Page 1 of The Alpha’s Forced Omega (Alaska Alpha Wolves #1)

The scent of jasmine is captivating, enticing my inner wolf to walk through the dense fog surrounding the forest.

One step forward, and I notice that I’m in human form, hearing the crunching sound of the dry, autumn leaves beneath the sole of my booted foot.

The scent grows stronger, disarming me momentarily and keeping me as frozen as the glaciers on the surrounding State Park mountains’ peaks during the Alaskan winter. The only difference is that I’m not as cold as ice; heat rises through me like a wild forest fire.

It spreads through me and fills my nerves with a sense of tingling awareness that lifts my arm as if to reach out for something to quell this burning hunger that envelops my being.

It’s when I lift my eyes that I see a curtain of the most luscious golden waves of hair cascading down the back of a shorter figure.

My fingers reach out, the tips almost brushing the golden curtain, curiosity stalling my movement when I’m captivated by the luminous gold hues that surround the sweep of hair.

“Who are you?” I call out, my heart pounding as another inhale indicates that the figure is the source of the sweet scent of jasmine.

I have the sudden urge to close my eyes and relish in the tooth-achingly sweet scent, bask in all the glorious inebriation that arrests my senses, but my curiosity wins over, and I wouldn’t want to miss the chance of seeing this enchanting creature with my own eyes when a gentle wind passes, strumming the silky, golden locks of hair with a soft melody that whispers my name.

“Elias…”

The lilting sound is so soothing that it lifts my lips into a smile.

“Alpha Elias!”

Without warning, I’m abruptly jolted from the dream, snapping my eyes open just as my beta, Dillon, is about to tap my shoulder. Staring at his outstretched hand in irritable accusation for interrupting my dream on the brink of its climax, I grunt and lift my eyes to him.

“What do you want?” I grumble coldly as I sit upright, my nostrils flaring angrily as I raise a brow at Dillon.

But when I notice the way his brows are knitted in worry, I clear my mind of the regret of not being able to see the face of the figure in my haunting dream.

It’s not the first time I’ve encountered that figure in a mysterious, misty forest with thick fog that clouds everything except the tresses of celestial, golden hair. Perhaps I can meet the figure tonight, as soon as I’ve taken care of whatever prompted Dillon to wake me up.

“It’s”—he pauses to gulp back the trepidation that worries his quivering bottom lip—“it’s Andrew. He’s dead.”

***

Andrew was missing for three days after venturing into the State Park mountains for an independent hunt.

Now, he’s dead.

The news of his death brings with it a sense of ominous unease, especially amongst the alphas of the Snehvolk Pack. The four leaders of the largest cluster of werewolf packs in Alaska spread out across the forest, paired with our respective betas, as we gather the remains of Andrew’s body.

It’s not an ordinary death, but a grotesque scene of horror spread out for a mile along the creek and across the nearby tree trunks lining the ingress of the woods. Andrew’s blood paints the scene crimson, his torn limbs scattered like they’d been discarded after the blood had been drained.

It’s not our first time witnessing horror and gore of this magnitude. But it’s by far the worst we’ve encountered when we find his decapitated head floating down the stream.

It’s Alpha Thane who appears to have the toughest stomach, using a broken branch to fish out the pale head from the stream.

He leans over and grabs it by the brittle strands of dark hair.

He holds it up, almost triumphantly, except that he’s wearing a look of regret as strong as each of us feels right now.

As the leader of the Snehvolk Pack, I feel the dread more intensely as it courses through my bones. The alphas of the pack—Thane, Dawson, Brooks, and I—exchange glances as we hold the strewn bits of Andrew’s body in our hands.

There’s an unvocalized knowing that passes through the mind link we share. It’s like our wolves spare a moment of silence for the fallen pack member who’d served our pack since he turned eighteen.

Andrew was a descendant of the original Nightclaw Pack, his grandfather having served the patrols under my grandfather’s leadership long before we joined forces with the neighboring packs to form the Snehvolk Pack during the blood wars.

