The Alpha’s Forbidden Coyote Mate のすべてのチャプター: チャプター 1 - チャプター 10

“This is not Australia.” My mother doesn’t even blink. “You’re a genius, Maryelle—too clever for the world.” “Mom, seriously? You promised me Australia. Sunshine, kangaroos, gelato. Instead, we’re… here.” I gesture at the cracked pavement outside Atlanta’s airport, the humid air sticking to my skin like a warning. I should’ve known something was off when she steered us toward the rental cars instead of the connecting gate. The ticket agent’s side‑eye suddenly makes sense—her muttered good luck under her breath. She knew I wasn’t leaving the country. Everyone knew. Except me. We drive until the city thins into silence, until the houses sag like they’ve given up. The one she stops at looks like it’s been abandoned by hope itself. Paint peels in strips, the door hangs crooked, and the windows are filmed with grime thick enough to hide ghosts. One pane dangles loose, ready to guillotine whoever walks beneath it. If I weren’t a werecoyote, I’d be worried about asbestos poisoning just fro

The club pulses like a living beast, bass pounding against the speakers, rattling the floor beneath my boots. Neon lights flicker in dizzy bursts, painting the crowd in shards of color. Al shouts her order over the noise, and the bartender slides two shots across the counter. She pushes one toward me—only for a hand to intercept. A tall figure shoves the glass away. “She’s not allowed to drink that,” he says, voice cutting through the chaos. I snatch the glass before the bartender can reclaim it and turn to face the audacity. Recognition hits instantly. Phantom. The fighter from earlier. And under the strobe lights, he looks even more glorious. Square jaw, high cheekbones, sapphire eyes that pin me in a heated gaze. His full lips are pressed into a tight line, and the gray shirt clings to a torso sculpted like stone. My breath betrays me, catching before I force it steady. “What's in this?” I ask Al, though my gaze refuses to leave him. “Edge,” she says quickly. “It’s an

I come out of the bathroom, thankful Martha left my clothing from yesterday both steamed and smelling like fabric softener. The woman should be nominated for sainthood. I'd call the Vatican myself if I had their number. I'm positive I barfed on myself last night, but confirming it will cause me to die from embarrassment, so I won't. I step back into the room, and their bickering stops as their eyes land on me. Gaston has a smirk on his face, and Phantom looks peeved. “Tell this idiot you're not leaving with him. He seems to think you are.” Phantom glares at Gaston.“Well, that's because I am leaving with him.” “Like hell you are! I forbid it!”I give him the death glare, and it gives me a headache. Damned Edge potion! “I'm sorry. I think you have me mistaken for one of your subjects. So in case you haven't figured it out by now, I don't take orders from anyone.” Phantom huffs. “Um... Maryelle…” Gaston says, obviously still enjoying Phantom's irritation. “You are his subject, and he

A few hours later, Al walks through the door carrying a paper bag in one hand and a bottle of orange cream soda in the other. “It's a poor excuse of an apology, but I suck at apologies.” She hands me both the bag and the soda. She looks down at her feet, shame coloring her face. The delicious smell of burgers and fries makes my stomach growl. I didn't trust my stomach to handle breakfast, so I skipped it when Martha offered earlier. It is now three in the afternoon, and I'm beyond starving. “I'm a rotten person,” Al says with a lowered head. “No, but you're a horrible wing-woman.” I hurry, removing the burger from its foil, practically moaning at the first bite. The mixture of pickles, cheese, and ketchup perfectly bring out the flavor of the juicy patty inside the warm, toasted bun. Another gluttonous growl slips past my lips as I stuff my mouth with crispy fries dipped in ketchup.“Does this mean I’ve been forgiven?” She looks at me with practiced sad-puppy eyes I know she's unleas

Phantom lifts his glass, the slice of lemon catching the glow as he sips. Condensation slides down the crystal, a bead tracing the curve before dropping onto the linen. His eyes stay locked on mine—unwavering, consuming—as if the rest of the restaurant has dissolved into shadow. “Kelsa hates me,” I whisper, the words bitter, heavy. His mouth curves, slow, deliberate, savoring the denial before speaking it aloud. “Why would you say that? She was upset because you were late. What you did on that field today—Maryelle, it impressed her. It impressed me.” His voice is velvet, threaded with certainty, coiling around me like smoke. The knife flashes as he carves into his chicken. Steam curls upward, fragrant with rosemary and garlic. He blows softly across the morsel, then raises it to my lips. My brows knit, confusion flickering. His gaze deepens—amused, daring. “Are you really going to leave me hanging? It’s only chicken, princess.” I surrender. Eyes closed, mouth opening. The m