The Unmated Alpha

POV Dorian.

My boots hit the hardwood floor of my bedroom in a relentless, rhythmic thud. Back and forth. Over and over. My skin runs hot, layered in a fresh sheen of sweat from my grueling morning workout, but the burn in my muscles does nothing to quiet the chaotic storm raging inside my skull.

Cleo Fairchild is back in Maple Ridge.

The reality of it hits me like a physical punch to the gut, stealing the breath from my lungs. My stepmom’s daughter has returned. I grind my teeth together, feeling the prominent ridges of my canines pressing against my bottom lip. I am the Alpha of the Ember pack now. I am a Lycan. I carry the blood of apex predators in my veins, holding power that commands respect and incites fear. I tell myself, over and over, that a nerdy little werewolf like her should not even register on my radar. She is a nobody. She is weak, fragile, and insignificant in the grand hierarchy of our world.

Yet, my beast paces restless circles beneath my skin. The moment I caught her scent near the estate gates earlier today, a magnetic, undeniable pull wrapped around my chest, dragging my attention straight to her. It makes no sense. I should not care about her.

I drag a heavy hand over my face, wiping away a bead of sweat tracing my temple. My mind supplies the image of her standing outside the wrought-iron gates. She looked so small, so devastatingly lost, her huge green eyes wide and luminous. She is far prettier now than I remember. The awkward teenage phases have faded, leaving behind something striking and vibrant.

A bitter, corrosive wave of regret washes through my chest, burning like acid. I stare at the dark wood of my door, disgusted with myself as the memories of my idiotic teenage years flood my brain. I was a monster to her. I ruthlessly bullied her, using every ounce of my popularity and power to make her life a living hell. I branded her with the cruel nicknames 'Toad Cleo' and 'Pug Cleo.' I laughed when the others joined in, basking in the twisted glory of group pleasure.

I thought I was untouchable back then. I thought being the star football player gave me a free pass to act like a heartless prick. But the ugly truth claws at my throat. I did not bully Cleo because I hated her. I did it because I harbored a twisted, overwhelming need to have her constant attention. I could not stand the thought of her looking away from me. If making her cry was the only way to keep those big green eyes locked on my face, then that was what I did. I was a dipshit. A stupid, immature kid who masked his weird obsession with cruelty.

I let out a harsh snort, the sound loud in the empty room. No wonder she looked so terrified of me today. No wonder she stared at me like I was the devil incarnate. And what did I do to fix it? My stupid brain panicked, and I ordered her to stay away from me. I reinforced the fear.

I need to shake this off. The lingering image of her terrified expression is driving a spike of guilt straight into my brain.

I turn on my heel, yanking the door open, and head down the grand staircase toward the kitchen. My muscles ache from lifting heavy weights, demanding fuel. My mood is agitated, defensive, and rebellious. I am ready to snap at the first person who looks at me wrong.

I stride into the massive, sunlit kitchen. My father, Arthur, sits at the head of the long marble table. His wife, Valerie—Cleo’s mother—sits beside him. They are laughing about something, the sound grating against my raw nerves. I ignore them. I march straight to the stainless-steel refrigerator, yank the heavy door open, and grab a can of whipped cream. I pop the cap, tilt my head back, and press the nozzle, letting the sweet foam fill my mouth.

"Are you serious right now? When are you going to grow up and act your age?"

Arthur’s roar echoes off the tiled walls, shattering the morning peace.

I slowly lower the can. I wipe my mouth with the back of my hand, savoring the deliberate, agonizing silence I force upon the room before I turn to face him. I level a cold, flat stare at the man who used to beat me black and blue before Valerie came into the picture. He does not scare me anymore. I am bigger than him. I am stronger than him. I am the Alpha now.

"You really want to fight me this early in the morning, old man?" I drawl out the words, my tone laced with flippant disrespect.

The veins on Arthur's forehead bulge, straining against his skin. His face flushes a deep, angry red. I feel a dark smirk tugging at the corner of my mouth. I love getting a rise out of him. He deserves every ounce of disrespect I serve him.

