The Alpha’s Second Life

"What the hell are you doing, Richard? The rogues are through the west perimeter!"

The rain slammed against the forest floor, turning the earth into a swamp of pine needles and blood. Joshua gripped his swollen stomach, his knuckles white against the dark fabric of his tunic. A sharp, jagged heat flared deep in his gut—not a contraction, but a warning.

Richard didn’t look back. His eyes were locked on Bianca, who slumped against an oak tree fifty yards away, her hand pressed daintily to her forehead.

"She’s hyperventilating, Josh! I have to get her to the healers!" Richard’s voice cracked over the thunder.

"I’m pregnant, Richard!" Joshua screamed, the sound tearing his throat. "Your child is in me! The rogues—they’re right behind us!"

Richard scooped Bianca into his arms. He paused for a fraction of a second, his gaze flickering toward Joshua’s distended belly, then back to Bianca’s pale face. "You’re an Omega. You’re built to hide. Just stay down and mask your scent. I’ll be back. I swear."

He turned and ran. He didn't look back.

The forest erupted. A snarl, wet and heavy, vibrated in the air behind Joshua. He didn't wait to see the teeth. He rolled, his heavy body awkward and slow, sliding down a muddy embankment. Thorns ripped at his cheeks. A claw caught his shoulder, shredding skin and muscle.

He didn't scream. He couldn't afford the breath.

Run. Move. Or die.

Joshua dragged his body through the muck. Every inch was a battle against gravity and the searing agony in his abdomen. He reached a thicket of hemlock and shoved himself deep into the rotting needles. His breath came in shallow, ragged hitches.

He reached for the Pack Link, desperate for the mental tether to his Alpha, to his mate.

Richard? Richard, please.

Cold silence. The link was muted, pushed aside for the frantic pulse of Richard’s worry for Bianca. Joshua felt the rejection like a physical blow to the chest, sharper than the rogue's claws.

The rogues were close now. He could smell their rancid, unwashed fur.

Joshua focused every ounce of his remaining will. He didn't just hide; he collapsed his presence. He visualised his wolf, the silver-grey spirit that had been his only friend, and pushed it down. Go away. Sleep. If they find us, we’re gone.

The wolf whined in his mind, then went still. A strange, hollow void opened in his chest. The link to the pack snapped. It didn't just fade—it vanished.

He crawled. His fingernails tore as he clawed at the asphalt of a hidden mountain road. The headlights of a massive transport truck rounded the bend, slicing through the torrential rain.

"Help," he croaked, his voice a dry rattle.

The truck hissed to a stop. Air brakes screamed. A man in a paramedic uniform jumped out, splashing into the mud.

"Jesus! We’ve got a jumper? No, he’s mangled. Hey! Stay with me, kid!"

Joshua felt hands on his shoulders—warm, human hands. He looked down at his stomach. The blood was everywhere.

I’m dead. He killed us.

Darkness swarmed his vision. But beneath the layers of pain, a tiny, microscopic spark flickered. His wolf wasn't dead. It had retreated so deep into the marrow of his bones that the world would see nothing but a corpse.

Three miles away, the rain began to let up, leaving the woods dripping and silent.

Richard shoved through the underbrush, his chest heaving. Bianca was safe in the infirmary, tucked under silk sheets. Now, the guilt was a lead weight in his lungs.

"Josh?"

He reached the embankment. The mud was churned up, marked by the heavy, splayed prints of rogues.

"Joshua! Answer me!"

He threw his mind toward the Pack Link. He expected anger. He expected pain. He expected a flood of Omega tears he would have to soothe with half-hearted apologies.

He found nothing.

The space where Joshua’s soul usually hummed against his was a black hole. Silence. A total, terrifying vacuum.

Richard stumbled toward the edge of the cliff. The ground was slick. There, snagged on a jagged branch overhanging the drop into the churning river below, was a piece of fabric.

He dropped to his knees, his fingers trembling as he pulled the cloth toward him. It was Joshua’s cloak. The heavy wool was shredded, soaked through with a scent that made Richard’s stomach turn.

Blood. Too much blood for a human to lose and keep breathing. And beneath the copper tang was the unmistakable, sweet scent of a dying wolf.

"No."

Richard clutched the fabric to his face. It smelled of rain and the citrus soap Joshua used.

"Josh, stop it. Stop hiding. Open the link!"

He roared into the mental void, but the silence only grew louder. The realization hit him like a physical strike to the throat: the link was gone because the soul on the other end had ceased to exist.

He had left him. He had chosen a girl with a faint over the man carrying his heir.

Richard threw his head back. His jaw unhinged, his neck muscles roping with tension. A sound erupted from his chest—not a bark, not a command, but a raw, jagged howl of pure agony. It ripped through the trees, vibrating in the very dirt.

He told himself it was the loss of a pack member. He told himself it was the failure of an Alpha.

But as he gripped the blood-stained cloak, the Alpha of the Blackwood Pack wept for the Omega he had discarded like trash, never realizing the heart he thought had stopped was currently beating inside a human ambulance, miles away from his reach.

Inside the back of the transport, the air smelled of bleach and adrenaline.

"Pulse is thready! We’re losing him!" the paramedic yelled, bracing himself as the driver slammed the vehicle into gear.

Joshua’s eyes flickered open for a fraction of a second. He saw the glowing monitors, the tubes, the frantic movements of humans.

He felt a hand on his thigh—a firm, grounding pressure.

"You’re okay, honey," a female voice whispered. "Just breathe."

Joshua tried to speak, but his lungs were full of fluid. He looked at the woman. She wasn't pack. She didn't smell of forest or musk. She was just a person.

The pain in his abdomen shifted. A low, rhythmic throb.

Still there, his mind whispered. The baby. Still there.

He closed his eyes. He let the world of the wolves, of Richard, of the cruel hierarchy that had nearly ended him, slide away into the grey.

"Sir, we need to move. The rogues might return."

Richard didn't move. He sat in the mud, the shredded cloak draped over his lap. His Second-in-Command, Marcus, stood ten feet back, his head bowed in respect for the mourning.

"He’s gone, Marcus," Richard said, his voice a dead, flat rasp. "I can’t feel him."

"The river is high, Alpha. If he fell..."

"He didn't fall. He was taken. Or he crawled." Richard stood up, his movements stiff, like an old man’s. He looked down at the river. The white water churned over jagged rocks. No one survived that. Not an Omega. Not while pregnant.

He looked at the cloak one last time. The guilt he had been suppressing flared into a white-hot rage.

"Burn the forest," Richard commanded, his eyes glowing a lethal, predatory gold. "Find every rogue within ten miles. Bring me their heads. Every. Single. One."