by Alice Cain
Alpha's Forbidden Mate
Wolden Valley Book 1
Copyright 2017 Alice Cain
ALL RIGHTS RESERVED
Amazon Kindle Direct Publishing Edition November 2017
Amazon Edition, License Notes
This ebook is for your personal use only. This ebook remains the copyrighted property of the author and may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you wish to recommend this ebook to a friend, please forward them the link to buy their own copy or use the gift function available on your favorite distributor. Thank you for respecting the hard work of all authors.
~ Alice
This is a fictional story from the author’s imagination and is not to be confused with fact. It is not advice or suggestion. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons is purely coincidental.
Blurb:
*** Darrick ***
I'm the alpha of the Wolden Valley werewolf pack. We used to live in harmony with humans, but twenty years ago they learned we walk among them and they were not happy. We've spent every day since then attending rallies and protests and fighting to regain the rights we lost in those first chaotic months after being discovered I've grown used to putting my pack first, to prioritizing our prosperity and safety over everything else. I'm okay being alone. I have my pack. I have my friends. I have enough.
That is... until I find my mate on the opposite side of a protest rally.
** John **
I'm not surprised to learn that my old high school boyfriend is a werewolf. I've long suspected the small town where I lived my first fifteen years was controlled by a werewolf pack. I'm not even shocked to discover that Darrick is now their leader. But it doesn't change anything. It doesn't erase the way my family was ostracized from our home town twenty-two years ago. Besides, it's ancient history. It's over and done with. I don't even care if there's an explanation for why any of it happened. I have a new life and a great career. I have good friends. I'm content right where I am.
I just need to walk away from Darrick without looking back.
Warning: Gay erotic romance. This fictional story contains explicit adult content and coarse language and is intended for mature readers only. All characters involved in sexual behavior in Alice Cain's stories are adults capable of consent, are over the age of twenty-one, and are willing participants.
32,430 words
Table of Contents
Alpha's Forbidden Mate
About the Author
Other titles by Alice Cain
http://alicecainromance.blogspot.com
Alpha's Forbidden Mate
Wolden Valley Book 1
Alice Cain
Copyright 2017
Chapter One
*** Darrick ***
"Twenty years," Hunter whispers quietly, shaking his head as we watch the crowd that has gathered to protest. "Twenty damn years. You'd think things would have gotten easier."
I can't disagree. Demonstrations like this one are still happening all over the country, but the glaring divide—hundreds of humans on one side of the line, a few dozen werewolves on the other—have never boded well for anyone's future.
"Human rights!" a small group shrieks over and over, their hate-fueled chant winding up the rest of the human protestors. We watch helplessly as they break through the blockade and run straight toward the picket line of werewolves. I indicate for my pack to take a step backward and they do so without hesitation, very aware of the dangers we face in this situation.
The wooden police barriers have been erected on both sides of the street to keep the two groups far apart but the small cluster of human protestors ignores them in favor of getting closer to scream their hatred directly into our faces.
I shake my head tiredly. If they knew anything about us at all, they'd know that a werewolf's auditory senses are good enough to hear their vile, insulting comments from a couple of blocks away. This close the scent of their hatred is damn near overwhelming.
Of course, insulting us is never the protestors' main goal. They're deliberately trying to provoke a violent reaction, desperate to prove that we're the monsters they say we are. It's a common tactic, and since werewolves have had very few rights these past couple decades, it's something my pack needs to avoid at all costs. We can't physically defend ourselves. The very last thing we need is some hysterical human claiming to have been bitten or scratched while they were screaming hatred at our entire species from only a few inches away
Despite the instinct to stand their ground, my betas and the rest of my pack stay calm and move back yet another step. It's a sad fact of life as a werewolf that many of us have been attending these protests since before we were old enough to understand why they were necessary.
Fortunately our non-confrontational stance—and undoubtedly the multitude of cameras pointed their way—have the police stepping between us and the human protestors now trying to climb the barrier on our side of the street. I'm holding my breath, trying not to inhale the scent of blind hatred. Just like more than half my pack, this group of human protestors isn't even old enough to remember a time werewolves lived peacefully among them.
It takes more time than it should, but eventually the police are turning the angry humans back toward their side of the road and my pack mates can take deep, tension-releasing breaths. We have very good reasons for being on edge right now.
A couple of years ago two of my betas were surrounded and beaten to within an inch of their lives. Despite the video footage that had, thankfully, made it onto the Internet clearly showing that they'd neither started the incident nor fought back, it had taken a truly ridiculous amount of time, money, and effort just to clear them of the assault charges that had been made against them.
Thanks to the type of knee-jerk reactions and laws that were created within weeks of humans learning that werewolves lived among them, every police officer on active duty today is a human, so I know it's mostly for appearances sake that the police are doing their job. Most of them exude the stench of hatred as strongly as the protestors they're supposed to contain.