Arthur slams his fist onto the table, making the silverware rattle. "Do I have to remind you that you do not own this mansion? You might have won the title of Alpha of the Ember pack, but you are still unmated and alone. You cannot inherit your grandfather's money until you claim a mate. You are not the head of this house. Remember your place. I will not tolerate this disrespect."

The words leave his mouth dripping with cold disdain, calculated and sharp.

The dark amusement drains from my face. My jaw clenches so hard my teeth ache. He knows exactly where to slide the knife. His words strike a deep, painful nerve, hitting me like a physical blow to the sternum. He is right, and I hate him for it. I am eighteen, I hold the Alpha title, but I have no mate. I lack the final piece of the puzzle that solidifies my absolute rule.

I force a casual shrug, masking the fury burning in my gut. I toss the whipped cream can onto the counter with a loud clatter.

"Of course," I mutter, turning my back on him. I start walking toward the hallway, eager to escape the suffocating tension.

"Dorian."

Arthur’s voice stops me in my tracks. It is less of a roar now, dialed back into something that resembles a plea mixed with a command. I release a heavy, tired sigh and turn back around to face him.

"Yes?" I ask, my voice clipped.

Arthur adjusts his posture, leaning forward. "You need to stop delaying. You must claim a mate immediately. The elders demand it."

I let out a harsh, mocking bark of laughter. "The elders demand it? Is that all you care about? Pleasing a bunch of old fools?"

Arthur’s eyes narrow into dangerous, warning slits. He keeps his physical distance, well aware that picking a physical fight with me is a guaranteed loss. "It is about politics, Dorian. The elders view you as a reckless, irresponsible pup unfit for leadership. You won your title by picking a fight and beating Gideon Slater in a duel. They think you are a thug. Taking a mate—showing affection and stability—will appease them. It will change their highly critical perspective. You have an entire pack of willing, beautiful Lycan females at your disposal. Pick one."

I cross my arms over my massive chest, staring him down.

Logically, my human brain knows he is right. The pack elders are a constant thorn in my side, second-guessing every command I issue, waiting for me to fail. A political marriage to a strong, docile Lycan female would silence their whispers. It would unlock my inheritance and secure my absolute authority.

But my inner wolf snarls, viciously rejecting the very concept. My beast paces, baring his teeth at the idea of settling for a random female just to play politics. My wolf demands tradition. He demands the sacred, undeniable bond of a true fated mate. He refuses to claim anyone else.

"Maybe," I murmur, my voice devoid of any real promise.

I turn my back on him for good this time, marching out of the kitchen. From the corner of my eye, I catch Valerie looking at me with deep sympathy. She is a kind woman. She is too good for Arthur, and part of me pities her for being tied to him.

I take the stairs two at a time, my mood plunged into a dark, chaotic abyss. The confrontation has left me deeply frustrated, my skin crawling with agitation. The crushing weight of the elders' disapproval sits heavy on my shoulders.

I push through the door of my bedroom and shut it firmly behind me. The solitude of the dark space offers a brief moment of relief. I pace toward the center of the room, my hands running aggressively through my hair.

My thoughts instantly snap back to Cleo.

Why am I thinking about her? Why does her face keep flashing behind my eyelids? I remember the way she looked at me with pure, unadulterated fear. She has her mother's eyes, but instead of sympathy, they hold nothing but terror when they land on me. It pisses me off. Every other female in this territory would kill for five minutes of my time. They line up, desperate to catch my eye, eager to become the Luna of the Ember pack. But Cleo? She runs from me.

"What is wrong with you?" I scold myself out loud, my voice harsh in the quiet room. "You have a pack full of eligible women waiting for you. Stop obsessively fixating on a girl you used to torture. Get a grip."

I drag my hands down my face, letting out a ragged breath. The exhaustion is catching up to me, settling deep into my bones. Juggling the brutal, bone-crushing demands of college football and the relentless duties of my new Alpha title is running me into the ground. My muscles scream for rest.

I strip off my sweaty workout shirt, tossing it onto a chair, and collapse onto my large mattress. I drag the heavy, comforting blanket up over my massive frame. The darkness of the room swallows me whole. My eyelids grow heavy, and within seconds, the exhaustion drags me down into a deep, heavy sleep.

