Mr Big Bad Wolf

*Denver*

This is a disaster.

Even as the words hang in the air, I fully expect to regret them, but the literal lifeline I desperately needed has just waltzed into my lap, and I’m pragmatic enough to grab it.

I know who Dr. Josie Connor is—brilliant, young, very loud—definitely not my ideal candidate for a pretend mate.

But with an impending disciplinary board meeting in less than an hour over a few crucial omissions on my HR file, my options are narrowed down to zero.

“You need...a mate?”

Confusion softens her pretty mouth and creases the delicate skin above her bright amber eyes.

It’s an insane request, but desperation makes hypocrites of us all. Especially since there’s clearly something in it for her, too.

“And immediately,” I add, leaning forward.

Josie taps her slim fingers against the edge of the laminate table, her mind visibly racing to process the sheer audacity of my proposal.

Time is a luxury I don't possess right now, but I’ve always heard that tactical honesty works better than stonewalling.

“A mate is quite a massive escalation from me begging you for a quick selfie,” she notes dryly.

“A photograph buys you a week. Maybe two if you're lucky,” I counter. “My cooperation can buy you months of absolute immunity from your grandmother.”

“True, but I’m engineering a fake boyfriend specifically to avoid mating pressures,” she points out with a wrinkle of her nose. “I’m not looking to saddle myself with the living embodiment of a raincloud.”

She flashes a quick, almost apologetic grimace. “No offense.”

“None taken. Trust me, biting you is at the absolute bottom of my to-do list.”

Her nose twitches again. “Good, because the feeling is mutual—from you or anyone else.”

“Then our interests align. I have zero intention of actually biting you to pull this off.” She still looks deeply skeptical. I let out a long breath, dragging a heavy hand down my face.

“There is a foundational aspect of my biology that I have spent a very long time shielding from public view. A classification that would jeopardize my position here if exposed, and unfortunately . . . my cover has just been blown.”

“What, did you lose your temper and maul a hiker during a full moon?”

I press my lips into a hard line. “Hardly. I am the very definition of professional control.”

“Clearly,” she deadpans.

I bypass the jab entirely. “There are systemic hurdles for people like me—archaic, ridiculous prejudices that would have blocked my path entirely, which is why... I may have omitted my true classification when I originally signed my contract.”

“What classification? A shifter? Half the medical staff in this hospital are shifters, myself included.”

My nostrils flare instinctively. “Not like me.”

“I’m missing your point.”

“I’m an alpha.”

She narrows her eyes, watching me closely before the initial wariness melts into analytical curiosity.

Alphas are statistically rare, which breeds all kinds of outdated, sensationalized myths. Back in history, it meant leading a pack; in modern medicine, it just means I’m faster, stronger, and possess a slightly heavier presence than the average shifter.

She’s studying me intently, devoid of the baseline fear I’ve encountered so often in the past—the exact reason I resolved back in university to keep my status locked down. Yet here I am, confessing my deepest professional secret to a junior physician with whom I usually trade glares in the hallway.

“You know what?” she murmurs, her nose wrinkling in thought. “I can actually see that. It completely explains your sparkling, sunshiny disposition.”

I narrow my eyes. “Most of the folklore surrounding alphas is wildly exaggerated.”

“I heard a rumor you made an entire shift of surgical nurses cry once.”

“Also grossly exaggerated.”

“Cassie in Anesthesiology swears on her life—”

“I am pressed for time, Josie. The core issue is that I’ve performed my duties flawlessly for years without flying into rages, biting orderlies, or acting out the barbaric stereotypes designed to keep people like me out of high-stakes specialties. An anonymous whistleblower shouldn't get to dismantle everything I’ve built.”

Her eyes widen. “Wait. Someone actually reported you?”

“So it would seem.”

The primal urge to shred something solid flares in my chest, but I force it down. Self-preservation demands absolute composure.

“So what does having a mate have to do with any of this?”

“Institutional politics. It’s an archaic assumption that mated alpha shifters are inherently more... docile. It’s treated as a free pass. An unmated alpha is viewed with suspicion—as if we're volatile liabilities—while a mated one is instantly deemed safe.”

“I wonder why.”

“Some outdated notion that a mate anchors our worst impulses.”

“So marrying me is basically your corporate Xanax prescription.”

“If you want to reduce it to crude pharmacology, yes.”

“Yuck. That logic sounds suspiciously like something my grandmother would preach.”

“I can’t quite tell if you’re actually considering my proposal, Dr. Connor.”

She crosses her arms over her chest, leaning back in her chair with a slow, knowing smirk playing on her lips. “So the infamous Big Bad Wolf of Cardiology needs my protection. This is rich. Have you ever actually asked anyone for help in your entire life? Am I officially breaking your rigid, untouchable code of ethics?”

I offer a dry scowl. “Hilarious.”

“I’m just teasing,” she laughs softly. “You’re right, though—it’s complete institutional bullshit. You’re brilliant at what you do.”

My eyebrows shoot up at the rare compliment, and she quickly holds up a hand. “Don’t let it go to your head. You’re still a colossal pain in the ass. No offense.”

“None taken, I suppose.”

“It’s a garbage stigma,” she continues, her voice softening into genuine empathy. “I get why you’re furious. Are they actually threatening termination?”

I grind my back teeth, jaw ticking. “I can’t say for certain. The memo demanded an immediate hearing regarding my status. The tone was chillingly final. It’s not a gamble I’m willing to take.”

The heavy wall clock above the door ticks relentlessly. Every second brings me closer to the interrogation that could strip away my career. And by some cosmic, twisted joke, my survival now hinges entirely on this small blond physician who looks like she’s thoroughly enjoying my predicament.

“Fine,” she concedes with a light sigh. “Spell out the logistics. How are we supposed to convince the entire hospital that we’re madly in bonded love”—she makes a visible grimace—“when we barely acknowledge each other in the halls, and you smell strictly of industrial-strength suppressants?”

I rear back, instantly defensive. “Excuse me? Industrial-strength?”

“My bad. I just meant, since I can still smell you right now...?”

That hits me completely out of left field. “You can actually scent me?”

“Yeah? Am I not supposed to be able to? I figured you were just slacking on your dosage, or maybe taking them just to keep the overly aggressive nurses from asking you out.”

“I am—” I cut myself off, genuinely stunned. It takes a lot to throw me off balance, but the revelation that Josie Connor can pierce my chemical shield is a masterclass in disruption.

There shouldn’t be a single person within a fifty-mile radius capable of detecting anything beneath the medicinal tang of my suppressants. I pay a small fortune for the highest-grade pharmaceuticals available.

“I am currently on the absolute maximum safe dosage for my body weight. There is mathematically no way you should be able to scent me.”

She shrugs casually. “Smells a bit like crushed pine needles and cold air. Doesn't smell offensive or anything. Anyway—back to the point. How do we actually pull this off?”