Accidental Surrogate for Alpha

Sinclair

When I enter the Blood Moon Tavern for the ‘have a drink with the Alpha’ town hall event, I immediately begin cursing Hugo. My beta may have talked me into this campaign event with good intentions, but I would so much rather go home to Ella. After the way we left things this evening, not to mention my conversation with Roger, my wolf is positively rabid to go climb into bed with her and finish what we started.

However, I made a pledge to my pack that I would come out to this bar and talk with the people one on one, giving them an opportunity to share their thoughts, grievances and questions with me in an informal setting. It’s the sort of event the Prince would never consider holding, and also the kind common shifters appreciate most. So I plaster a smile on my face and enter the rustic pub, greeting the assembled pack members as if there’s nothing I would rather be doing.

At first I’m completely distracted, preoccupied with thoughts of Ella, our growing pup and whether it might be possible that my brother is right. Could our feelings for each other be more than mere attraction and the connection forged by our pup? Could we be falling in love? I’m not even sure I know what love feels like – of course I imagined myself head over heels for Lydia once, but can there be true love when one partner is only in the relationship for selfish, personal gain? Can a person honestly know what it means to be in love, when it’s all one sided?

A burst of laughter and noise pulls my attention away from my thoughts, and suddenly I realize I’ve been neglecting my conversation with the pack members around me. “I know that look.” One of the men in front of me guffaws, slapping his leg. “I’d say the Alpha has his mind on things far lovelier than taxes.”

“A certain she-wolf with a swollen belly perhaps?” Another wolf suggests, waggling his eyebrows.

I laugh apologetically, though none of the wolves surrounding me seem upset. They all look as though they understand all too well. “I’m sorry, you’ve caught me. I have a hard time letting my mate out of my sight these days.” I confess, knowing that speaking plainly is far more likely to win me points with this demographic.

“It’s no worry.” An older man assures me, patting my back. “I remember what it was like when my wife was breeding, and it’s always worst with the first.”

“When I found out my Mary was pregnant, I actually attacked one of her colleagues when he got too close to her!” Another man shares, “luckily he didn’t hold it against me.”

I chuckle, “My wolf wanted me to go after Ella’s doctor and the nurses when we first got the news – men and women.” I relate, earning myself a fresh round of laughter. “Luckily she’s learned to climb into my arms anytime I start getting aggressive, the clever minx knows I can’t attack anyone if I’m holding her.”

They raise their brows with approval, not just any she-wolf can take on an Alpha’s riled wolf, even when it’s their mate. I swell with pride over their impressed looks, but settle in to listen rather than continue spending my own voice. I’m amazed that this burly group of hardened shifters is so content to talk about she-wolves and babies rather than politics or security, but before long all the rough and tumble bar patrons are exchanging stories of becoming fathers and the antics of their children. I’m suddenly wishing I’d brought my own father along, and thinking that I wouldn’t mind campaign events so much if they were all like this.

I order a second drink as the tales unfold, but set it down after a few sips. Though I requested the same brand of liquor as my first tumbler-full, there’s a strange metallic taste to the liquid that turns my stomach. I wonder if soap was left in the glass after being washed, or perhaps the bartender opened a new bottle, not realizing the liquor inside had turned. Unfortunately I never figure out what’s wrong with the draught, because the last thing I remember is thinking that it tastes off, and then everything is dark.

___________________

Ella

When Sinclair doesn’t come home in time for dinner, I assume the campaign event ran long. I’m disappointed, but I know that these things are often out of his hands. Winning the crown is more important than spending time with me, and only a complete narcissist could be upset by that fact.

Says the woman who wants to curl up in a ball and cry because Sinclair cares more about the campaign than you. The little voice in my head remarks dryly.

That’s not fair. I answer, beyond frustrated. Those are more hormones talking, not logic.

Sure, sure. She snips. Blame the baby.

I pat my tummy. “I don’t blame you.” I tell my growing pup, “I do, however, blame my body.”

The baby flutters and kicks against my hand, as if he’s telling me he understands completely. I feel a rush of love so powerful my dour mood disappears, and I can only smile as I get through my meal, content to talk to the tiny being inside me.

Unfortunately, my good mood only lasts until I realize it’s almost nine o’clock, and Sinclair still hasn’t come home. I decide to call him, but the line rings and rings before eventually going to voicemail. I hang up and send him a quick text: Just checking in, is the event going alright?

Nothing.

Sighing, I put my phone aside and decide to take a bath. I’m worrying about nothing, the sooner I stop thinking about Sinclair, the sooner he’ll be home.

I don’t know. My conscience interjects, something feels off to me. Are you sure he’s okay.

It was an event at a bar, he probably just got caught up. Or maybe he decided to have a night out – he never gets to do anything for himself. He deserves to let loose a little.

True, but I don’t think he’d do that without telling you. The voice replies.

It probably slipped his mind. I insist, shaking off the sting carried by the idea of being an afterthought to him.

I fill the huge whirl pool tub in Sinclairs bathroom, choosing to use his rooms instead of my own, just in case he comes home while I’m soaking. I have a sudden, silly fantasy of him walking in while I’m submerged in the hot water and bubbles. I imagine him claiming that he’s dirty after his night out and insisting that he needs to join me. I picture him climbing into the tub with me, and settling me between his legs.

As I sink into the steaming water, I slide my own hands over my soft skin, pretending that they’re Sinclairs – knowing he’ll probably demand to wash me himself, and getting lost in the sensations. My hand lingers over my breasts and between my legs, Sinclair’s deep voice filling my head with flimsy excuses about how he has to make sure all my important parts are clean.

Before long I’m breathing heavily and flushed for reasons that have nothing to do with the heat of the bath, and I decide this has to stop before Sinclair walks in and catches me in a much more intimate act than bathing. I wash quickly, settling down enough to soak, but soon the water grows cold, and I have no choice but to get out.

I check the time as I pull on a plush robe. 11 o’clock now. I retrieve my phone, only to find that I haven’t had any calls or texts from Sinclair. Feeling truly worried now, I call him again. I know it’s not very late, but he promised to be home hours ago, and I’ve never known him to run late without communicating the delay. When I get his voicemail I try calling two more times, and send a couple more texts for good measure.

Are you okay? I was expecting you hours ago.

Should I wait up?

Why do I feel so anxious about asking these simple questions? I got past my wariness of scaring Sinclair off ages ago, and yet this still feels like a test, like I might be coming on too strong or seem needy for worrying about him.

That’s Mike’s influence. The little voice in my head reminds me. He would accuse you of being a nagging shrew if you wanted to know when to expect him home, that’s not Sinclair. Don’t put that on him.

Then why hasn’t he called me? Why isn’t he responding?

Something’s wrong. My conscience insists, more forcefully now.

I decide to call Roger, just to make sure Sinclair actually made it to the campaign event after their talk. He answers quickly, but confirms Sinclair left hours ago. He tells me to sit tight while he goes to the bar, and so I hang up and try to be patient.

In the end, I don’t have to wait for Roger to call me back. My phone chirps, and I see a message from Sinclair.

Stop bothering me – I found better company for the night.

Then, immediately following the text, a photo appears. Sinclair is naked in a strange bed, his eyelids heavy over a sultry stare, his clothes from this evening slung over a nightstand. And there beside him, naked as the day she was born – is Lydia.