***

I open my eyes.

The light is warm, golden, and soft. I blink, trying to adjust to the sudden shift in my surroundings. I am no longer lying in my dark, isolating bedroom. I am sitting upright, resting peacefully on an incredibly comfortable, plush couch. I look around, taking in the beautifully decorated living room. Wide windows let in the bright sunlight, showcasing a sprawling view of green pines and a sparkling blue ocean in the distance. The air smells fresh, carrying the scent of salt water and sweet wildflowers. I do not recognize this place.

A soft, teasing, musical voice drifts down from somewhere above me.

"Be honest with me, Dorian. You don’t like this movie, and that’s why you drifted off just now. You are just afraid to admit it, aren't you?"

My breath catches in my throat. I know that voice. I would recognize that sweet tone anywhere, but it lacks the trembling fear I am used to hearing.

I slowly look up, following the sound.

My heart stops dead in my chest.

It is Cleo.

She stands near the armrest of the couch, looking down at me with a brilliant, breathtaking smile. But she is different. She is older. Her face has lost the lingering roundness of her teenage years, maturing into something striking and gorgeous. A smattering of light freckles dusts across her nose, on full, unapologetic display. Her green eyes are bright, glowing with a fierce, beautiful life.

Before I can even process her face, a massive, undeniable force slams into my chest.

The mate bond.

It hits me with the force of a freight train. The air between us crackles, zapping and humming with a raw, intense energy that sings through my veins. The invisible tether hooks deep into my ribs, pulling my soul directly toward hers. My inner wolf howls in pure, unadulterated triumph, bowing down in instant reverence.

My mind spins in absolute disbelief. Cleo Fairchild, my werewolf stepsister, the girl I tormented for years, is my fated mate?

She lets out a sweet, beautiful giggle, breaking through my shock. An amused smirk plays on her pretty lips as she tracks my wide-eyed stare. My gaze drops lower, following the curve of her body, and I nearly choke on my own tongue.

She is heavily pregnant.

Her stomach is huge, swollen, and perfectly round beneath a soft, form-fitting sundress. She rests a gentle, loving hand on the massive bump, stroking the fabric with a tender grace that makes my chest physically ache.

"It is getting big, isn't it?" She asks, her voice dripping with affection. I stare at her belly, paralyzed. She giggles again, the sound washing over me like a warm breeze. "It must be another Lycan son I am carrying, considering the size of my belly. Milo and Jace won't be happy, though. They wanted a sister."

I open my mouth, but no sound comes out. I am completely speechless. My vocal cords refuse to work. I sit frozen on the couch, my brain desperately trying to catch up to the reality playing out in front of me.

Cleo steps closer, her amusement growing at my silent shock. She reaches out, her delicate fingers brushing against the rough scruff on my jaw. Her touch sends a cascade of electric sparks shooting down my neck.

"Someone needs to shave," she murmurs, her tone intimate and warm.

I stare up at her, my heart squeezing tight in my ribcage. Pregnant Cleo is a vision. She is the most beautiful, radiant woman I have ever laid eyes on in my entire life.

I finally manage to force a breath past my lips. My voice cracks, sounding rough and desperate. "Cleo... what is this place? Where am I?"

She blinks her glowing green eyes, looking down at me with fond exasperation. She giggles, her thumb tracing the line of my jaw. "You are inside your summerhouse in Sweden, Dorian. Wow, you must be really overworked to forget where we are. See? This is exactly why I have been nagging you to leave Maple Ridge. Being a star athlete and a pack Alpha is way too much for one man to handle. You need this peaceful vacation."

Sweden?

My mind races. We are on vacation. I am a star athlete. The crushing weight of my double life in Maple Ridge is thousands of miles away. But none of that matters. The football, the Alpha title, the elders—it all fades into meaningless static. The only thing that matters is the woman standing in front of me and the words she just spoke.

I swallow hard, feeling my usually hardened heart melting down, turning into a puddle of mush. I stare at her swollen belly, a miserable, awe-struck whisper falling from my lips.

"We have... children?"

