Page 1 of Alpha’s Wife

Chapter 1 - Selene

I’ve read the same page at least four times, and I still don’t know what the book is actually about.

Closing the book, I set it on the arm of the chair and lean back. It’s not the book’s fault. It’s actually quite decent—it’s a story about a lighthouse keeper’s daughter, and exactly that sort of thing I’d have curled up with for a whole rainy afternoon at home and not surfaced until I’d finished. But today, reading about someone trapped in a lighthouse with an uncertain future feels a little too close to reality.

Given that I’m currently being held prisoner.

Though as I look at the bookshelf that fills one wall of the cabin, loaded with at least thirty books, not to mention the comfortable furniture, clean bedding, and a fire that seems to never burn out, I’ve got to admit this is the strangest kidnapping I’ve ever heard of.

As I glance at the stack of books I’ve gathered on the side table, I can’t help but think this is a very thoughtful kidnapping. That thought probably terrifies me more than anything. Am I being lulled into a false sense of security?

It’s the second morning I’ve woken up here, but I’ve no idea what time it is. Given I can barely sleep and saw the sun rise, and the surprisingly friendly, fresh-faced guard hasn’t been by with breakfast yet, it must still be very early. I can’t help but marvel at how I can have fallen into a pattern of reading, eating, and sleeping so quickly. Of course, I panicked initially, but it’s actually quite hard to maintain a significant level of hysteria when the bed is so soft, the fire never quite dies, the blankets are soft, the food is good, and there are so many books to read.

I know the comfort is an illusion, though. I’m still surrounded by rogue shifters. That much is obvious. But still, the initial panic I felt when I woke up here has dissipated slightly. Which is good, because I’m going to need a clear head if I’m going to escape.

I get up and stretch, rolling out the stiffness in my shoulders, and cross to the little bathroom. It’s fully stocked with fluffy towels, a face cloth, honey-smelling soap, a hairbrush, and even an array of lotions and a drawer with some makeup. A braver woman would refuse to touch any of it on principle, of course, and let herself go to ruin so the kidnappers would at least feel the full weight of their crimes.

Unfortunately, I’m a witch, and we have a habit of being a little too vain for that kind of protest, so I splash water on my face and run the brush through my hair. Then I test out the little pots of lotion and even try out some of the blush—there’s no need to look like death warmed up, even if I am, in fact, very close to my death.

And if someone is watching, let them see me brushing my hair like a woman without a care in the world. Never show fear. That’s the rule. My hands shake a little, but I ignore them and smooth the last of the cream blush onto my cheeks, swiping a little across my lips for good measure.

When I’m done, I look more like myself, which makes me hesitate slightly because I’m not sure a freshly kidnapped witch has any business having tidy hair, color to her cheeks, and a stack of lovely books waiting for her. When someone is kidnapped, they’re supposed to be in chains; they’re supposed to be miserable. Especially if you’re taken by shifters, even worse if they’re rogues, because they’re, well…animals.

I walk over to the window and look out, careful not to touch the glass, because I already made that mistake within minutes of waking up here and was immediately hit with the full force of the wards that seem to be designed in tandem with the lock on the door. The moment it clicks into place, the wards that come up are stronger than anything I’ve faced before.

Someone knew what they were doing.

Outside the window, the forest goes on as far as I can see. It’s dark, thick, and completely unfamiliar. I’ve searched every inch of the cabin, and I can’t find anything that points to the location or pack. All I know is that I’m a long way from home. I knew that straight away when I woke up, stiff and bruised. I’d clearly been out cold a long time after they drugged me, but I came to occasionally, and we seemed to be traveling for a long time.

The worst part is, I should have seen this coming. I never should have been out on the lane alone.

My coven had been warning us for weeks that rogues were spotted in the area, asking very specific questions. Most of us shrugged it off; shifters always want something from witches—a spell, a ward, healing…power. But after a while, the questions started raising alarms. Bettan came back from town, saying someone had been asking plainly if there was a witch with bond magic.

After that, we shrugged it off a little less, and I noticed the way my coven started watching me with concern. To be fair, they’ve always done that, ever since my particular magic became obvious. They knew what I was and why it’s valuable, and without parents to watch out for me, they did their best.

I started carrying extra wards. Two of them, one in my pocket and one in my hand, at all times. But I couldn’t just sit at home, especially when the rogues appeared to leave town, and things seemed more settled. My house was on the edge of the coven, and although I’d sometimes stay at the main house, I missed my own bed. So once things appeared safer, I went home and started trying to get back to normal.

Big mistake. We should have known wolves are sneaky.

I had the ward in my hand when they cornered me on the lane, and I reached for my magic, but someone grabbed me from behind and pressed a damp cloth that smelled like chemicals over my mouth, and the wards never even had a chance to fully activate. I went down embarrassingly easily, and the illusion of safety I’d created for myself was shattered.

That’s the part that stings the most, I think—not just that they took me right from under my coven’s nose when that’s supposed to be where we are safest, but that all of my preparation failed against their strength.

I let myself think about home for a moment, not just my cozy cabin, but the coven itself. I was orphaned far too young, so young that I don’t even remember my parents. But the coven rallied, the way they always do. I grew up in the main house with several grandmothers, each with different opinions on how to raise children. By the time I was ten, my type of magic became apparent, and then the warnings began: the extra wards and the secret keeping. They prepared me for this moment, and I failed immediately.

Because I’m not just any witch. I’m a bond witch. It’s the rarest kind of magic to possess and comes from an ancient link to the shifters. A bond witch has the power to settle bonds and steady entire packs. It’s the kind of magic that alphas have hunted down and burned through in their old wars, abusing witches and ultimately killing them during power grabs. When strangers started asking about settling a bond, we knew exactly what they were fishing for.

I’m not naïve. I’ve never had the luxury of being naïve. I know exactly why a rogue alpha would want to kidnap me and why he’d go to so much trouble to protect this cabin with powerful wards. I’m a prize, and I’m sure he wants what all those alphas wanted throughout history. More power.

But there haven’t been bond witches in this part of the world for a very long time, and I wonder if he knows how it actually works. It’s not something that can just be given. He’ll find out soon enough, I’m sure. I just need to make sure I’m long gone by the time it matters. I reach out and run my fingers along the seam of the window. I reach for my magic and feel it rise, warm and willing, before slamming into the cold of the window and stopping dead. Whoever built these wards is good. Possibly better than me, which irks me slightly.

I work my way around the window looking for some kind of break in the connection, and I’m just crossing to the second window when there’s a knock on the door. It’s the young wolf who brings my food, and I watch as he enters, mumbling something apologetic about the tea, and then ducks out quickly before I can even decide whether to be rude to him or not. It’s hard when he looks so inept and is always unfailingly polite.

I should probably refuse the food, just like I should refuse the hairbrush, but I don’t. If I’m going to maintain a certain level of spite, I need to be well fed and look good.

I’ve barely finished drinking the tea when I hear footsteps on the cabin porch. They’re heavier than the boy’s, slower, more certain. I set the tea down, allowing my magic to simmer gently. The wards may stop me from leaving, but they don’t block me from using my magic at all…at least, I hope not.

The lock clicks and the door opens. A man steps inside, and every single thought leaves my brain.