Page 16 of Alpha's Exiled Mate
I was trapped in an impossible bind: in love with a man who would never know the real me, forced to live behind a mask, never to be loved for who I truly was.
But I wouldn’t give up. Not yet.
I turned to the mirror, staring at Viossi’s face—my face now. It would always be there, a reminder that this life, this happiness, wasn’t mine to claim. But in the mirror, my eyes—filled with sorrow and determination—were still Lilia’s. No matter how my appearance changed, my soul would forever belong to Lilia. Myself.
I wouldn’t surrender. No matter how long it took, no matter the obstacles, I would find a way.
Even if I could never reveal my true identity, I would make him love Viossi. The version of me trapped behind this suffocating mask.
Chapter 5
Perock
I sat at the heavy oak desk in my study, surrounded by a towering stack of reports and sealed letters. Yet, my mind kept drifting to yesterday’s encounter in the corridor.
The woman who called herself Viossi—my new bride—had appeared out of nowhere, barefoot, her pale feet rubbing together against the cold marble as if seeking comfort. The hurt in her green eyes, the way she stood there, vulnerable yet defiant, gnawed at me.
Elder Adrian’s sharp, unrelenting stare had tracked every word of our conversation. Later, during the council meeting, he shuffled over to me with his usual air of authority, a reminder of his revered status as a long-standing pillar of the pack. His words, steeped in outdated tradition and stubborn rigidity, were a pointed lecture on my responsibilities as heir—a tiresome refrain he’d repeated relentlessly since my father fell ill.
“Your Highness,” he’d said, his weathered eyes boring into mine, “your relationship with your bride must remain within the bounds of tradition. Too much closeness risks distraction, and we cannot afford another mistake.”
I knew what he meant. With Jackson circling like a vulture, waiting for any misstep, this was no time for weakness.
Pushing aside a border report detailing rogue werewolf attacks and Jackson’s personal inspection of the frontier—a detail that made my jaw tighten—I forced myself to focus. Supplies were running low, villages were under threat, and Jackson’s movements hinted at something larger.
What was he planning?
I jotted down key points, ordering my trusted scouts to investigate further. Suddenly, a faint knock at the door snapped me out of my thoughts. Before I could respond, it creaked open, and a familiar scent—clean, like rain-soaked leaves warmed by morning light—filled the room.
My head snapped up.
There she was, Viossi, my arranged wife, stepping lightly into the study with a small tray in her hands. A steaming bowl of soup sat on it, and she offered a tentative smile as she approached.
“Pero-Your Highness,” she realized she had misspoken and quickly corrected herself, her embarrassment causing her cheeks to flush. Then she began softly, “I heard from the maids you’ve been working all night. I thought you might need—”
Before she could finish her sentence, I had her throat in my grip, pinning her against the wall. The soup bowl slipped from her hands, crashing to the floor with a sharp, shattering sound, the broth splattering across the ground.
Despite my wolf’s reluctance, years of honed battle instincts drove me to act. Living in a world rife with danger had forged me into a man who trusted no one, making me wary of anyone who dared to cross into my territory uninvited. Especially not an unexpected intruder in my domain.
My wolf snarled further, furious at my actions, but I ignored it.
“What are you doing here?” I demanded, my voice low and cold. My free hand rested on the dagger at my waist, ready for any threat. “Who told you where my study is?”
Her eyes widened in terror, her fingers clawing weakly at my wrist. She tried to speak, but only a faint gasp escaped her lips. Her heaving curves strained against the thin fabric, every breath a forbidden promise. Each pulse dragging me back to that night—the slick heat of her skin, the way her breath hitched into broken pleas. I fought to barricade the memories.
“Who gave you permission to enter my study?” I pressed, my eyes narrowing. “Who sent you?”
Her face paled, tears welling in those emerald-like eyes, but beneath the fear was something else—something complex I couldn’t quite place. Pain, perhaps. Disappointment. A strange, desperate longing.
When I saw those complex looks in her eyes, I instinctively loosened my grip slightly.
She coughed, gulping air, but didn’t scream or lash out.
“I’m… I’m sorry, Your Highness,” she stammered between ragged breaths. “I just wanted to bring you some soup. I asked the guards where you were… they said you’ve been here since yesterday’s meeting, working without rest.”
I studied her trembling lips, my mind flashing back to the corridor yesterday. The same woman, the same wounded look in her eyes. She’d tried to approach me then, and I’d brushed her off with icy dismissal. Why was she here again, risking my temper?
“Who sent you? Don't let me repeat myself.” I asked again, my grip on the dagger easing but my suspicion unwavering.