The Alpha's Witch

EKATERINA I flip my fiery red hair back with a practiced flick of my wrist, savoring the expensive champagne that fizzes pleasantly on my tongue. The grand ballroom of the palace pulses with music and chatter, crystal chandeliers casting a warm glow over the well-dressed crowd. These werewolf gatherings always drain me—the sideways glances, the whispered comments when they think I can't hear—but the free top-shelf liquor makes the judgment almost bearable. Besides, I could never miss Nathaniel's birthday. Not after everything we've been through together. Speaking of the devil, the Alpha king of the werewolf kingdom finally makes his entrance, looking absolutely devastating in a tailored black tuxedo that emphasizes his broad shoulders and commanding presence. A hush falls over the room as he enters. These werewolves all possess that magnetic quality, especially Alphas like him, but being the king elevates Nate to something else entirely—powerful, untouchable, and impossibly attractive. Even to me, who's nothing more than his best friend and definitely not his mate. I set down my empty champagne flute on a passing server's tray and snag another one before making my way toward him. The deep crimson gown I'm wearing—the same shade as my hair—clings to my curves, the slit up the side revealing glimpses of leg with each step. My red-bottomed Louboutins click rhythmically against the marble floor, the sound cutting through the ambient noise of the party. An Alpha paying his respects to Nate hears my approach—those damn werewolf hearing abilities miss nothing. His eyes widen when he spots me, recognition and something like fear flashing across his face before he quickly scrambles away from my best friend. Others in line to greet the birthday king also turn away, some not bothering to hide their scowls of disapproval. A familiar ache settles in my chest. After so many years living among them, you'd think they would understand I mean no harm, or at least pretend to tolerate my presence. The constant rejection stings more than I care to admit, but I've learned to swallow the hurt. "Happy birthday, Nate," I say, forcing brightness into my voice as I reach up to peck him on the cheek, breathing in his familiar scent of sandalwood and pine. My arms slide around him in a warm embrace that feels like coming home. "Thank you, Ekaterina," he smiles, strong arms wrapping around me without hesitation. The tension in my shoulders eases slightly at his acceptance. Nate has never cared that some of his people fear me or, worse, wish me dead. His green eyes meet mine with the same warmth they've always held. "They don't know your story," he told me once, voice fierce with loyalty, "so they don't have any f*****g right to make claims on whether you belong here or not." "I heard you found your mate," I say, pulling back from our embrace and taking a deliberate sip of my champagne. The bubbles dance on my tongue as I study his face, searching for signs of the happiness he deserves. "Will she be joining us tonight?" His expression clouds over, jaw tightening almost imperceptibly. "Yes, unfortunately." "You know you could save yourself the stress of hurting her and just tell her the truth," I exclaim, unable to keep the frustration from my voice. "And risk her refusing to reject me?" He runs a hand through his dark hair, messing up the carefully styled locks. His voice drops lower, a vulnerability few ever get to witness creeping in. "No, thank you." I roll my eyes at him, though there's more affection than annoyance behind the gesture. The weight of what he's not saying hangs between us. "Whatever suits you best," I concede, knowing from experience this isn't an argument I can win tonight. "I'll be over there if you need me." I point toward the ornate bar at the far end of the room, where at least the bartender treats me with professional indifference. "See you later," he says softly, leaning down to peck my cheek before I walk away. With my chin held high and shoulders back—the posture of someone who refuses to be broken—I make my way toward the bar with my half-empty glass. The crowd parts before me like water around a stone, conversations faltering as I pass. I feel the weight of their stares burning into my back, but I've had years to perfect the art of appearing untouchable. They can look all they want; I stopped caring what werewolves think of me a long time ago. Throwing back the rest of my drink, I slam my palm on the polished mahogany bar counter, the crystal glass making a satisfying clink against the wood. The burn of alcohol trails down my throat, but it's not nearly enough to dull the ache of isolation that's become my constant companion. "Hit me with something stronger," I tell the omega working the bar. He waves a bottle of tequila in the air, amber liquid sloshing inside, and I nod, drumming my crimson nails against the counter. The music has shifted to something with a heavier beat, the bass vibrating through the floor and up into my chest. I know what it looks like, and yes, I have a drinking problem. You would too if you were me—a witch living in werewolf territory, where the air itself seems to reject your presence. The irony doesn't escape me as I watch werewolves laugh and dance, their bodies moving with an inherent grace I've always envied. I've spent half of my sorry-ass life here, my youth slipping away behind these palace walls, but still, I get stared at and gossiped about like I just arrived yesterday with blood on my hands. I catch a glimpse of myself in the mirror behind the bar—red hair falling in loose waves down my back, green eyes slightly glassy from the alcohol, the intricate silver pentagram pendant at my throat catching the light. A constant reminder of what I am, what I'll always be to them: an outsider. A threat. I even wonder how Nate puts up with the heat that comes with him letting me seek haven here. The sideways glances, the hushed conversations that stop when he enters a room. I don't know if I could stand it if I was him. My fingers tighten around the empty glass, remembering the whispers I've overheard over the years. Some of his people even think he keeps me around because I bewitched him. A bitter laugh escapes my lips. I didn't even need to. How we met is enough reason—the memory of blood and tears and a debt that can never truly be repaid. The worse are those who think I bewitched him into ending up with me instead of his mate. If only they knew the mate bond is stronger than any spell possible by a witch. It's like trying to redirect a river with your bare hands—you might create a temporary diversion, but nature always finds its way back to the intended path. Speaking of the mate bond, I actually envy supernaturals that have mates. I've watched it happen countless times over the years—that moment when their eyes meet and something clicks into place. The mate bond makes them have an instant connection and pull toward another individual. It's so strong they feel they couldn't breathe without them, like half their soul has been walking around in another body. It makes them physically unable to resist their touch, which they also terribly desire. The completeness of it all, the certainty—it's beautiful to me in a way that makes my chest ache with longing. Witches don't have mates, but we tend to end up being someone's mate, mostly vampires with their dark allure and ancient magic that resonates with our own. I think that's why we have a better relationship with them than with werewolves, whose wild nature clashes with our controlled power. Witches never get mated to werewolves. The universe knows it could never work—too much inherent conflict, too much historical hatred—so it doesn't happen. Another cosmic joke at my expense, trapped in a kingdom where I'll never truly belong. The omega places a shot glass in front of me, the tequila catching the light like liquid gold. I down it in one swift motion, grimacing as it burns a fiery path down my throat, and quickly put a slice of lime in my mouth. The tartness explodes on my tongue, temporarily drowning out the bitterness of my thoughts. The omega gives me a small smile as he wipes down the counter, the only kindness I've received all evening apart from Nate's. "Mate," someone says behind me, the word hanging in the air like a thunderclap. I freeze with the lime still in my mouth, the acid stinging my lips. A chill races down my spine despite the warmth of the crowded room. The word echoes in my head, impossible and terrifying and wonderful all at once. Slowly, I lift my eyes to the omega, finding his wide like mine, pupils dilated with shock. He nods to the question I'm too shocked-stricken to ask, confirming I'm not hallucinating from too much alcohol. He heard it, too. My heart pounds against my ribs like it's trying to escape. Around me, the party continues, oblivious to the fact that everything in my world has just tilted on its axis. I'm afraid to turn around, afraid to face what cannot possibly be real. Because witches don't mate with werewolves. They just don't. And yet, someone behind me just said the one word that could change everything.