THE ALPHA'S IMPOSSIBLE MATE

Sara Mitchell had seen a lot of things in her twenty-seven years.

She had walked through crime scenes that made grown men vomit. She had sat across interview tables from men who killed for pleasure and smiled about it. She had identified her partner's mangled body on a cold metal table and driven herself home afterward because there was nobody else to call.

She had never once believed in monsters.

Until tonight.

The thing standing at the edge of the Montana forest was seven feet tall and looked like something that had forgotten how to be human a very long time ago. Ash-gray skin stretched over a frame that was all wrong, too long, too angular, joints bending in directions they had no business bending. Its eyes caught her flashlight beam and gave nothing back. Just two holes where light went to die.

Sara's gun was up. Both hands. Steady.

Her hands were always steady.

What is that.

Not a question. Her brain had stopped forming questions. It was running on pure animal instinct now, the part that lived underneath all the training and the credentials and the eight years of telling herself that monsters weren't real.

The thing tilted its head.

She knew that head tilt.

Her stomach dropped through the forest floor.

"Sara," it said.

Her name. In a voice that was wrong in every possible way, layered and resonant and inhuman, but underneath all of that wrongness was something she recognized. A rhythm. A cadence. The ghost of a voice she had heard every day for three years before she had identified its owner on that cold metal table.

Marcus.

She ran.

She didn't decide to run. Her legs made that decision without consulting her. The forest swallowed her whole, branches tearing at her face, roots grabbing at her feet, her cracked ribs screaming with every stride. Behind her those footsteps followed. Unhurried. Patient. The footsteps of something that knew it had already won and was simply enjoying the walk.

Movement in the shadows to her left.

She veered right.

More movement. Right side.

It was herding her.

She fired twice into the dark. No cry. No thud. Nothing. Just those steady footsteps and the growing certainty that she was going to die in a Montana forest and nobody would find her for days.

Her foot caught a root.

The ground came up fast.

She hit face-first, tasted blood, rolled onto her back with her weapon raised because she was going to die looking at it. The thing stepped into the small clearing and lowered its terrible head and smiled at her with Marcus Webb's smile on a face that had stopped being Marcus Webb a long time ago.

Then something hit it like a freight train.

Black. Massive. Moving so fast it was almost invisible in the dark, a wolf that was not a wolf slammed into the creature from the opposite tree line and took it completely off its feet. The impact shook the ground. They crashed through the underbrush in a snarling tangle of fur and gray limbs and Sara lay on her back with her gun still raised and her brain completely offline.

The creature wrenched free. Disappeared into the trees with a shriek like tearing metal.

The wolf didn't chase it.

It turned around and looked at her.

Sara had been to wildlife preserves. She knew how big wolves got. This one's head was level with hers and she was flat on the ground. Its paws were the size of dinner plates. Its eyes glowed gold in the darkness, not reflecting light, generating it, and they looked at her with an intelligence that had absolutely nothing to do with any animal she had ever encountered.

It padded toward her.

Slow. Deliberate. Like it was trying very hard not to frighten her further and was aware it was failing.

"Don't." Her voice came out steadier than she deserved. "I'm armed and I've had a terrible night."

The wolf stopped.

And then it changed.

The sound of it lived in her chest, a low resonant frequency like the earth rearranging itself. Fur receding. Bones reshaping. Something vast and powerful folding itself into a different form entirely. It took seconds. It felt like watching the world rewrite its own rules.

Where the wolf had been, a man knelt in the moonlight.

Sara's brain stopped working for a full three seconds.

He was enormous. Black hair. Dark eyes that were still fading from gold to brown like coals cooling in real time. A jaw sharp enough to be dangerous on its own. A scar above his left eye shaped like a crescent moon. Shoulders that belonged on something that moved mountains professionally.

Completely naked.

Every inch of him.

Sara kept her gun up. She was enormously proud of this fact.

He looked at her the way no stranger had any right to look at someone, like he already knew her. Like he had been looking for her specifically and was profoundly relieved to have found her, despite the circumstances.

"You're safe," he said. Low and certain and absolute. "I've got you."

Her vision swam. Blood loss and shock and the accumulated weight of the worst night of her career all arriving at once.

She fought it. Lost.

"What are you?" she managed.

He moved, impossibly fast for something his size, and caught her before she hit the ground. He was warm. Shockingly, overwhelmingly warm, like being wrapped in something that had never heard of cold. He smelled like pine and midnight and something underneath that her failing brain filed under safe before she could argue with it.

She looked up at his face from an inch away.

Something was happening in his expression. Something complicated and stunned and almost desperate, like a man who had just heard a song he thought he'd never hear again.

"What are you?" she whispered again.

The dark took her before he could answer.

But she didn't miss the way his arms tightened around her.

Like he had absolutely no intention of letting go.