Page 73 of The Alpha King’s Hidden Mute Mate

I sat on the hotel lobby couch, staring at the crystal chandelier overhead, that single thought looping through my brain. Three days ago, she'd spoken her first words to me—"You've got the wrong person"—and I'd completely shattered.

Not the hysterical kind of breakdown. The quiet kind—the internal collapse, like a building whose foundation termites had been gnawing at for twenty years, finally caving in on some ordinary afternoon. One moment standing, the next—dust.

She was alive. Not just alive—she could speak normally now. Her voice was better than I'd imagined—a little raspy, like whiskey cut with honey. Every word hit my eardrums and burned straight into my brain, incinerating every psychological defense I'd built over five years.

But she said she didn't know me.

She said she was Vela, not Mia. She said I had the wrong person. When she spoke, her eyes were calm as stagnant water—no hate, no anger, no pain. Nothing. And indifference cut deeper than hatred ever could.

For the next three days, I stalked her like some creep. I sat in the café across from her hotel, staring through the window at the entrance, like a dog abandoned by the roadside—knowing its owner wasn't coming back but refusing to move.

On the third evening, I finally found my chance to approach her. Rabid fans had her cornered in a back alley, her security scattered by the crowd, her back against the wall, panic flashing briefly in her eyes. My body reacted before my brain—I charged in, grabbed her wrist, shifted, threw her onto my back, and bolted.

I ran until I was sure no one had followed.

Then I realized I'd brought her to Mist Forest.

And I couldn't howl for help.

We wandered Mist Forest for three hours, completely lost. The fog thickened, the air cold as a freezer. She wore that thin performance dress, a moving constellation in the mist.

But she was shivering. I could see it. Her shoulders trembled slightly, her lips turning purple, but she didn't stop, didn't complain, didn't even glance back at me. She'd rather freeze to death than come near me.

That realization sawed at my heart like a dull blade.

I suggested making a fire. She proved herself far more useful than me—she tore a strip from her hem, struck sparks with a flint, and lit a pile of dry moss and twigs. The whole process was seamless, as if to say: See? I can survive without you. Actually, I thrive without you.

Once the fire was going, she sat at one end, me at the other. The flames between us jumped and flickered, light and shadow crossing back and forth like an uncrossable barrier.

She glanced at me, then shifted farther away.

Small movement, barely noticeable. But I caught it. Her body language screamed: Don't come near me. Don't touch me. Don't think there's anything left between us.

I offered to shift and keep her warm. She refused, her tone cold as a winter blade. "I don't need your help."

Then she curled into a ball against a tree trunk, willing to endure the night like that rather than accept my warmth.

I watched her. Watched her stubbornly, defiantly reject everything I offered. That feeling—being excluded, rejected, treated like plague—hurt worse than any pain I'd ever known.

Because I deserved it.

I stood, using the excuse of gathering firewood, and walked into the darkness. When I returned, she'd fallen asleep against the trunk—or was pretending to. Her breathing was shallow, eyelashes trembling slightly, clearly not truly asleep, but she'd rather fake it than talk to me.

I shifted into wolf form and lay beside her, curling into an arc around her. I didn't touch her—I deliberately kept about a hand's width of distance—but my body heat radiated across the gap like a warm barrier.

Her breathing gradually steadied. The shivering decreased. Her body unconsciously leaned toward me slightly, instinctively seeking warmth in sleep.

I closed my eyes, feeling her breath.

For the first time in five years, I fell asleep beside her.

The next morning, voices woke me.

Not birdsong. Human voices—distant shouts, intermittent, like someone calling a name. My eyes snapped open, ears perked, wolf hearing automatically locking onto the direction.

"Vela! Vela—"

Male voice. Deep, anxious. Getting closer.