up. Mud and blood and fur. So much fur. And bodies. Three bodies. The rest of the patrol.

I know them. Brin. Old and grumpy. He taught me how to track. His throat is gone.

Finn. Twenty years old. He had a mate. She's pregnant. His chest is caved in.

Rika. She was my mother's friend. Her eyes are open. Staring at nothing.

I fall to my knees.

The smell is worse here. Copper and rot and something else. Something that doesn't belong.

I crawl to Rika. Close her eyes.

Then I see it.

A footprint. Not wolf. Human. Partial shift. Someone ran through here on two legs. Not four.

Rogues don't do that. Rogues stay in wolf form. It's faster. Stronger.

Someone wanted to leave a mark.

I look closer. The print is large. Male. And next to it. Another. Same size.

Two. Maybe more.

I stand up. My legs shake.

My father was killed by wolves in human form. Wolves who wanted him to see their faces before they did it.

That's not a rogue attack.

That's an execution.

I hear something behind me.

I spin.

No one. Just trees. Just shadows.

But my wolf hears it too. A heartbeat. Someone is watching.

"Who's there?" My voice cracks.

Nothing. Then a rustle. Then silence.

I run.

I run back through the forest. Branches cut my face. I don't care. I run until my lungs burn. Until I reach the pack house.

Everyone is inside. I can hear them. The mourning howls. The crying.

I stand outside the door. My hands are bloody. My knees are muddy. My face is scratched.

I look down at my hands.

My father's blood is under my fingernails. From touching his face.

I should go inside. I should cry. I should let my mother hold me.

But I can't.

Because nothing feels right.

The sun is setting now. Orange and red. Like the sky is bleeding.

I look back at the forest.

Whoever killed my father is out there. Watching. Waiting.

And they left a footprint on purpose.

They wanted me to find it.

They wanted me to know.

This isn't over.

I clench my fists.

"Okay," I whisper. "Okay."

I don't know who they are. I don't know why.

But I will find out.

Even if it kills me.

The first star comes out. I make a promise to it.

To him.

I will find out.

The door opens behind me. My mother. Her face is swollen. Her eyes are red.

"Kiera. Please. Come inside."

I turn to her.

"Who found him?" I ask.

"What?"

"The body. Who found my father first?"

Her face changes. Just for a second. Something flickers.

"Toren," she says. "Why?"

I look at my hands again.

"No reason."

I walk inside. But I don't go to the mourning room. I go to my father's study.

The door is locked.

It's never locked.

I break the handle.

Inside, everything is neat. Too neat. Like someone cleaned up.

The desk is empty. His journals are gone.

Someone was here before me.

I sit in his chair. His scent is still there. Leather and pine and something sweet.

I close my eyes.

The sun is gone now. The day is dead.

And nothing.

Nothing feels right.