Four packs came together to become the strongest in the States, and we all reside in Girdwood under the dictatorship of four alphas.

Because it was my grandfather who formed the alliance between the four packs, it’s Nightclaw that has served as the leader of the umbrella of wolf packs since then.

Right now, I feel the weight of that responsibility hanging on my shoulders, and it’s heavier than the weight of Andrew’s body parts as we lug them back to our isolated town in the valley.

It feels like we’re heading back there only to bring more bad news. Whatever attacked Andrew didn’t leave behind any tracks on the smooth snow covering the ground. We have no idea what did this to him, or the two other werewolves found over the past two weeks.

As we follow the stream against the current that leads us into Girdwood, the gathering of Snehvolk members in the town square awaits the news that a member of their pack has been slaughtered. It’s brutal enough that we’re carrying Andrew’s remains, but it’s even worse that he’s not in one piece.

I hate being the bearer of bad news, but this incident calls for an emergency meeting with the pack.

Once I’ve made the announcement both vocally and telepathically for those who haven’t gathered with dreaded anticipation in the town square, I glance over my shoulder to find the other alphas nodding as if to encourage me.

There’s no doubt that I’ll make the right decisions for the pack, and my fellow alphas and I set Andrew’s remains aside to give him a proper burial later. As a fallen soldier in an army of wolves, he’ll be buried in the pack’s cemetery, and a bonfire ceremony will be conducted.

Even if we have no idea what did this to him.

Once we’ve gathered in the pack hall and the alphas have taken their positions on the carved wood chairs to face the crowd of Snehvolk packmates seated on the benches in front of us, Dillon hands me the mic.

Just as I clear my throat and am about to address the pack, I pick up on a faint whisper coming from the back of the hall.

“ ...the demon dog…” a female voice breathes anxiously, and I pause to glance warily at my fellow alphas.

Though the voice wasn’t carried through the mind link, it joins the rest of the hushed, frightened whispers as the pack members speculate about the source of the attack before the meeting commences.

It’s not the first time we’ve heard that name, or felt the weight of anxiety that comes with the theory that there’s a fabled creature lurking in the forest, attacking lone travelers when pack members choose to go out for independent hunts.

The suspicions would have been credible if the myth were true; now we’ve witnessed our third gruesome death, the scenes bathed in the blood of fellow pack members while their limbs, torn in shreds from their bodies, have been found drained and scattered as if by a merciless beast.

Even my fellow Alphas have been steadily leaning toward the possibility that such a vile creature exists. I, on the other hand, have been trying to remain neutral, not wanting to believe in something I haven’t seen with my own eyes.

As if the murder scenes are not enough.

They are, however, cause for concern, and the urgent need to keep my pack safe. Which is why I called for this meeting, speaking over the disruptive whispers of the pack members who voice their fears.

After a moment of silence in Andrew’s name, I announce his burial ceremony, set for tomorrow night. Bringing the pack together around a bonfire is one way to ease their minds, but there’s still a need to protect them.

We’ve already lost three werewolves. I’ll be damned if we lose another because we’re not careful enough.

“Because of this impending threat, which remains unknown to us at this moment, we will stop independent hunts in the mountains and surrounds. If there is an urgent need to hunt, you will inform one of the patrol wolves, who will accompany you into the mountains.”

Someone in the center lifts their hand, and I nod to permit them to speak up.

“Is the threat really unknown? Or is it the demon that is out there?”

Thane clears his throat, and I pass the mic to him.

“Your alphas have not encountered a demon dog,” he explains, his voice level, not betraying the true nature of our concern. It’s in our best interest to keep the peace, even if each of us is wrestling with the demon of what a demon’s presence in Alaska might mean for our kind.

We’ve only ever heard the legends that were told to us as kids, around the bonfires hosted by the elders to prepare for our initiation into adulthood and receive our wolves.

But while Thane and Dawson try to subdue the pack, Brooks and I exchange wary looks of discontentment, already foreseeing what’s to come the moment Thane concludes the meeting and asks for them to leave the hall.