"I never thought I'd be glad everyone carried a smartphone these days," Hunter says with a tight-but-relieved sigh as the news cameras follow the humans back to their side of the street.
"You and me both," I agree, quite aware of the irony.
It had been cell phones that outed werewolves to the world nearly twenty years ago. Hunter and I had barely been old enough to understand the ramifications of humans discovering that werewolves actually existed, but we've seen plenty of changes since then. Most of them biased against us.
It's sickening to realize that the number one human fear twenty years later still involves the idea of werewolves going crazy on the full moon and attacking the local shopping malls. No one even seems to care that the idea of full-moon madness in werewolves came straight from popular fiction and has no element of truth.
The breeze changes direction, again bringing the scent of human anger and hatred straight to our noses. I force myself not to react to the putrid smell. My pack takes their cues from their alpha, so I have to lead by example, but some days are much harder than others. Beside me Hunter pinches the bridge of his nose, glances at his twin brother, Reid—a quiet, peaceful man who always chooses to stay far to the back of our gathering lest his very size be considered deliberate intimidation—and shakes his head again.
"I'm really looking forward to going home," he mumbles.
I'm already nodding in agreement when an unexpected scent reaches my nose. I barely control my reaction, desperately fighting against the instinct urging me to run toward that enticing smell. I focus my senses instead to search the crowd for the man I seek.
John Hartmann.
>
I find him in the middle of the loudest group of humans still chanting their hatred, and I can't swallow back the soft whine that escapes me.
~*~*~*~*~
** John **
I can't tear my gaze away from the grown up version of the boy I once knew. Twenty-two years, a crowded street, and hundreds of loud, angry, violent protesters stand between us, but I can somehow still remember the touch of Darrick Alderman's hands, the curve of his smile, the taste of his lips.
We'd been teenagers at the time, barely fifteen each, our moments together brief and stolen and, in hindsight, quite innocent, but they'd felt real. They'd seemed like the beginning of something special.
I naively believed we were in love until the terrible day Darrick had suddenly changed his mind, refusing to see me or answer my phone calls, apparently even going so far as to have my father fired from the canning factory Darrick's family owned. Unable to find work elsewhere in the tiny town he'd called home all his life, my father had been left with no choice but to move his family far away.
Afterward I'd hated everything about that town, that boy, and that time in my life. The realization that Darrick Alderman is most likely a werewolf doesn't change that feeling at all.
I close my eyes against Darrick's angry gaze, then turn blindly, and walk away.
I don't bother looking back.
Chapter Two
*** Darrick ***
"Make sure everyone gets home safely," I tell my betas as they pack up their belongings and tiredly head toward the bus and cars we'd driven down the mountain. The pack has a four hour drive ahead of them that, after a rally, always feels a lot longer. Even though we protest silently, letting our presence and placards do the talking for us, the angry taunts, insulting behavior, and horrifying knowledge that we're in danger but unable to legally protect ourselves always takes its toll, leaving everyone exhausted.
Thankfully this time around no one was physically injured. Sadly the cost to everyone's mental health is a lot harder to quantify.
"You're going after him?" Hunter asks, staying behind as the other betas move to do as I asked. Hunter knows the answer to his question but he apparently wants me to confirm it before trying to talk me out of it.
"You know why I have to," I answer, trying to smile through my worry. Hunter nods but can't hide his concern. We both saw John protesting against equal rights for werewolves. I shake my head, cutting off Hunter's words before he can speak them.
"Fine," he says stubbornly. "I'll come with you." I should be upset that he's talking to me the way he did in our youth instead of showing the respect he usually offers his pack alpha in front of everyone else, but I know his reaction is that of a friend who cares deeply for the safety of the people around him.
I shake my head again and lean into the man who has been my closest friend for my entire life. It's obvious that Hunter isn't happy, but he breathes out tiredly and accepts the hug for the apology I mean it to be. He rubs his cheek against the top of my head for a moment before squeezing me tight one last time and then finally stepping away.
"Be safe."
"Always."
"And text me every hour."
I smirk, trying to portray a confidence I'm not really feeling. "Yes, Mom," I respond, rolling my eyes for emphasis.
"I mean it," Hunter says, ignoring the friendly jibe and neatly ducking my attempt at deflecting his concern. "If I don't get a text at least once an hour, every beta you have will converge on your location."
I want to laugh at the imagery of twelve werewolves surrounding a coffee shop simply because they didn't get a text message, but the reality is far more dangerous. Werewolf rights have been slowly improving since the disastrous, fear-fueled changes made twenty years ago—another small change to law toward equal rights is what today's protest was all about—but werewolves still aren't equal enough to not get shot if a "concerned citizen" thinks we're a threat.
