The Alpha’s Human Mate

The signal dies the second I hit send.

“Halfway there. Still alive. No cult in sight yet.”

I stare at the little red X over my bars, willing it to fix itself. Nothing. I drop the phone onto my lap and watch the road ahead: narrow, cracked, and swallowed by trees so thick they look like they’re leaning in to listen.

The guy driving me—some friend of my aunt’s, I think his name is Warren—hasn’t spoken in over an hour. Just chewing on something, knuckles white around the wheel like he’s angry at the road itself.

Fog hangs low across the asphalt, curling around the tires like it’s alive. Out here, the mountains don’t look like postcards. They’re darker. Sharper. The air feels heavy, pressed tight against my ribs.

Something about these woods feels old. Hungry.

“I’m not being dramatic,” I mutter, mostly to myself. “This is literally where people get murdered in horror movies.”

Warren grunts. Not a laugh. Not an answer. Just a grunt.

Cool.

We pass a hand-painted sign, nailed to a crooked post:

WELCOME TO THORNEBROOK

No population number. No slogan. Just that.

Another curve, another wall of black trunks. The road dips, and my stomach flips. We’ve been driving so long it feels like we slipped off the map miles ago.

A quiet itches at the back of my neck. Not silence—watching.

I steal a glance at Warren. “Is it always this quiet?”

“You get used to it.”

“Uh-huh.” I raise a brow. “You planning to drop me off at the haunted house and bolt, or…?”

“It’s not haunted.”

That’s not a no.

I don’t push it. My chest feels tight now, like the air itself is waiting for something.

Warren finally slows in front of a narrow gravel street lined with tired-looking windows and peeling paint. If you blinked, you’d swear this place hadn’t changed since 1950: a general store with a hand-painted sign, a diner whose flickering neon just says NER, and a post office the size of a closet.

No people. No cars. Just a sense of breath being held.

Then I see them—faces behind glass. Watching.

Warren doesn’t even turn off the engine. “She’s up that hill,” he says, nodding toward a narrow path swallowed by trees. “Second house.”

“That’s it?” I blink. “You’re just gonna leave me here like I’m in a Grimm fairytale?”

“She’s expecting you.”

Right. Thanks for the comfort.

I swing my bag over my shoulder, boots crunching gravel, and step onto the path. The trees lean close, branches twisted like black fingers. Fog coils around my ankles, cooler here. Still. Like it’s waiting.

The house appears slowly: two stories of weathered gray wood, peeling paint, a roof that leans to one side. Narrow windows, empty of light. A porch that creaks before I even touch it.

The door opens before I knock.

She’s barefoot, wearing a long cardigan and a scarf tied around dark hair. Her eyes catch me off guard—one pale blue, the other gray as winter sky. Her expression softens into something tired. Almost relieved.

“Ivy,” she says.

“…Hi. Aunt Elsie, right?”

She steps aside. “Come in.”

Inside smells like smoke, herbs, and something faintly metallic. Glass jars line every shelf, dried flowers hang upside down from beams, and the walls are crowded with empty picture frames—no photos, no mirrors, just blank glass.

The air feels heavy, like it remembers things.

“You’ve grown,” Elsie says, voice quiet.

“I was six when I last saw you.”

She nods slowly. “Still. I remember your eyes.”

I look away. My eyes? What does that even mean?

“You’ll be safe here,” she adds.

“Safe from what?”

She doesn’t answer. Just turns deeper into the house, as though that question didn’t need words.

She stops at the base of a narrow staircase.

“Your room’s upstairs. Third door on the left,” she says. “Bathroom’s across the hall. Sheets are clean. Don’t open any other doors.”

My brows lift. “Why not?”

“Some things in this house aren’t for you.”

My laugh dies before it starts. “Any other ominous warnings, or—?”

Her gaze snaps to mine. One eye pale as ice; the other, clouded and old. The weight of it steals the breath from my lungs.

“Don’t go into the woods,” she says, voice lower. “Don’t leave the house after dark. And never—never—open the attic door.”

I almost joke about cursed attics and hungry forests. But she doesn’t blink.

I don’t say anything else.

She walks away, disappearing into a back room heavy with burning sage. I’m left at the foot of the stairs, feeling the weight of the whole house pressing down.

Upstairs is darker. No overhead lights—just a single lamp casting warm amber across scuffed floorboards. Five doors. The third on the left is cracked open.

Inside: a small bed, wooden dresser, a window that looks out into the trees. Sheets folded neat. The air smells faintly of cedar and dried flowers. Lived in, but empty.

No mirror. Three picture frames on the dresser, all empty. Another on the wall. Blank glass. No dust, no neglect—intentional.

I drop my bag on the bed and sit, exhaling for what feels like the first time since I crossed into Thornebrook.

The house holds its breath.

Outside, fog presses against the window like a living thing. My chest tightens again, and I don’t know why.

Downstairs, a door shuts softly. Then nothing.

I lie back, staring at the ceiling, telling myself it’s fine. Just a weird town. An aunt I barely know. A house that feels like it remembers older things.

My eyes get heavy.

⸻

I dream of running. Barefoot through wet leaves, branches clawing my skin. Fog clings like breath. Something follows—close, patient. I’m not tired. I’m not even afraid. But I can’t stop.

Then I trip.

Cold earth bites my palms. I look back, and through the fog—eyes.

Yellow-gold. Watching. Knowing.

They don’t blink.

They don’t move.

They just burn.

⸻

I jolt awake, sweat cold on my neck. The room feels smaller. The air sharper.

Curtains still drawn. Darkness thick outside.

My heart hammers so loud it aches in my ears.

I slip from bed and peel back the curtain.

At first, nothing but fog.

Then—a shape. Broad shoulders, tall, standing just inside the treeline.

It doesn’t move. Doesn’t slink away. Just watches.

Eyes catch the faintest glint of gold. Like light on glass. Like an animal. Like something else.

I blink, and it’s gone.

I step back, breath caught in my throat, and force the window latch closed.

I don’t know what’s out there.

But it knows me.