Page 11 of Chased By My Grumpy Alpha
For the first time in days, maybe weeks, I feel something other than resigned acceptance.
I feel hope.
Chapter Three
Astra
It shouldn’t surprise me that Alpha Gareth refuses to see me.
Within a wolf pack, the alpha’s doors are open to all pack members. They can enter at any time. But me? I have to beg to see ours. The warriors guarding the main pack hall have refused to let me in, the disdain on their faces pissing me off.
“It’s been two days!” I get right up in the bulkier of the two men’s space. “I may not have a wolf, but I’m still part of this pack! I have every right to go in there!”
The warrior, Henrik, exchanges an amused look with his companion before crossing his arms over his chest. “You go in if I let you go in. And I’m telling you he doesn’t have time for your kind. Get lost before I beat that into your skull.”
The other warrior, George, laughs. “Do it. Let’s see whether her brains go splat on the ground.”
The dangerous gleam in their eyes has me taking a step back. “You can’t do this. This isn’t right. He’s my alpha, too.”
George tilts his head, studying me with an unnerving look. “Is it just me, or has this one become a little too mouthy lately?Should we throw her in the woods for a few hours? The sun is going to set soon. Let’s see if she survives the night.”
My breath catches in my throat, and I slowly reach for my knife. At this point, I don’t know if I’ll have to defend myself or not.
A deep, commanding voice cuts through the tension before anything can happen. “What is going on here?”
All three of us freeze. Alpha Gareth stands in the doorway of the pack hall, his imposing frame filling the entrance. His dark hair is streaked with silver at the temples, and his cold, gray eyes sweep over the scene with barely contained irritation.
Henrik and George immediately come to attention, their earlier bravado evaporating. “A–Alpha,” Henrik stammers. “We were just—”
“I’ve been trying to see you for two days, and they won’t let me in,” I interrupt him, my voice stronger than I feel. My hand lowers from the hidden knife in my belt. “I have the right to request an audience.”
Alpha Gareth’s gaze shifts to me, and a dark expression flickers across his face.
For a brief moment, a childhood memory rises, one that I had forgotten up till now.
I don’t remember how old I am, but my mother is shoving me into the bedroom, begging me to be quiet. Her face is pale, and she’s too thin. I recall the voice from outside the door, the same voice of the man who slaughtered my grandfather. I hear my mother’s pained whimpers through the thin walls and the harsh sound of the words spoken by the man. He is hurting her. Hours later, she opens the door, her scent implying that she has showered. I remember the bruises all over her, the way she limps and holds me, her expression blank.
“It’s my price to pay,” she whispers as she strokes my hair, her voice empty. “My price.”
My blood curdles as the image grips me, unbidden. What was that? Where did it come from?
I don’t have many memories of my mother, and the ones I do have are engulfed in a haze I’ve never been able to penetrate. So, why—
“Is that so?” Alpha Gareth is speaking, and a shiver crawls down my spine. His voice is deceptively calm, but I can hear the threat underneath it, the same tone I heard in—
“Alpha, we were just following protocol—” George begins.
“Protocol?” Gareth’s voice drops to a dangerous whisper. “Protocol states that every pack member has the right to request an audience with the alpha. You think you get to decide whom I see?”
Both warriors turn pale, and Henrik gulps before saying, “No, sir. We just thought—”
“You thought wrong.” The Alpha’s attention returns to me, and I fight the urge to back away. “Follow me.”
I keep my chin up as I walk past Henrik and George, ignoring their murderous glares. My leg throbs with each step, but I force myself not to limp. Not in front of Gareth.
The pack hall’s interior is grand—polished wood floors, tapestries depicting our pack’s history, and the massive throne-like chair where Alpha Gareth holds court. But we don’t stop there. He leads me down a corridor to his private office.
The door closes behind us with a click that sounds unnaturally loud in the silence. His office is spartanly decorated—a large desk, leather chairs, and shelves lined with pack records and territorial maps. The only personal touch is a photograph of him and his daughter on the desk.
