Two Mates, One Choice

The phone's shrill ring cut through the quiet of the pack records room, startling me from the monthly patrol schedules I'd been organizing. Marcus's voice crackled through the speaker, slurred with drink and urgency.

"Jocelyn? You need to come get Alden. He's... he's really drunk, and I can't get him to leave the party. Someone needs to take him home."

I set down my pen, the familiar weight of obligation settling over my shoulders like a worn cloak. "Where is he?"

"The old warehouse on Fifth Street. The one by the docks. Just... hurry, okay? He's getting pretty wild."

The line went dead.

I stared at the half-finished paperwork scattered across my desk—incident reports that needed filing, territory boundary updates that required the Alpha's approval by morning. All of it would have to wait.

It always had to wait.

I grabbed my jacket and keys, muscle memory guiding me through the motions I'd performed countless times over the past decade. Alden called, I answered. Alden needed something, I provided it. The rhythm of servitude had become as natural as breathing.

The warehouse district reeked of salt water and industrial chemicals, the kind of place pack members went when they wanted to party away from the watchful eyes of the elders. Bass-heavy music thumped from the converted building, its windows glowing amber against the night sky. I could smell the mixture of alcohol, sweat, and werewolf pheromones from the parking lot.

I pushed through the heavy metal door, the music hitting me like a physical force. Bodies pressed together on the makeshift dance floor, couples grinding against each other in the dim lighting. The air was thick with the scent of arousal and territorial marking—a typical pack party where boundaries blurred and inhibitions dissolved.

I found him near the back, and my stomach dropped.

Alden had a beautiful Delta pressed against the wall, his hands tangled in her platinum blonde hair as he kissed her neck with aggressive hunger.

She was everything I wasn't—curves in all the right places, skin that seemed to glow under the warehouse lights, the kind of effortless sensuality that drew every male gaze in the room.

Lyra. I recognized her from other pack gatherings, always surrounded by admirers, always the center of attention.

Alden's hands roamed her body possessively while she giggled and arched into his touch, her manicured fingers clawing at his shirt. They moved together like they'd done this before, like I was nothing more than an inconvenient interruption to their evening.

I stood there for a moment, watching them, feeling the familiar ache in my chest that I'd learned to ignore. This was nothing new. Alden had brought home plenty of women over the years, each one a reminder of my place in his life—useful, but never desired.

"Well, well," Alden's voice carried over the music as he noticed me, his words thick with alcohol and mockery. "Look what the moon dragged in."

He didn't pull away from Lyra. Instead, he seemed to press closer, his hands becoming more aggressive in their exploration as his eyes locked on mine. The challenge in his gaze was unmistakable.

"Marcus called," I said simply, keeping my voice steady despite the knot forming in my throat. "He said you needed a ride home."

Alden threw back his head and laughed, the sound sharp and cruel. "Did he now? And like the loyal little bitch you are, you came running."

Lyra's giggle was like broken glass. "Oh my goddess, Alden, is this your pet? The one you were telling me about?"

"This," Alden announced loudly enough for nearby party-goers to hear, "is Jocelyn. She's more loyal than any dog I've ever seen. Follows me around, does whatever I tell her to do. Isn't that right, Jocelyn?"

Heads turned. Conversations paused. I felt the weight of their stares, some amused, others pitying. My cheeks burned, but I kept my expression neutral.

"She's been following me around for ten years," Alden continued, his voice growing louder, more theatrical. "Ten fucking years of devotion to a man who will never mark her. Do you know why, Lyra?"

"Why?" Lyra asked, her voice breathy with anticipation.

"Because I would never mark a dog," Alden declared, his words cutting through me like silver blades. "But here's the beautiful part—even knowing that, even knowing I'll never want her the way she wants me, she'd still spread her legs and bond with me tonight if I asked. Because she loves me that much."

The crowd that had gathered erupted in laughter. Lyra practically purred with delight, pressing herself against Alden like she was claiming territory.

"That's so pathetic," someone called out from the crowd.

"Ten years of being a doormat," another voice added.

I felt their mockery wash over me, but underneath it was something else—a countdown that had been ticking in my head for months. Two days. Just two more days until the ten-year mark, until my debt was paid.

Alden saved me once, ten years ago, almost with his life. I was determined to pay him back.

But every debt has a day when it’s finally paid. This one did too.

And I was two days away from breaking free.

I walked closer, ignoring the jeers and whispers. "Alden, you're drunk. You should come home and rest."

"Should I?" He grabbed an empty beer bottle from a nearby table, weighing it in his hand like a weapon. "Maybe I don't want to go home. Maybe I want to stay here with someone who actually appreciates me."

"You've had too much to drink," I said quietly. "Please, just—"

The bottle exploded against my skull.

Pain erupted across my temple, sharp and immediate. I felt the glass shatter, felt the warm trickle of blood starting to run down the side of my face. The warehouse spun for a moment, the music becoming a distant roar.

I dropped to my knees, more from shock than the impact, my hand instinctively reaching for the wound. When I pulled my fingers away, they came back red.

"Please," I whispered, looking up at him through the haze of pain. "Please come home."

Alden's boot connected with my ribs, sending me sprawling sideways. "Pathetic," he spat. "Absolutely fucking pathetic."

The crowd had gone quiet now, some looking uncomfortable, others still smirking at the entertainment. Lyra watched with wide eyes, like she couldn't quite believe what she was seeing.

I pushed myself back to my knees, ignoring the throbbing in my head and the fire in my side. "Alden, please."

"You want me to come home so badly?" He swayed on his feet, the alcohol finally catching up with him. "Fine. But you're carrying me out of here like the good little servant you are."

He collapsed then, his body going limp as the combination of alcohol and adrenaline finally overwhelmed him. I struggled to my feet, the world tilting dangerously as blood continued to drip from my temple.

Somehow, I managed to get him to my car. Somehow, I drove him back to his apartment in the pack housing complex. Somehow, I got him up the stairs and into his bed, removing his shoes and making sure he was positioned so he wouldn't choke if he got sick.

Only when he was settled, breathing deeply in unconscious sleep, did I allow myself to tend to my own wounds.

I sat in his bathroom, pressing a damp cloth to the cut on my head, watching the water in the sink turn pink with my blood. In the mirror, I could see the bruise already forming along my cheekbone, the way my hair was matted with blood on one side.

Two days, I thought, touching the tender spot where the bottle had connected. Two more days, and this would all be over.

The cut was already beginning to scab over, the werewolf healing starting to knit the skin back together. By morning, it would be nothing more than a thin line, barely visible.

Just like all the other wounds he'd given me over the years.