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My Arranged Marriage To The Broken Alpha

Xiang Si

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Werewolf

70 Chapters

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I survived three years in brutal exile, living like a stray dog after my own father, the Alpha of the Blair Pack, discarded me. Just as I was preparing to move on, he suddenly summoned me back home. It wasn't a heartwarming family reunion. He only brought me back to sell me off. "You will marry Garrett Carlisle, the heir to the Blackwood Pack," my father commanded coldly. Garrett was rumored to be a useless cripple after a brutal silver attack. My half-sister laughed in my face, mocking me as the family reject perfectly matched with a broken wolf. My father even tried to crush me with his Alpha Command, furious when I refused to bow, treating me like nothing more than a cheap commodity to buy his precious alliance. They thought I was still the weak, helpless girl they abused and threw away all those years ago. What they didn't know was that just hours before, I had saved that very "cripple" from a pack of ruthless hunters. They also didn't know that the moment Garrett's blood-stained skin touched mine, our inner wolves had howled in recognition. I looked at my father's greedy, calculating face and calmly demanded my rightful inheritance as the price for my cooperation. I am not here to play the obedient daughter. I am here to uncover the truth behind my mother's suspicious death, and I will tear this rotten family apart from the inside.

My Arranged Marriage To The Broken Alpha Chapter 1

Aislinn POV:

The last of my worn-out sweaters went into the canvas bag.

Outside, the storm raged, thunder cracking like a whip against the mountainside. It was good cover. The sound swallowed everything-the frantic beat of my own heart, the whisper of canvas against the wooden floor, the finality of zipping the bag shut.

Three years in this cabin. Three years as a rogue.

It was over.

I paused, my hand still on the zipper. A prickle of unease crawled up my spine, cold and sharp. It was a feeling I'd learned to trust, the instinct that kept rogues alive when logic failed. My eyes scanned the small, dark space. The flickering firelight cast dancing shadows on the walls. Nothing seemed out of place.

But the feeling persisted.

I didn't hesitate. My fingers released the bag and found the cold, heavy iron of the fireplace poker. It felt solid in my grasp, a familiar weight. I moved without a sound, melting into the deep shadows beside the cabin's single, flimsy door. My breath hitched, held tight in my chest.

Then it came.

A deafening crack, not of thunder, but the sound of wood breaking. The lock groaned, a pained shriek of metal, as the entire door swung inward.

A man stumbled through the opening, a massive silhouette against the churning chaos of the storm. He was a wall of muscle and desperation, bringing the scent of rain and something else, something coppery and metallic, into my home.

He crashed to the floor.

He tried to rise, his powerful arms straining, but his legs wouldn't obey. They dragged uselessly behind him. With a guttural curse, he shoved himself backward, his back hitting the doorframe with a heavy thud. He was soaked, his dark hair plastered to his forehead, and the smell of blood was suddenly overwhelming.

His head lifted. Even in the dim light, I could see the raw power in his features, now twisted in pain. His hand came up, shaking, but the black pistol it held was steady enough. It pointed directly at the shadows where I stood hidden.

"Come out," he rasped, his voice a gravelly tear in the silence.

I stepped out of the darkness. My face was a mask of calm I did not feel. The poker in my hand felt heavier now, colder.

My gaze didn't fix on the gun. It locked onto his left arm. Dark, wet blood dripped from a tear in his sleeve, pooling on the clean pine boards I had scrubbed just this morning. Each drop was a tiny, damning piece of evidence.

His eyes, a startling, intense blue, narrowed. He was fighting to stay conscious, the effort visible in the tight clench of his jaw. He was losing too much blood.

Then I did something that made his focus waver.

I walked toward him.

The gun didn't stop me. The threat didn't stop me. I walked until the toes of my boots were inches from his ruined legs.

My voice, when it came, was as cold and steady as a winter river. "You're getting blood on my floor."

For a second, he just stared, the sheer absurdity of my words breaking through his pain-fogged haze. The pistol trembled, a minute, almost imperceptible tremor.

It was the only opening I needed.

I lunged forward. Not for the gun.

I slammed a rag-the one I'd just used to wipe down my bag-hard against the wound on his arm. A grunt of pure agony was torn from his throat. At the same time, my other hand clamped around his wrist, forcing his bleeding arm upwards, stemming the flow of blood to the floor.

The moment my skin touched his, a jolt, white-hot and electric, shot through me. It was like lightning striking the core of my being. My heart didn't just beat; it slammed against my ribs, a frantic prisoner trying to escape. A dizzying sense of recognition, of belonging, flooded my senses.

Mate.

The word was a silent scream in my mind. I shoved it down, burying it under layers of ice and survival instinct. This was not the time. This was a complication I could not afford.

The man's eyes widened, a flicker of the same shock I felt mirroring in their blue depths. His inner wolf, I could almost feel it, was roaring to the surface. He knew.

But before either of us could process the impossible, a pair of headlights cut through the forest, their beams sweeping across the cabin's window. They were moving fast. Too fast.

I glanced toward the window, my voice dropping to a harsh whisper. "Your trouble is here."

He followed my gaze, and what little color was left in his face drained away. A new kind of tension seized him, one that had nothing to do with pain or me.

"Ironhead Rogues," he bit out.

I met his eyes, my grip on his wrist tightening. "Right now," I said, each word precise and sharp, "you need my help a lot more than I fear your gun."

I held out my other hand, palm up. An invitation. A demand.

His chest rose and fell in ragged breaths. He was weighing his options, his gaze flicking from my face to the approaching lights, then back again. The distant, faint sound of dogs barking reached us, carried on the wind. They were starting a ground search.

His choice was already made.

With a final, shuddering breath, he released his grip. The heavy pistol settled into my open palm.

I didn't waste a second. My fingers moved with practiced ease, ejecting the magazine, clearing the chamber. The smooth, efficient motion made his eyes narrow again, a flicker of new questions in their depths.

I ignored it. I pointed to a loose floorboard near the hearth, hidden by a worn rug. "Get in. Don't make a sound."

He gave me one last, long, searching look. It was a look that tried to peel back my layers, to understand the woman who would disarm a man one moment and save him the next. But there was no time. He dragged his broken body across the floor, hissing in pain as he pulled himself toward the small, dark space.

I slid the rug back over the entrance just as he disappeared from view. Then I worked frantically, grabbing a cloth and the bottle of turpentine I used for cleaning brushes. The harsh, piney smell filled the cabin, a chemical weapon against the scent of blood. I scrubbed at the floor, erasing the evidence of his arrival.

I had just finished, my lungs burning from the fumes, when a heavy fist hammered against my battered door.

"Open up! We know you're in there!" a rough voice bellowed.

I took a deep, steadying breath. Then, I walked to the door.