An uncomfortable silence stretches when only the alphas and the elders seated in the back remain. Taking a deep breath for composure, Elder Silas beckons us toward the back with one firm nod.

My grandfather, once the leader of Nightclaw before it became Snehvolk, is the first to enter the pack den after he’s summoned us. The other elders follow him, and the four alphas walk in last.

It’s almost like walking down memory lane, reminiscent of old times when we were young wolves on the brink of alphaship, spending our last night at camp sneaking off to enjoy a few drinks in a neighboring town where we could, for one night, leave our duties behind and mingle with humans as if we were like them.

Now that we carry the mantle of alpha, it’s impossible not to feel the weight of the safety of the pack on our shoulders, or feel the blood of the lives lost trickling down our palms.

Elder Silas is the first to take his seat, prompting everyone to bow their heads before taking theirs. I stare at my grandfather through hooded eyes, sensing the magnitude of the looming threat on the pack.

“The harbinger of death…” he begins, his tone as eerie as the ominous terror that lurks in the forest of Girdwood. “The demon dog has come.”

There’s a moment of silence that stretches for us to digest what my grandfather tells us. As the elder head of the council, he’s the most knowledgeable werewolf and wouldn’t throw around words without being certain of them.

The demon dog isn’t just a legend we were told as children to scare us into becoming revered alphas. It’s not a myth meant to keep me up at night as I toss restlessly, growing more determined to defend my pack with all my might and swearing to protect them with every breath in my body.

I gulp down my trepidations, reminding myself that I am no ordinary wolf, but the leader of the Snehvolk Pack of Alaska, a true-blooded alpha with links to both Norse and Slovak wolves who migrated to the States during World War II.

While the others discuss the emergence of the demon, after two hundred years of believing that it was only a mythical creature who’d been defeated long before the migration of the werewolves to Alaska, my grandfather stares at me with uncertainty in his eyes.

“The malevolent spirit must be seeking a sacrifice,” Caius, another powerful and knowledgeable elder, suggests with a thoughtful nod. “A sacrifice of a werewolf will appease the dark forces it works for, but it can only be done willingly.”

“If it encountered three of our wolves in the forest and killed them, wouldn’t that have been enough to appease its wrath?” Thane asks.

My grandfather shakes his head slowly. “The sacrifice would need to be offered to the demon in return for the pack’s safety, or the spirit will continue killing our kind to sate its hunger.”

“We’d have to offer a sacrifice in exchange for the pack’s protection…?” I ask, my voice low as the elders nod their agreement.

Grandfather Silas continues, “An offered sacrifice would guarantee that the demon disappears for at least another two centuries. Unfortunately, it must be one of our own.”

Caius nods. “The Elder Council has already discussed this, and we have decided that the sacrifice will be the lowest-ranking wolf in the Snehvolk Pack.”

A flicker of dread jolts through me like a lightning bolt, surging through my bones and widening my eyes with horrified realization.

They’re talking about a particular wolf whose name I wouldn’t dare to speak because of what happened almost five years ago. But the unspeakable name is the one my inner wolf whispers, its voice rendering me speechless.

The lowest ranking wolf is the runt of the litter, the omega she-wolf who is the lowest in the pack’s hierarchy because of the delayed reception of her wolf and the fact that she’s useless since her shifts cannot occur on command.

She’s a broken wolf, one who cannot serve the pack except in the scullery.

Despite that, my inner wolf seems attached—only because of the mere fact that she’s a Snehvolk wolf, and as the alpha and leader of the pack, I have to protect my people.

Right?

I have to protect every wolf in this pack, even when the wolf in question is someone I wish I didn’t have to see again. After that fateful night at the bonfire five years ago, I decided that she was nonexistent in my life.

But my inner wolf seems to feel differently as it sounds her name mentally, a wave of protectiveness washing over me. Even if she’s the lowest in the pack’s hierarchy, she’s still one of us.

It has nothing to do with our history.

But then why does my inner wolf chanting her name send a shiver coursing down my spine?

“ Aurora…”