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