Rejected by My Alpha Husband

My body was a map of aches, but I forced myself to stand up. The gym at Moonstone Academy smelled of rubber mats and old sweat, a stark contrast to the sterile scent of the hospital I had left only weeks ago.

"Again," the instructor barked.

I gritted my teeth, raising my fists. My side, where the rogue had torn me open, pulled tight with every movement. I was weak. Five years of scrubbing floors instead of training had left me with zero muscle memory. I threw a punch at the heavy bag, but my wrist buckled. The impact sent a jolt of pain up my arm, and I stumbled back, gasping.

"Wrong."

The deep voice came from directly behind me. I froze. Mr. Murray, the new combat instructor, was a mountain of a man. He moved with a silent, predatory grace that made the hair on my arms stand up. He walked around to face me, his expression unreadable.

"Your stance is too open, Miss Garcia," he said. His voice was low, vibrating in his chest. "You’re protecting your left side, which leaves your throat exposed. A rogue won't hesitate to tear it out."

I swallowed hard, my hand instinctively twitching toward my neck. "I... I’m trying."

"Don't try. Do."

He stepped closer, towering over me. Without asking, he reached out to correct my posture. His large, warm hand closed over my forearm to adjust my guard.

The moment his skin touched mine, the world tilted.

A shockwave of pure electricity zipped through my arm, hitting my chest with the force of a defibrillator. It wasn't painful; it was exhilarating. A sudden, overwhelming scent crashed over me—warm, spicy Cinnamon and fresh, sharp Pine. It filled my lungs, instantly quieting the racing panic in my heart. It was the smell of home, of safety, of something ancient and undeniable.

I gasped, looking up.

Mr. Murray—August—froze. His hand was still on my arm, his grip tightening imperceptibly. I watched as his pupils blew wide, swallowing the iris, before flashing a brilliant, terrifying gold. He inhaled sharply, his nostrils flaring as he took in my scent.

For a heartbeat, we just stared at each other. The air between us crackled, thick and heavy.

Then, he blinked. The gold faded, replaced by a guarded darkness. He pulled his hand away as if I burned him, stepping back to put a professional distance between us. He cleared his throat, adjusting his shirt cuffs.

"Keep your guard up," he said, his voice rougher than before. "And don't let your enemy see you wince."

He walked away to correct another student, but I saw his hands trembling at his sides.

***

Over the next two weeks, the strange occurrences began.

I would return to my desk after lunch to find small bundles of herbs wrapped in twine. They weren't the standard medicinal weeds we studied in Botany. These were rare—*Silverleaf* for tissue regeneration, *Moonbloom* for spirit healing. Plants that Dr. Reeves said only grew in the high-altitude, restricted territories of the Lycan Kingdom.

I knew who it was.

One rainy Tuesday, I waited until the combat hall emptied out. August was wiping down the equipment, his back to me. The scent of Cinnamon and Pine lingered in the room, making my knees weak.

"Why?" I asked from the doorway.

He paused, then turned slowly. "You'll have to be more specific, Nellie."

The way he said my name—like it was a prayer—sent a shiver down my spine. I walked over and placed the bundle of *Moonbloom* on the bench between us.

"These are expensive. Rare. Why are you giving them to a wolf-less charity case?"

August sighed, leaning back against the equipment. He crossed his massive arms. "You aren't a charity case. You're a healer who needs healing."

"Who are you really, Mr. Murray?" I whispered. "Regular wolves don't have access to these."

"I have... connections," he said vaguely, his eyes soft as they tracked my movements. "And I hate seeing potential wasted."

He reached out, his fingers hovering near my face. This time, I didn't flinch. He gently brushed a stray lock of hair away from my neck, his fingertips grazing the bare, unmarked skin where a mate mark should have been.

"He was a fool," August murmured, his voice thick with suppressed emotion. "To leave this canvas blank."

At his touch, something deep inside me shattered the silence. A warmth bloomed in my chest, spreading through my veins like wildfire.

*Mine.*

The whisper in my head was faint, rusty from disuse, but it was there. My wolf. For five years, she had been silent, crushed under the weight of Silas’s rejection. But now, under the touch of this stranger who smelled like a forest in summer, she stretched. She was weak, but she was alive.

***

That night, the peace I had found was shattered.

My phone buzzed on the nightstand. It was Salma. I answered immediately, pressing the phone to my ear.

"Nellie, listen to me," she hissed, her voice sounding tinny and rushed. "You need to be careful."

"Salma? What's wrong?"

"It's Silver Moon. It's falling apart," she said. "Since you left... Silas isn't right. The borders were breached twice last night by rogues. He tried to issue an Alpha Command to the patrol, and Nellie... his voice cracked. The warriors didn't feel the weight. His aura is fading."

A pang of phantom pain hit my chest. I sat up, clutching the sheets. Suddenly, a sharp, scratching sensation clawed at the back of my mind. It was a mental intrusion—forced, desperate, and angry.

*Nellie!*

The voice in my head was faint, like a radio signal losing connection, but I knew it. Silas. He was trying to mind-link me across the territory lines. He was trying to force his way back in.

I squeezed my eyes shut, building a brick wall in my mind, blocking him out. The scratching stopped, leaving a dull headache behind.

"He tried to link me," I whispered to Salma.

"I know," Salma said darkly. "He's desperate. Marcus tried to tell him you might be dead, but Silas is obsessed. He hired specialized trackers this morning, Nellie. Expensive ones."

My blood ran cold. "And?"

"They found a scent trail at the bus station," Salma warned. "He knows you're at Moonstone. And he's coming to get you."