Alpha's Forbidden Mate Read online

  "Why would they search for weapons? Aren't werewolves their own weapons?"

  I'm both pleased that John realizes that and annoyed as fuck by those questions. Few people understand the irony of searching a werewolf for a hidden weapon. We're stronger, faster, and possess wickedly sharp claws and teeth. Even the smallest werewolf far outclasses the strongest human.

  "We're not weapons," I say irritably, trying to unclench my teeth as I force the words through my lips. "We've lived peacefully side by side with humans for a dozen generations."

  "Sorry," John says, tilting his head slightly as he notices the tension I'm trying not to radiate. "I just meant that it sounds like a waste of time for the police involved."

  "It is," I say on a tired sigh as I finally find my T-shirt under the bed and my left sock in the leg of my pants. "Most of the time the police are just trying to rattle us enough to give them an excuse to beat and arrest someone."

  "There are laws against that sort of harassment," John says, actually looking confused. I want to growl at him for his naïve assumptions, but I can't really fault him for having the same level of cluelessness as almost every other human. The media reports the things that they think will sell subscriptions. Of course they're going to zero in on things that capture and exploit the fears of their readers.

  Werewolves are convenient targets—even when we're the victims of a vicious assault we are somehow portrayed as dangerous and denied the legal protections every human takes for granted.

  I try to shrug casually, deliberately hiding just how angry I really feel about that particular problem. "Not for werewolves."

  "Shit," John says with feeling. "I thought things were getting better." He pulls me into his embrace and I can't resist the chance to melt against him one last time.

  "They are getting better," I assure him, smiling fondly at the man I've missed so damn much. "We've had to fight for every inch, but we're mostly heading in the right direction."

  As much as I love the idea of my mate being covered in my scent, I use the T-shirt in my hand to wipe down John's chest and my own before I lean over to press a quick kiss to John's lips.

  . "I need to go," I say reluctantly. There is always a low hum of anxiety within the pack when the protesters finally get home, so I really should be there. My pack won't feel at ease until all of our members are home safe and sound from the protests, their alpha included. John reaches for me and I can't resist stealing one last moment in my mate's arms. After a few innocent kisses that threaten to become something far more I pull away again. "I really have to go now," I say, trying to lighten the mood, "Can I come back another day?"

  John nods. "I'd like that."

  Chapter Five

  ** John **

  "Ouch," my editor, Kelly, says the moment she sees my face. The black eye has only gotten worse overnight. "I can see why you put that part in your article."

  I nod warily. It's very rare that I need to come into the office—most of my contact with my editor and employer is via the Internet these days—so getting a call within a half hour of submitting a story is quite unusual.

  "You wanted to talk to me?" I ask, forcing myself to sound casual, despite the anxious need to understand the reason for this meeting.

  Kelly nods and waves me into her office. I close the door behind me as she says, "Take a seat."

  The guest chair is small and narrow and in no way built for a man my size. It's also a typical part of Kelly's power play when she wants to intimidate people. When she moves to take a seat behind her desk, I widen my stance, plant his feet, and cross my arms in defiance. Yeah, it sounds childish, but office politics is rarely mature and I'm a big believer of fighting fire with fire. Besides, we've been friends for years. Surely she doesn't think such games are necessary.

  My black eye aches and I'm kind of over everything at the moment. What I really want to do is... Well a four hour drive is probably not the best cure for a headache, but I know I'd feel a whole lot better if I could wrap my arms around a certain werewolf right now. "Just spit it out, Kel," I demand irritably.

  She widens her eyes in a deliberate attempt to look innocent and confused by my hostility, but she doesn't really put much effort into it. After a heartbeat she rolls her eyes and instead of sitting down in her own chair, moves back to the front of her desk and leans casually against it.

  "We have a problem."

  I roll my eyes in what I feel is a fairly accurate imitation of Kelly's own attitude and wave my hand in a "get on with it" gesture.

  She huffs out a breath and gives me a half-hearted smile. "Brian is... concerned that your writing on this article is biased and has 'requested' a revision with a more balanced view."

  If Kelly hadn't delivered the words in a stilted, monotone voice I may have questioned my skills as a reporter. I'd set out to write an unemotional and balanced account of what happened at the protests, but I'm an experienced enough journalist to understand the injury to my eye and lingering headache—perhaps even what happened with Darrick afterward—may have swayed my word choices just a little. Yet Kelly's reaction suggests that she doesn't agree with Brian's opinion, which is nice, but also not going to do either of us any good. Brian gets the last say on what articles are published and what aren't, and he is well known for his vindictiveness if he feels his authority is being challenged.

  "So how do you want to handle this?" I ask, relying on our years of friendship to get an honest opinion.

  Kelly grimaces but she doesn't hesitate. "Maybe take out the part where you were injured. Change a couple of words. Tone down the description of the human violence."

  "You've already done it," I say, realizing I should have anticipated this outcome. I hate when my articles are rewritten—especially when the editor changes the tone or my voice—but I do know it's a part of the industry. Within the organizational structure of the magazine, Kelly is fully authorized to edit and change any article I submit. She has altered very little over the years, which is why we've gotten along so well. I respect Kelly as an editor and she respects my research work and writing skills.

