My Alpha Mate Chose My Sister

The summons always came after midnight, when the pack house was silent and the moon was high enough to cast shadows I could feel but never see. My world was a landscape of sounds and scents, a map drawn in the creak of floorboards and the heavy, metallic tang of fear.

"Get up," the guard grunted, banging his fist on the thin wood of my door. "Alpha needs you."

I didn't argue. I never did. Arguing with Alpha Caleb Payne was a death sentence, and I had a five-year-old daughter sleeping in the cot beside me. I reached out, my fingers brushing the soft, steady rise and fall of Stormi's chest. She smelled of milk and innocence, a stark contrast to the rot that was slowly consuming her father.

"Coming," I whispered, grabbing my cane.

I navigated the hallways by memory. Five steps to the stairs. Twelve steps down. Turn left at the scent of lemon polish. The air grew colder as I approached his office, heavy with the oppressive weight of his aura. It was a chaotic storm of power that tasted like ozone and burning wood—the scent of Alpha Madness.

When I entered, the door clicked shut behind me, locking us in.

"You took too long," Caleb growled. His voice was rough, like gravel grinding together. I could hear the heavy panting of a wolf fighting for control.

"I came as fast as I could, Alpha," I said, keeping my head bowed. It was safer to look at the floor I couldn't see than the man who hated me for existing.

"Sit." It wasn't an offer; it was a command laced with Alpha power that forced my knees to buckle. I sank into the chair.

I heard him move, the heavy thud of his boots pacing the floor. Then, he was right in front of me. He grabbed my wrist, his grip bruising. "Do it. The rage... it's tearing my skull apart."

I didn't flinch as he pulled a small silver knife from his desk. I felt the sharp bite of cold metal against my forearm, followed by the warm trickle of blood. He didn't drink it—he wasn't a vampire—but he brought his face close to the wound, inhaling deeply. My blood, the blood of a Healer, carried a scent that acted as a sedative to his condition. It was the only thing keeping the madness at bay.

For a long minute, the only sound was his ragged breathing slowing down, syncing with the rhythm of the room. The burning ozone smell faded, replaced by his natural scent of pine and rain—the scent that used to make my heart flutter before he shattered it.

"Better," he sighed, releasing my arm. He didn't offer a bandage. He never did. I pressed my hand over the cut, stemming the flow.

"You can leave," he said, his voice cold again, stripped of the desperation from moments before. "And Ava? Stay out of sight tomorrow. The Moon Festival is for the pack,