Wrong Room, Right Mate Chapter 02

Wrong Room, Right Mate Chapter 02

Shadows flooded into the room.

Sloane’s intended had arrived with his guards.

Multiple hands grabbed my arms, nails digging deep into my flesh. Fists pounded hard against my back. According to the ancient custom, the harder a she-wolf resisted, the more it proved her strength. The more scars a she-wolf bore, the more glory and respect she earned. And her Alpha was supposed to protect her.

These rogues came in a raging fury, all baring their fangs at me.

I fought back hard, trying to scare them off.

But the second I lifted my leg to kick, I was wrenched clean off the ground.

What was supposed to be a ceremonial display quickly turned into a deliberate beating. Someone slammed me hard into the wall, rattling my teeth. Repeated blows landed square on my ribs.

So this was what my stepmother meant—I was stronger than Sloane, so I deserved this?

The torture felt endless—until someone stepped between us.

“That’s enough!”

He grabbed one of the wolves and slapped him hard across the face.

“Are you all insane? Stop!”

One man laughed nervously. “Alpha, it’s tradition. The harder she fights, the more glory she gets—you can’t interfere…”

“What kind of tradition is this?” he roared. “If this was your mate, would you let her get beaten?”

No one answered. I huddled in the corner, my shawl slipping off my shoulders. The firelight was dim, leaving only a blurry silhouette of his face.

“Are you hurt?” He reached out a hand toward me.

I wiped my mouth and stumbled to my feet. “Still alive.”

“Up you get,” he said, crouching down. “I’ll get you out of here.”

I hesitated, then reached for his hand. Anywhere had to be better than here.

We cut through the pack house, Bloodfang Pack hot on our heels, ready to lunge and bite at any chance, shadows darting across our path. But he carried me steadily, his steps firm and strong. I smelled faint pine and the crisp chill of mountain air on his coat.

When we reached the first ridge, he stopped to drink some water.

Down below, torches flickered—it was the main pair from the other claiming ritual. Laughter and voices drifted up through the trees. At the front of the procession, an Alpha carried his mate, sweat beading on his forehead but a bright grin on his face.

It was Arlo.

Sloane curled into the crook of his neck, her arms wrapped around him. The two smiled at each other. Behind them, his warriors whooped loudly.

“Kiss her! Kiss her!”

I pressed myself against the stranger’s back, silent, and watched as they drew closer.

When they passed, firelight swept over my face.

Arlo’s gaze flicked to me—just for a second. Did he recognize me?

Before my wolf could even react, he looked away and went back to joking with his men. Sloane murmured something, and he leaned in to listen.

His smile was so soft it ached deep in my chest.

I remembered another night three years earlier, the first time he’d come to our pack house—he was soaked through, rain dripping off his hair, and he wore that exact same smile.

I called him an idiot for forgetting his cloak.

He just smiled, pressed a rain-soaked wild rose into my hand. “Didn’t want to keep you waiting.”

I held the flower, watched water drip down his dark hair, and thought, “This is the one.”

Tears blurred my vision before I could stop them.