Too many times since werewolves were exposed to the world, vigilante violence against them has been deemed by the courts as a reasonable and necessary response to what amounts to nothing more than humans reacting out of ignorance and fear. Yes, werewolves are more likely to survive being shot than the average human might be, but we can still die, so having the pack betas wandering around a heavily populated-by-humans location is something that I really need to avoid.
"Every hour," I concede with a slight nod.
~*~*~*~*~
** John **
I turn up the speed on my treadmill, concentrating on the steady rhythm to clear my mind and trying to ignore my own personal reaction to seeing Darrick so unexpectedly. I try instead to find the words I need to describe everything I witnessed earlier at the protests. It isn't easy.
The crowd had been overwhelming, the crush of angry humanity on one side of the street a stark contrast to the eerie stillness of the werewolves on the other. The difference had been startling.
I spent my college years reading about the danger and violence that went hand in hand with werewolf rights protests and had, as news articles usually suggested, believed that it was the werewolves always causing the problems. When I'd agreed to attend today's rally—the protests had literally been around the corner from my apartment—I honestly hadn't expected to find myself on the violent side of the street.
A quick glance in the mirror confirms that I am on track for one hell of a shiner. Already the swelling is turning a dark purplish-black color radiating outward from where I caught an elbow to the eye. I'm pretty sure it hadn't actually been aimed my way, but many of the human protestors had been spoiling for a fight and moving erratically as they'd hurled their abuse and insults across the street. I might have been able to dodge a wildly swung arm on a good day but I'd already been ducking to avoid being brained with a sign a woman had been waving violently as if that somehow made it easier to read.
Seeing Darrick standing there, apparently the silent and stoic leader of the werewolf protest, hadn't been as surprising as it probably should have been. I've often wondered over the years if the small town I grew up in had contained any werewolves. Darrick and his family and the close-knit circle of employees had actually fit the stereotypical profile for werewolf packs quite perfectly.
Annoyed at myself for being distracted by thoughts of a childhood I've tried hard to forget, I go back to concentrating on my running and breathing and again attempt to put my thoughts into some kind of logical order. The knock on my apartment door is unexpected and rather annoying. I pause the treadmill and move to open the door with the intention of dealing with my visitor as quickly as possible so I can go back to my brooding.
Of course, considering who my visitor is that seems unlikely.
I blink several times to be sure I'm seeing what I think I'm seeing. "What do you want, Darrick?" I ask eventually, dumbfounded to find the man I once childishly thought myself in love with loitering in the hallway.
"What happened?" Darrick asks instead, lifting a hand and pointing vaguely to the area of my face that I can feel is still swelling. He takes a step closer the way he'd often done when we'd been in high school, but instead of curling into my embrace, Darrick hesitates a moment and then takes a tiny step back. His expression suggests he actually cares and I swallow down the silly memories of the boy I'd once adored. It doesn't help any when Darrick takes that step forward again and asks in a low voice, "John, what happened to your eye?"
"Ran into a door," I answer, angry at my own silly memories and unwilling to share the real details with a man I apparently never really knew.
~*~*~*~*~
*** Darrick ***
I'm having trouble thinking rationally now that I know John was hurt during the protests, so his sarcastic response completely throws me until I realize it's a refusal to share the details and not an actual answer.
"What do you want, Darrick?" John asks again, his words enunciated deliberately through clenched teeth, his hostility clear in both his tone and the tightening of his shoulde
rs. But his scent tells a different story. It's far more complex than I can accurately interpret. Considering my own tangled and confused feelings I'm not completely surprised. Running into each other so unexpectedly after all these years will undoubtedly stir up more emotions than either of us is probably willing to share right now. He glares at me and I finally realize that he's still waiting for an answer to the question he's already asked twice.
"I just want a chance to explain," I answer finally. The scent of his anger flares at my quiet words and I realize that this is very likely the only chance I am going to get to apologize. Despite the conflicting emotions I can scent from him, it seems pretty clear that whatever affection John once held for me is long gone.
"What's to explain?" John asks, shaking his head irritably. "Packs protect their own."
I can't exactly argue against that point since it is quite true, but it does clear up the question on whether John realizes I'm a werewolf or not. It's a reasonable assumption after seeing me at the rally. Very few humans stand on the werewolf side of protests even when they support our rights to equality. It's simply too dangerous for them to be identified as sympathizers by the more militant human protesters. The only good news is that the courts still treat human-on-human violence with the same justice system that had once been available to everyone. Of course, getting justice doesn't do a person much good if they're dead.
John huffs out an irritated sigh when I take too long to react to his accusation.
"Can I come in?" I ask, even though I suspect that the answer will be a resounding "no." Less than two hours ago John attended a hate-fueled rally against werewolves. There's very little chance he'll bother to listen to anything I have to say now that he knows for sure that I'm one of them.