  Kelly takes her glasses off and tiredly rubs a hand over her eyes. I know she refuses to show any sort of weakness in front on anyone else in the office, so I take that as an acknowledgment our friendship is still quite solid.

  "I didn't call you," she says, denying the phone call she made to me less than an hour ago, "but since you just happened to have dropped by while I was editing your article, I guess you have every right to read it."

  "Okay," I say, quickly piecing together in my mind everything Kelly isn't saying. Brian has apparently demanded a revision within a very strict time limit and has probably gone as far as suggesting she bypass the author altogether. It is certainly within his rights if they're close to a deadline, but it isn't the way things usually work at this magazine.

  Kelly waves me toward her computer. I sit at her desk and she stands behind me as I quickly read through the revised article. It helps that she left comments and tracking switched on so I only have to take note of the things that had been removed and changed.

  It's obvious that she tried to do as Brian demanded without changing the tone of my article or creating a bias, but what is left really doesn't give an accurate description of the human hatred and violence I witnessed at the protest rally. I nod when I see that Kelly has changed the description of the werewolves "dignified silence" to "quiet stillness." I am willing to admit I may have been a little biased in my word choice on that one. Especially when I remember my thoughts at the time had included the word "eerie."

  I swallow hard but nod my agreement to Kelly's careful changes. The article was never going to be the defense I wanted to write on behalf of the werewolves I'd unknowingly grown up with, but it also doesn't go as far as trying to defend the actions of violent, hateful humans either.

  Kelly places a hand on my shoulder and squeezes companionably. She knows how much pride I take in my work, and how much I dislike it being
changed.

  "I suggest," she says in a low tone, "that you don't submit anymore articles on werewolves."

  I nod my agreement, again hearing the subtext—don't "submit" them; not don't "write" them.

  "Thanks, Kel," I say, lifting my hand to cover hers for a moment before standing up and moving back to the door of her office. By the time I reach the elevator I'm already busy planning how to anonymously use my publishing contacts to promote a blog telling the real story about werewolves.

  ~*~*~*~*~

  *** Darrick ***

  "John Hartmann, journalist" is so easy to find on the Internet that I feel more than a little embarrassed that I never considered searching for the guy earlier. Of course, knowing that my high school boyfriend is now a journalist narrowed the choices considerably and made him much easier to find.

  Feeling perhaps a little bit uncomfortable at the idea of stalking my lover on the Internet, I nevertheless devour every article I find that was written by John Hartmann. It's clear in both his topics and writing style that John does his best to report facts rather than biased opinions, so it's with only a small amount of trepidation that I read the most recent article John has written.

  It isn't entirely accurate—I witnessed the same violence and hatred John had—but at least it doesn't paint werewolves as inhuman monsters. In a world where those sorts of exaggerations and outright lies are far more common, their absence is gratefully noted.

  "You appear to be... happy," Hunter says, seeming a little bit startled as he comes into the room. He pretends to frown, narrows his eyes, and then crosses his arms over his muscular chest. "You're sitting in front of a computer and you're looking happy. Should I be worried about this?"

  I can't hold in the soft laugh. It's no secret that I passionately dislike the Internet. It contains both lies and the truth but for some reason it's the lies that seem to capture the public's attention most of the time. In a world where news and opinions are often delivered in cryptic, abbreviated, single sentences, it is way too easy for the truth to be overwhelmed and hidden by more interesting lies and scandals.

  Misdirection has been used over and over against werewolves in their battle to regain their rights as citizens. We're also the type of fear-inducing distraction politicians like to use when they want to divert voters' attention away from unpopular political decisions and scandals.

  Hunter raises an eyebrow apparently waiting for an explanation for my unexpected happy mood.

  "Just reading a few magazine articles," I say as I finally close the browser. I'm not even going to admit to myself that I kept that particular page open simply for the profile picture of John that had appeared beside the article. No, I'm not acting like a teen with a crush. Well, not most of the time.

  "Anything interesting?" Hunter asks, his grin widening when he scents the low hum of desire buzzing through me and essentially puts two and two together. He knows John is a reporter. Hell, he grilled me for details the moment I returned home covered in my mate's scent. I shrug sheepishly in answer and Hunter's smile grows even wider. "So I assume you'll be seeing each other again."

  I nod, but it turns into a shrug when doubts start to creep into my mind. Hunter knows me too well to ignore the "tells" that I don't even bother to try and hide around him. Even if I could control my outward reactions in front of my closest friend, Hunter is still one of the best trackers in the pack. His ability to capture and interpret scent is unmatched in our small community, so I don't stand a chance of avoiding this conversation.

  My voice isn't very loud when I finally answer. "I asked John if I could come back." I shrug as if it's not all that important. "And, well, he said I could, so I thought I'd drop by this weekend."

