All Chapters of The Alpha’s Forbidden Coyote Mate: Chapter 11 - Chapter 20

Phantom arrives at seven sharp, bouquet in hand—begonias and lilies bursting with color, their petals vivid against the fading light. His smirk is playful, but his luminous blue eyes darken as they sweep over my outfit. He inhales, slow and deliberate, as though the sight of me steals his breath. “Princess, you look…” “You like my dress?” I twirl, emerald silk catching the glow of the lamp above. The fabric whispers against my skin, shimmering with each movement. I’ve worn more dresses in Rome, Georgia than in my entire life, but tonight Al’s wardrobe tempted me. After wavering between four choices, I settled on this one: emerald silk, flared skirt floating just above my knees, a tasteful V-neck lending feminine grace. It’s the cutest, most comfortable dress I’ve ever worn, and for once, I feel like I belong in it. Phantom’s gaze ensnares mine, unblinking, magnetic. He wraps his arms around me, face lowering close. “You. Are. Perfect. I am unbelievably lucky.” His breath leaves

Despite the mountain lion scare, Phantom and I spend the next couple of weeks moving through summer as if it were stitched just for us. Each moment with him eclipses the last, and the way he treats me makes him feel less like a prince of bloodlines and more like the kind of prince carved out of dreams. Me—the daughter of rogues—falling for royalty. The irony tastes sharp, almost sweet, like biting into fruit that shouldn’t belong to me but does anyway. Mornings are sweat and grit with Kelsa, the thud of fists against training pads echoing in the humid Georgia air. My muscles ache, my skin slick with salt, but the discipline grounds me. Afternoons dissolve into Phantom’s orbit: the hum of traffic, the scent of roasted peanuts from street vendors, the flicker of neon signs in small-town diners. He insists on making my summer unforgettable. Every evening, we slip into restaurants tucked in corners of towns, the clink of glasses and low laughter wrapping around us like a soundtrack. W

“You look even better up close,” he drawls, that Midwestern accent curling around the words. “Huh?” “You’re the girl of my dreams,” Jared Beaumont says matter‑of‑factly. That has to be the worst pickup line I’ve ever heard. “You can’t be serious. Who has that line ever worked on?” Only then do I really see him—tall, lean, and muscular, with short dark hair that frames his square jaw perfectly. His eyes—unusual, striking—are kiwi‑green laced with honeydew, glowing like sunlight through glass. They warm his whole face. Or maybe it’s my face they’re warming. Crap. I’m blushing. His voice carries that easy Midwestern drawl, low and steady, like a song you can’t shake. A faint trace of sandalwood drifts from him, earthy and smooth, grounding against the cool air. The grip of his hand when he brushes mine is warm, electric, sending a pulse through my skin. Every detail—his scent, his tone, the way his gaze lingers—presses closer, until the space between us feels charged, alive

My stomach claws at itself, twisting, tearing. Acid scorches my throat; I retch into porcelain, praying for escape from my own body. The sound ricochets—metallic, hollow—like the palace itself is listening, every tile a witness to my collapse. Breath splinters, pulse hammering bone, desperate to break free. “Princess?” Phantom’s voice cuts through, sharp with panic. “I thought you left. Where were you?” Urgency threads his words, vibrating through the suite. 7 dim palace light. “You’re sick.” His tone fractures with shock before he recovers enough to act. He vanishes, returns with a damp towel, cool against my fevered skin, anchoring me. “Breathe, let your body release the poison.” His fingers sweep my hair back, steady, gentle. Towels change—lukewarm to cold, sharp as winter air. Minutes crawl until the storm ebbs. He lifts me, arms strong but tender, carrying me out. “Don’t worry,” he murmurs, lips brushing my temple, breath tethering me. “I’m keeping the wastebasket close,

Gaston is on the porch when I stumble back to his house, Al beside him. One look at my tear‑stained face says everything. “We should go for a run.” Al springs up before Gaston can speak. He doesn’t need words—his “I told you so” look cuts deep enough. I run. Al follows, her footsteps crunching against gravel, steady as a drumbeat. “I’m sorry,” she says, breath catching. “So much for me becoming queen someday.” My laugh is brittle, humorless, swallowed by the wind. She breathes in, shoulders rising. “It’s still possible, Mar. I’m sorry you’re hurting. No one should have to endure this kind of pain.” I shoot her a look, sharp. “Do you actually believe the fortune‑cookie wisdom you peddle, or do you just enjoy the sound of it?” “He’ll be back,” she says, ignoring my harsh words. “Phantom idolized Canum his whole life. Now he has to face the truth. He’s not angry at you—he’s angry at himself. You’re not the first girl Canum tried to scare off. But you’re the first who to