A Call to the Crippled Alpha

Vivienne Wainwright POV

Vivienne touches the thick gauze wrapped around her forehead, her claws twitching numbly beneath skin that feels raw and cold. "I am sorry. My mind is completely blank, and I cannot recall the access code to my phone."

"Do you have a designated pack emergency contact?" Nurse Agnes asks, her brow furrowed with deep skepticism. "Or an Alpha relative on file?"

Before Vivienne can answer, the heavy wooden door of Moonbrook Room 16 crashes back against the wall, rattling the iron hinges.

Merriweather Blackwell stalks into the room, his nostrils flaring as his wolf’s scent fills the narrow space—sharp, bitter, and thick with agitating dominance. His golden eyes burn with dark impatience.

"How many times are you going to pull this pathetic act, Vivienne?" Merriweather growls, dropping his shoulders as he steps right toward her bed. "What kind of sick game are you playing now? You dragged Cressida out into the territory line, and you wrecked the carriage. If the ancestors had not been watching over her, you would have destroyed her face!"

Vivienne shrinks back against her pillows, her heart hammering wildly inside her ribs as the sheer force of his voice rattles her chest.

"Let me make this brutally clear to you," Merriweather snarls, pointing a clawed finger straight at her face. "Our mate arrangement is over! Stop thinking you can trick me into claiming you with these desperate pack stunts. Even if you threw yourself off the highest cliff in Frostmere City, I would not step to the edge to look down!"

From right behind Merriweather, a slender, dark-haired wolf steps out into the light. Cressida Wainwright lightly clutches the sleeve of Merriweather’s formal linen tunic, her blue eyes wide, soft, and gleaming with unshed tears.

"Merriweather, please stop, I am fine," Cressida whispers, her voice soft and trembling as she gently tugs on his arm. "Vivienne did not mean to cause the crash. My pack marks are already healing, so please do not rage at her anymore. It was pure luck that the shattered glass missed my face when the carriage rolled. Otherwise..."

Vivienne blinks through the pounding ache in her head, staring at the raw hostility radiating from the male standing before her. She had only woken up in Moonbrook Hospital early this morning. Nurse Agnes had informed her that she was pulled out of a shattered vehicle on the outer border of Frostmere City, barely clinging to life, with no pack bond active enough to ping her identity.

Merriweather looks down at Cressida, his harsh expression instantly softening as he wraps a possessive arm around Cressida's waist, pulling her flush against his side right in front of Vivienne's bed.

"Vivienne, Cressida is the female I want," Merriweather states coldly, his voice echoing in the small room. "You and I may have grown up in the same Wainwright pack compound, but I have never felt the mate pull for you. You have trailed behind me like a pathetic, rogue pup for five years. Do you not find yourself disgusting?"

Cressida buries her face against Merriweather’s chest, hiding a quick, sharp smirk against his collarbone before looking back up with wide, innocent eyes.

"Cressida never dared to accept my scent because you were always blocking her path," Merriweather continues, his sneer deepening. "I am ending this completely today. Your behavior is pathetic. Cressida and I are already bound in secret, and we have shared the same bed. I am never letting her go."

"Merriweather..." Cressida purrs softly, tightening her fingers in his tunic while her dark eyes lock onto Vivienne with cold triumph.

Vivienne stares down at the white linen blanket covering her legs. Deep inside her chest, a phantom claw seems to squeeze her lungs, draining the air right out of her breath. A rush of hot, suffocating pain washes through her veins, burning the back of her eyes. She digs her fingernails into her palms until the skin nearly breaks, forcing her voice to remain completely steady and emotionless as she looks up.

"I am sorry, but I have no idea who either of you are," Vivienne says calmly, her eyes fixed directly on Merriweather’s face. "However... I believe I have a mate. Do either of you have his digits? Please call him and tell him to come retrieve me."

Somewhere deep inside the foggy dark of her mind, a silhouette exists—a dark, imposing shadow that feels safer and far grander than the angry male standing in her room.

Merriweather’s golden eyes flash with sudden confusion, a flicker of doubt crossing his face before he lets out a harsh, mocking laugh. "A mate? Is this your newest trick? Playing absent-minded so I feel guilty?"

On the wall across from Bed 16, a small crystal-broadcast monitor flickers to life, broadcasting the midday news across the Frostmere Business District. The bold red letters at the bottom of the screen read: THE RETURN OF ALPHA RODERICK BLACKWELL TO BLACKWELL TOWER.

The commentator’s voice fills the quiet room: "After the horrific pack ambush two years ago that left both his legs crippled and half his face scarred, Alpha Roderick Blackwell has remained completely isolated from the Blackwell Group..."

Merriweather’s eyes snap to the screen, and a dark, malicious smile spreads across his face. He raises his hand, pointing his index finger straight at the broadcasting screen.

"That is my uncle, Alpha Roderick Blackwell," Merriweather says, his tone dripping with malice. "He is your mate. I will give you his contact right now. Go run to him."

Merriweather steps forward, snatching Vivienne’s phone off the bedside table. He swipes the screen, typing out a string of digits with harsh, deliberate taps before tossing the device back onto her mattress.

Cressida covers her mouth with a soft gasp, a cruel laugh dancing in her eyes as she leans toward Merriweather’s ear. "Merriweather... is this really wise? Two years ago, because of her actions during the pack ambush, your uncle was..."

"Let her go to him," Merriweather interrupts, wrapping his arm back around Cressida’s waist with utter scorn in his eyes. "A female who has chased after my bloodline for five years will not give up this easily. This is just another pathetic game of hard-to-get."

He steps back toward the door, dragging Cressida along with him. He turns back at the threshold, glaring at Vivienne with sharp disgust.

"You have his digits now, Vivienne. You had better keep up this fake memory loss for at least a week. Because even if you drop to your knees and crawl through the dirt begging for my pack mark, I will never give you another glance."

Merriweather slams the room door shut behind them, the heavy echo lingering in the cold air.

Vivienne looks down at the glowing screen of her phone, staring at the newly saved string of digits. Her thumb hovers over the call icon, trembling slightly as her heart thumps against her ribs.

Slowly, she presses the green button and lifts the phone to her ear.

The line rings once.

It rings twice.

On the third ring, the call connects. No one speaks, but over the receiver, the deep, heavy sound of a powerful male breath echoes into her ear, accompanied by the low, dangerous rumble of an ancient wolf awakening.

"Speak," a deep, raspy voice demands through the speaker.