  And once again Hunter proves to be the friend he truly is by ignoring the fact that admitting that to any other pack member would have been met with a frown and deep concern that their alpha is showing weakness in front of them. It's an eight-hour round trip. "Dropping by" without calling first is seriously ridiculous.

  Hunter nods sagely but doesn't let my fears go unspoken. "And you don't want to call him first in case he's had a chance to change his mind about getting involved with a werewolf."

  "He's my mate," I say helplessly, as if that explains everything. Maybe it does. Now that I know John is my mate, I can't risk being rejected without seeing the man face to face.

  "Does he know?"

  "Not yet," I mumble, wincing slightly. It's something he should know, but with him being human I don't want to scare him with what it means to me as a werewolf. Being alpha of my pack just makes the whole thing more complicated. I can't risk scaring him away before we've really had a chance to get to know each other again.

  And I don't even want to think about how much John's life might change if anyone realizes he's involved with a werewolf. Not for the first time I'm very grateful that the average human can't pick a werewolf out of a crowd unless we're forced to provide ID. It's not helping my sanity at all to know that John would be better off without me messing up his life. At the very least I want him to understand the risks he'll be taking before I add the pressure of him knowing he's the only one I'll ever truly love.

  "Not yet," I repeat, trying to sound more convincing.

  Hunter looks disappointed as if he can read in my mind everything I'm not saying out loud. "Finding your mate should be celebrated, not hidden," he says quietly. "You should be shouting it from the rooftops."

  I smile sadly at my best friend. Despite his towering height and intimidating appearance, the guy always has been a hopeless romantic underneath. When he finally finds his mate he is going to drive the rest of us insane with his lovesick behavior. I smile when I think about it. I can hardly wait.

  "John's human," I say again, mostly just using his status as an excuse for not telling the pack about my mate just yet. "He might not understand the significance of being a werewolf's mate."

  "You know the pack will accept him," Hunter says, apparently cutting through the worst of my fears to reach the heart of my hesitation.

  "I know," I say, not quite as confidently as my beta had, "but there's no need to distract them with the idea of something that might never happen." I give Hunter a pleading smile. "I just need a little time with him first."

  He nods in acknowledgment and turns to leave the office. But before he opens the door he turns back to me with a worried frown creasing his forehead. "You know your father was wrong, don't you?" he asks,

  I wince at the reminder. I do know that. It's just hard some days to drown out the derogatory words my father spoke over and over during my most impressionable years. Even knowing what I know now, sometimes it isn't enough to squash that first indoctrinated thought or impression. I give my best friend a sad smile and nod in answer. "Just for a little while," I assure him. "As soon as I can convince John to come home with me, I promise I'll shout it from the rooftops."

  That gets me a warm grin. "I look forward to it," Hunter says, his smile widening before he grows serious once again. "At least think about telling Emily first. She needs to know."

  I nod, grateful to my beta for reminding me of the practical things that need my attention the most. "I'll talk to her before I go."

  Chapter Six

  ** John **

  I'm completely stunned. Even after a solid decade of working in the media, even I wasn't prepared for the response I've gotten to my blog

  Once I'd truly started searching, the information on werewolves had actually been very easy to find. I even found eyewitness accounts—and personally followed them up with the humans involved to confirm their accuracy—of the attack in a shopping mall eighteen years ago that had shaken the entire world.

  I remember the incident well. The media had reported the death toll and victim profiles over and over for weeks, and the anniversary is remembered every year.

  But what few people seem to realize is that the victims all died from wounds inflicted by guns and knives, not teeth or claws. The attackers
had worn wolf masks and timed the attack to coincide with the full moon—they'd even claimed to have done it in the name of werewolf supremacy—but not a single one of them had actually been a werewolf.

  The truth was available on the Internet and in a few of the better-researched news articles for anyone willing to look for it, but since most people in the "information age" only bother to read the headlines or a handful of words on their news feed, the truth had quickly been lost underneath the anger and fear the very idea had inspired.

  It seems very obvious to me that the whole incident was a very deliberate manipulation of human emotions, timed perfectly to rekindle the fear of werewolves that had waned in the two years after they were first discovered living among humans.

  I knew a week ago that publishing proof that werewolves were not involved and providing the links to more accurate accounts of the attack was probably going to get me labeled as "just another conspiracy theorist" like most of the others, but I sure hadn't been prepared for the amount of vitriol that had followed.

  It's my job to investigate and report so I've been on the receiving end of hatred before, but this time it feels like I've reached an entirely new level.

  And, yes, I'm adult enough to admit that I'm beginning to feel more than a little overwhelmed. It had been far easier to start a blog under a pseudonym than I had ever imagined possible, but I'd honestly expected to toil in obscurity for at least a few months, maybe a year or more, but a few well placed emails have brought in more followers than I dreamed possible.

  The fact that most of them are vitriolic fanatics vehemently opposed to my opinions is certainly contributing to my current frame of mind. The sarcastic part of me that knows people suck and life is damned unfair is working on the assumption that the rest of my "loyal" followers are trolls. They seem quite happy to stir the fanatics into a freaked-out frenzy with arguments designed to deliberately provoke outrage.