The Alpha's Secret Wolfless Mate

Arla POV:

They thought five years in exile would break me. They were wrong.

The iron gate groaned shut behind me. I didn't flinch. I didn't look back.

Five years. No pack. No protection. Just me, the wild, and a list of names I repeated every night so I wouldn't forget why I was still alive.

The air tasted like freedom. And revenge.

A black car pulled up. The window slid down. My stepmother, Andra, stared at me like I was dung on her boot. Beside her, my stepsister Delpha pressed a handkerchief to her nose.

Pack law required a family member to retrieve the exiled on release day. They hadn't come out of love. They'd come because they had to—and it showed in every line of Andra's face.

"Gods, the exile stink," Delpha whined.

"Get in. Front seat. Don't dirty the leather."

I slid in without a word. They threw me away. Now they have to look at me. Good.

In the back, Delpha started. "Foster and I went clubbing last night. He said he's never been happier."

Foster Dean. My ex-fiancé. The man who'd helped them frame me for treason and watched the elders drag me into exile with a smile on his face.

"He's moved on," Andra added. "You've been replaced."

My thumb rubbed the seam of my trousers. Back and forth. The only sign that inside, I was picturing their faces when I destroyed them.

The car turned onto the old forest road. Dark. Forgotten.

Then Delpha screamed. A real scream.

I looked up.

Rogues. Five of them. Huge, scarred, eyes burning with hunger. They had the road blocked like a wall of teeth.

The driver—a kid barely out of boyhood—froze. Hands locked on the wheel. Useless.

A massive Rogue slammed into the driver's side door. Metal crunched. Glass cracked.

Andra and Delpha shrieked.

I unbuckled my seatbelt.

Not today. Not before I collect.

I turned to the driver. "Move."

He didn't move. I drove my elbow into his ribs, shoved him aside, and dropped into his seat.

Wheel in my hands. Gas under my foot. Finally. The first thing that had felt right in five years.

I threw the car into reverse. Slammed backward into a Rogue—thud, yelp, bone. Spun the wheel. Reverse to drive. Launched forward.

A gap. Small. Dangerous. Enough.

I drifted. The car swung sideways, tires screaming, scraping past a lunging wolf so close I saw the yellow of its eye. Claws tore metal. The mirror exploded. Delpha sobbed.

I was calm. Five years in the wild had taught me that panic kills. Calculation survives.

We burst through. Open road.

I didn't slow until the Rogues were specks in the ruined mirror.

Silence. Just ragged breathing. And the driver's pathetic whimpering.

I pulled over. Looked in the rearview mirror.

Andra's face was ashen. Composure shattered. Makeup ruined.

I smiled.

"Now," I said, "you can drive."

I got out of the driver's seat and walked around to the passenger side. I sat down, fastened my seatbelt, and looked out the window as if the past three minutes had never happened. As if I hadn't been the one in control just moments before.

Like I hadn't just been the most dangerous thing on that road.

They thought exile would break me.

They were about to learn what it had built.