Cleo pauses, giving me a surprised, wide-eyed look. Then, she throws her head back and bursts into a bright, musical laugh that sends a barrage of pleasant shivers racing down my spine.

"Yes, silly," she says, a wide, breathtaking grin spreading across her face. She pats her huge belly with pride. "We have two boys already. Milo and Jace. And this little one right here?" She strokes the curve of her stomach. "This one will be pup number three. I cannot wait."

A strange, foreign pressure builds behind my eyes. The corners of my vision blur. My chest heaves as an unusual, overwhelming heat prickles my eyes.

Hot tears rapidly well up, spilling over my lower lashes. I am crying. The ruthless, arrogant Alpha of the Ember pack is sitting on a couch, weeping in awe. I blink rapidly, trying to clear my icy blue eyes, desperately not wanting to look like a weak loser in front of my mate.

"This..." I choke out, my voice thick with heavy emotion. "This is better than anything I could have ever dreamed of."

Cleo’s smile softens, shifting into something incredibly tender and reverent. She moves her hand from her belly, bringing both hands up to cup my face. Her small, warm palms cradle my jawline. Her thumbs gently brush across my cheekbones, wiping away the stray tears tracking down my skin.

"You always say that, you big softie," she whispers, her gaze locked onto mine.

I lean into her touch, desperate for the contact. "I am not a big softie," I mutter defensively, though my voice shakes.

Cleo laughs, the sound rich and sweet. "Do not try to hide your emotions from me, Dorian. I know exactly who you are. You might be huge, incredibly sexy, and entirely shredded, but you are soft and sweet on the inside. You are a total family man, and I love you deeply for it."

The world stops spinning. The air leaves my lungs.

She loves me.

A massive, suffocating wave of pure, unadulterated happiness erupts in my chest, expanding until I feel like I might burst. The dark, lonely void inside my soul fills with blinding light. She loves me. She is mine, and I am hers.

I move on pure instinct. I lean forward, wrapping my large hands gently around her waist, mindful of the baby. I tilt my head up, desperate to capture her pretty, smiling lips in a kiss. I need to taste her. I need to seal this perfect reality, to bind us together in this bright, beautiful room. Our faces draw closer. I feel the warm puff of her breath against my mouth.

*GASP.*

My eyes snap open.

My body jolts violently upward, my chest heaving as I suck in a ragged, desperate breath.

The beautiful Swedish summerhouse vanishes into thin air. The warm sunlight, the smell of the ocean, the soft couch—gone. They are cruelly replaced by the stark, freezing cold reality of my dark, isolating bedroom. The shadows press in on me from all sides.

I am alone.

My heart races in a panicked, frantic rhythm, slamming against my ribs like a trapped bird. My large hands shoot out, frantically gripping the fabric of my bedsheets. I trace the familiar, empty space beside me, my fingers clutching at nothing but cold cotton. I desperately try to ground myself, trying to slow the rapid, pounding beat of my heart.

"Breathe, Dorian. Breathe," I instruct myself, my voice echoing hollowly in the dark room.

My chest clenches in agony. Cleo.

She was right there. She had been so vibrant, so incredibly full of life. Her green eyes glowing with love, her round belly carrying our unborn child. She existed perfectly as my beloved wife, my fated mate, the Luna I never knew I wanted. In that dream, she was more enchanting and beautiful than anything I have ever encountered in the waking world.

We had children. Milo. Jace. A little pup on the way. I was a father. A family man.

An instant, crushing wave of loneliness drops onto my shoulders, suffocating me beneath its immense weight. The bitter truth sinks its claws into my brain.

It was a dream. None of it is real.

Everything I just experienced—my loving mate, my beautiful children, our peaceful vacation in Sweden, the soft touch of her hands on my jaw—is entirely gone. Stripped away in the blink of an eye.

I fall back against my pillows, staring blankly up at the dark ceiling. A painful, hollow ache spreads through my chest, burning worse than any physical wound I have ever taken on the football field or in a pack duel.

Damn it. What did that incredibly vivid dream even mean? Why did my wolf accept her so easily? And why, as I lie here in the cold dark, do I feel so profoundly, devastatingly sad that the dream is over?