The Alpha Hates Me

"Did you just put chili oil on strawberries?"

Daniel looked at me like I'd committed a culinary crime.

I grinned, balancing the bowl in one hand as I hopped onto the kitchen counter. "It's a thing. Sweet, spicy, tangy. Try it before you judge."

He raised a skeptical brow, the sleeves of his white shirt rolled to his elbows as he reached for a berry. "If I die, I'm haunting you."

"Don't be dramatic."

He bit into it and paused. Then his eyes widened. "Okay, that's... weirdly good."

I nudged his side with my knee. "Told you."

Our little apartment smelled like roasted coffee and spring rain, windows cracked open to let in the breeze. The city hummed outside-car horns, laughter, a distant siren or two. But in here? It was peace. Warm, humming, real.

Daniel walked over to his laptop, pushing aside a mess of blueprints and client sketches. "Remind me again why you're not bottling your chaos genius into a restaurant?"

"Because chaos genius doesn't pay the bills," I said, hopping down. "But freelance recipe development does."

"You mean, sending spicy berry salad to food bloggers?"

"Exactly."

He laughed, the sound soft and safe and as always it made my stomach flutter.

God, I loved that sound.

Three years ago, I was still scrubbing diner floors and sleeping in a hostel. 

Then I met Daniel-the architect who ordered tea instead of coffee and forgot his sketchbook at my booth. He smiled like the sun. He didn't look at me like I was broken.

Now? We shared a rent-controlled apartment with mismatched furniture, a two-burner stove, and a balcony full of struggling herbs. I had a job. Friends. A future.

And a ring on my finger.

He'd proposed last month-on a ferry ride across the bay, with city lights flickering behind him and his hands shaking. I didn't even let him finish the speech.

I said yes because he made me feel like I belonged somewhere.

Like I was human.

I was halfway through editing a new recipe draft when my phone buzzed.

Unknown Number.

I almost didn't answer, but the call came again.

With a sigh I picked it up.

"Hello?"

A pause. Then a voice, rough and unfamiliar came from the speakers , "Ayla Rowan?"

My body went still. No one had called me that name for four years now.

"...Yes?"

"This is Elder Nora. From the Bloodhowl Pack."

If I wasn't sitting down I would have staggered back a few paces.

"I-why are you calling me?"

"It's Mae," she said. "She passed last night. Peacefully."

Oh my dear goddess, "What?"

"Her final wish was that you attend the burial. You were like a daughter to her."

Mae. Gods.

The old wolf who made sure I had soup when I was sick. Who taught me to braid my hair and scolded me gently for stealing honey bread. The only softness I'd known in that place. That hell.

"I don't..." I cleared my throat. "I haven't been back in years. I don't think it's a good idea."

"It's tradition," Nora said. "And respect."

"I'll think about it," I whispered.

The line went dead.

I didn't say anything for the rest of the day. I moved through my routine like a ghost-shopping, cleaning, writing, editing-until night fell and Daniel came home.

He brought Chinese takeout and kissed my forehead.

I didn't kiss him back.

We sat on the couch, some random show playing in the background. 

He passed me the rice and I refused to touch it.

"Okay," he said eventually, voice low, "what's going on?"

I stared at the TV, words crowding my throat.

Mae was dead. There's no way I'd refuse going to pay my last respect.

That woman had showed my love when I thought it was impossible to get it.