The Exiled Alpha | ✓

15 | A Different Breed

Riot lingers claustrophobically behind me as I lead the way back to the cabin. He isn't touching me, except for his hot breath tickling my shoulder. I bite my tongue.

He's not stable. He's been struggling far worse than what I realized. If I want him to trust me, then I'm sure as hell not going to push him away.

We walk through the front door that was left slammed open. He frowns when his eyes land on the couch. One end is propped in the wall, drywall powder dusting it white.

"We'll worry about it later," I say, going around him to jerk the door handle out of yet another hole in the wall. I shut it and lock it. "You should sleep."

I take in his weary appearance. The circles are still under his eyes, the whites of which look bloodshot and glassy at best. His coppery hair is messier than usual, going in all directions and teased by rough fingers running through it too frequently.

He looks like shit, but somehow, he still manages to look more attractive than any other being. It irks me.

I half expect him to argue, but instead he nods tiredly. I take his wrist and lead him up the stairs without any complaints. Once in his room, I walk him over to the bed. As soon as he sits down I go to the dressers, rummaging through them.

I return to his side, holding out a pair of boxers and dark grey sweatpants. While I wait for him to take them I keep my vision busy in a hardcore stare on the furthest wall.

"I couldn't find the shirts. Hope this is okay," I say, trying anything to get rid of the awkward silence.

He mumbles a quick 'it's fine,' before he takes the clothes and stands up. I turn my back to him as he puts them on. The bed dips softly, signaling for me to look again.

He's laying face down in the pillow, his elbows sprawled out to the sides. His back is sculpted just like the rest of his body: defined shoulder blades and prominent muscles.

My roaming eyes stop dead when they land on a point of interest— a black insignia burned into the base of his neck. The ink depicts the head of a snarling dire wolf: the symbol of the packless.

Centuries ago, even in primal times, wolves kept to packs— the same packs which are still alive today. But there were some wolves, feral ones, who didn't. They were dire wolves, said to have different genetics than the rest of us. A different supernatural breed of werewolf.

As society evolved, the dires were looked down upon. They were feared because they were wild and savage, so they started being hunted. Eventually the population started dying out. A petition was passed on a thin thread in hopes to spare some of those who acted more civil.

The few that were spared were branded with the dire wolf insignia, so nobody would forget what they were. And any of those who reproduced would pass on to their offspring both the brand and the reputation that it came with.

But that was ancient history. It was assumed long ago that they had went extinct. That the last of them had finally died out.

Now as I stare at one in the flesh— the flesh of my mate— that all changes.

Riot Sydney is the descendent of a dire wolf.

Aimee was right.

A different breed of werewolf.

My hand had been lingering over him, itching with the desire to run my fingers over his skin. I pull it back quickly and step away.

"Um, goodnight," I rush out, my mind so blurred that I can't even begin to think. I close the door behind me, hoping he doesn't notice my hurry as I hasten down the hall toward my own room.