After My Alpha Chose My Sister Over Me

The cold wasn't just a temperature anymore; it was a living thing. It had teeth, and for the last two days, it had been chewing on my bones.

I stumbled, my boots—thin, cheap things meant for scrubbing floors, not trekking through the Dead Zone—sinking deep into the snow. I couldn't feel my toes. I couldn't feel my fingers. The only thing I could feel was the phantom pain in my chest where Ryker had severed our bond, leaving a gaping, ragged hole that the freezing wind whistled through.

I fell again. This time, I didn't try to get up. The snow was deceptively soft, like the down pillows in the Alpha suite I had never been allowed to sleep in. It whispered to me, promising sleep. Promising an end to the humiliation.

*Just close your eyes, Angelina,* I thought. *No one is coming. No one cares.*

A twig snapped. Then a low, guttural growl vibrated through the ground beneath my cheek.

I forced my heavy eyelids open. Shadows were detaching themselves from the treeline. Gaunt, mangy shapes with yellow eyes that glowed with hunger. Rogues. Not the noble kind who sought freedom, but the feral kind who had lost their minds to the wild.

There were five of them. They circled me, their ribs showing through patchy fur, saliva dripping from their jaws. They smelled of rot and old blood.

The leader, a grey wolf with a missing ear, lunged. I didn't even flinch. I just closed my eyes, waiting for the teeth.

But the bite never came.

A thunderous roar shook the very air, followed by the sickening sound of snapping bone. Something massive and hot slammed into the snow beside me, spraying ice across my face.

I gasped, my eyes flying open. Standing over me was a monster. A wolf the size of a small horse, with fur as black as the void and a thick snarl of scar tissue running down his flank. He moved with a speed that defied physics. The feral rogues didn't stand a chance. The black wolf was a blur of violence, tearing through them with efficient, brutal precision. In seconds, the snow was painted red.

The last rogue turned to flee, but the black wolf caught him by the spine, silencing him with one decisive crunch.

Silence fell over the clearing, heavy and metallic. The black wolf turned toward me. I shrank back, expecting him to finish what the others had started. He was terrifying, radiating a power that felt ancient and dark.

But as he lowered his massive head, his amber eyes weren't filled with bloodlust. They were filled with… worry?

He chuffed softly, nudging my frozen shoulder with his wet nose. The heat radiating from his body was intoxicating. He crouched low, whining until I understood. He wanted me to climb on.

With the last of my strength, I dragged myself onto his back, burying my hands in his thick fur. As he took off, running effortlessly through the deep drifts, I let the darkness finally take me.

***

Warmth. That was the first thing I noticed. The crackle of fire. The scent of pine, sage, and old paper.

I blinked, my vision blurry. I was lying in a bed—a real bed, with heavy quilts tucked around my chin. The room was rustic, built of logs and stone, illuminated by the golden glow of a fireplace.

"She wakes," a voice rasped. It sounded like dry leaves skittering over pavement.

I tried to sit up, but a gentle hand pushed me back down. "Easy. You’ve been frozen halfway to the grave."

The man sitting beside the bed was intimidating. He had dark hair that fell into his eyes and a jagged scar running from his jaw down his neck, disappearing into his shirt. It was the same scar I had seen on the wolf. He held a mug of something steaming.

"Drink," he ordered. His voice was deep, rough, but not unkind.

I took a sip. It was herbal tea, laced with honey. It burned pleasantly going down. "Who… who are you?" I rasped.

"Parker," he said simply. "And you are safe here."

From the shadows of the room, an older woman shuffled forward. She was tiny, her back bent with age, her white hair braided down to her waist. Her eyes were milky white—blind.

She reached out, her wrinkled fingers hovering over my face before gently touching my cheek. A strange shiver went through me, not from cold, but from recognition.

"The Moon Child," she whispered, a smile breaking across her weathered face. "She has finally come home."

I looked at Parker, confused. "I… I don't understand. I'm just an Omega. I was exiled."

Parker didn't look at his grandmother. He kept his intense amber gaze on me. "You're not an Omega here, Angelina. Here, you're just a survivor."

Over the next few weeks, the cabin became my world. Parker was a man of few words, but his actions spoke volumes. He changed the bandages on my frostbitten toes with hands that were calloused yet impossibly gentle. He cooked thick venison stews that filled the hollow ache in my stomach.

One evening, as he was applying a cooling salve to the windburn on my face, his thumb brushed against my jawline. A spark, electric and sharp, jumped between our skin.

My breath hitched. Inside my chest, deep in the place where my wolf had been silent and dormant for twenty years, I felt a flutter. A thump. A second heartbeat.

My wolf. She was stirring.

She had never responded to Ryker. Not once in three years. But now, under the touch of a scarred rogue in a cabin at the edge of the world, she was waking up.

I looked up at Parker, my heart hammering against my ribs. He froze, his hand still on my cheek, his pupils blowing wide. He felt it too.

"Rest," he said abruptly, pulling his hand away and standing up. His voice was strained, as if he were fighting a leash. "You need to heal."

He walked out into the snowy night, leaving me breathless and terrified by the sudden, undeniable truth: I wasn't just surviving anymore. I was coming alive.