When My Alpha Chose Her Over Me

I drifted through darkness, my consciousness floating like a leaf on a midnight stream. Somewhere far away, I heard voices—whispers that seemed to come from another world. My wolf, Luna, had been silent for so long that her absence felt like a hollow cave inside me.

Slowly, painfully, I clawed my way toward the light. My eyelids felt impossibly heavy, as though they'd been sealed shut. When they finally fluttered open, the world was a blur of shapes and colors that refused to solidify.

"Ryan," I whispered, my voice a raspy shadow of what it once was. The mate bond within me pulsed weakly, telling me he was near. The familiar pull of his Alpha aura should have wrapped around me like a warm blanket, but instead, it felt strangely muted—like listening to a heartbeat through a wall.

I blinked hard, trying to focus on the sterile white ceiling of what I recognized as the pack's healing chamber. The antiseptic smell burned my sensitive nose, but beneath it lingered something else—something wrong. My fingers clutched at the thin sheets covering me, the fabric rough against my skin that felt too sensitive, too new.

The door opened with a soft click, and I turned my head, wincing at the stiffness in my neck. A figure approached—Elara Vance, our pack healer. I tried to smile, expecting the warm greeting of a woman who had bandaged my childhood scrapes and guided me through my first shift.

Instead, her eyes skittered away from mine like frightened mice.

"You're awake," she said, her tone clinical and detached. She reached for a glass of water on the bedside table, her movements stiff and mechanical. "Drink this."

I took the glass with trembling hands. "Elara? What happened? How long was I—"

"Two years," she cut me off, busying herself with checking monitors beside my bed. "You've been in a wolf-induced coma for two years."

The glass nearly slipped from my fingers. "Two years?"

Elara nodded curtly, still avoiding my gaze. Her scent carried anxiety and something else—fear? Guilt? I couldn't place it, but it sent a chill down my spine.

"I'll inform Alpha Ryan that you're conscious," she said, backing toward the door as though I might lunge at her. "Try not to exert yourself."

Before I could ask another question, she was gone, leaving me alone with the beeping monitors and the hollow feeling in my chest where my wolf should be. *Luna?* I called internally, seeking that familiar presence. *Are you there?* A faint whimper answered me, so weak I almost missed it.

I was still trying to process Elara's strange behavior when the door swung open again. My heart leaped at the familiar silhouette—broad shoulders, powerful stance, the unmistakable presence of my mate, Alpha Ryan Walker.

"Ryan," I breathed, reaching out instinctively.

He didn't move toward me. Instead, he stood just inside the doorway, his posture rigid and formal. The mate bond between us flickered like a candle in a draft, and I recoiled at the wrongness of it. His scent reached me—pine and earth and power—but it was tainted with something else, something feminine that didn't belong to me.

"Lily," he said, my name sounding foreign on his lips. "You're awake."

I swallowed hard, fighting the sudden sting of tears. "Ryan, what's happening? Why does everything feel... wrong?"

His jaw tightened, and his eyes—those eyes I'd fallen in love with—hardened into amber stones. "You need more rest," he said, his voice sliding into the unmistakable cadence of an Alpha command. "The pack needs you healthy."

The Alpha tone hit me like a physical blow, forcing my protest back down my throat. Before I could recover, he turned and walked out, leaving me alone with questions burning in my mind and a terrible suspicion growing in my heart.

Later, they moved me to a small room in the east wing of the pack house—far from the Alpha quarters where I belonged as Luna. Everything felt off, from the unfamiliar bedspread to the clothes in the closet that weren't my style. I sat on the edge of the bed, fingering the Luna pendant my mother had given me on my mating day. It should have been warm with her scent, with memories of her tears as she fastened it around my neck. Instead, it felt cold and lifeless, like a cheap replica.

I opened the wardrobe, expecting to see my favorite sweaters and jeans. Instead, I found clothes I would never choose—styles too formal, colors too muted. Nothing felt like me.

As I stood there, staring at a stranger's wardrobe in what was supposed to be my home, the terrible truth began to dawn on me: something was deeply, horribly wrong with my pack, my mate, and the life I'd awakened to.