The Lycan Alpha's Hidden White Wolf Mate

Coralie Hanson POV:

I shoved open the heavy iron door of the hidden border base, and the freezing night wind whipped desert sand straight into my face. Narrowing my eyes, I scanned the dark, empty highway ahead.

I pulled the hood of my black hoodie up over my head and waited for the car Hanson Pack had sent to take me home. After the elders discovered the truth about the baby swap eighteen years ago, the Alpha finally decided to bring me-his true daughter-back to the manor.

Tires screeched against gravel as a heavy black SUV tore through the darkness and skidded to a halt in front of me.

The Hanson Pack's corporate emblem was painted on the car door-exactly the mark of an official pickup vehicle. The driver flashed his high beams twice-the exact signal we had agreed upon.

I pulled open the back door and slid inside. The pungent smell of cheap tobacco mixed with the sour, sweaty odor of a low-ranking werewolf immediately hit my nose, making my stomach turn. In our world, every werewolf carried a unique scent that revealed their identity and emotions long before their face did.

The driver, Hank Tucker, glanced at me through the rearview mirror. His eyes darted away nervously as he cleared his throat.

"You came out earlier than scheduled," he muttered, his voice tight.

I leaned back against the leather seat and crossed my arms over my chest.

"Drive," I ordered coldly. "Don't waste my time."

Hank gripped the steering wheel so hard his knuckles turned white. He slammed his foot on the gas pedal, and the sudden acceleration pressed me hard against the seatback.

As the SUV sped through the night, I rubbed the back of my neck, where an old implanted chip pulsed with a dull ache. Looking out the window, I noticed we had bypassed the main highway leading to the Romero territory and were heading straight into the barren Silver Creek Canyon.

I sat up straight, my gaze locking onto his eyes in the mirror.

"This isn't the right route."

"The Alpha ordered me to take a safe route and avoid being followed," Hank stammered, fine beads of sweat seeping out on his forehead. "The canyon is the nearest shortcut."

I didn't bother arguing with his pathetic lie. My heightened senses had already picked up the foul, rotting stench of three feral Rogues carried by the night wind just ahead of us.

Without warning, Hank slammed on the brakes. The violent momentum threw me forward toward the windshield, but I braced my boots against the floor and locked my core, holding myself firmly in place.

Hank frantically unbuckled his seatbelt, shoved his door open, and scrambled out into the dirt.

"She's in the back!" he yelled into the darkness. "Do it now!"

Three massive men stepped out from the shadows of the canyon rocks, blocking every exit. They were Rogues-packless, violent outcasts who lived without law or morality-and their eyes glowed with feral bloodlust.

Before the closest Rogue could reach for the handle, I kicked the half-open car door with all my strength. The heavy metal door swung out and smashed straight into his face with a sickening thud.

The Rogue roared in fury, his jaw elongating as sharp fangs protruded from his gums in a partial shift. He spat blood onto the ground and glared at me.

"You little bitch," he snarled, flexing his clawed hands. "A tiny girl like you thinks a car door can save her?"

I stepped out of the SUV calmly, the cold moonlight hitting my face.

"Who paid you?" I asked, my voice flat.

The Rogue didn't bother answering. He lunged straight at me with a deafening roar, his razor-sharp claws aiming directly to rip out my throat.

I tilted my body slightly to the left, dodging his clumsy attack by a hair's breadth as he crashed into the side of the car.

In the same fluid motion, I reached down into my combat boot and drew out a custom dagger forged from high-purity silver. In werewolf society, silver was never used at the dinner table because it was our only fatal weakness-a single cut could burn our blood, destroy our healing ability, and even kill our inner wolf.

The moment the silver blade caught the moonlight, the Rogue's pupils shrank in pure terror. He tried to throw his weight backward to stop his momentum.

"How does a scentless, wolfless piece of trash like you have pure silver?" he gasped, his voice cracking with panic.

To the outside world, I was a defective freak born without an inner wolf, completely masking my true bloodline as the top dark-web assassin, Shadow Feather.

I didn't waste my breath answering him. With a flick of my wrist, my silver blade sliced a deep arc across his chest.

The pure silver sizzled loudly like hot iron against raw meat as it touched his flesh. Smoke rose from the wound, and the Rogue let out an agonizing scream, clutching his burning chest as he collapsed to his knees in the mud.

A second Rogue tried to ambush me from behind. Without turning around, I dropped low and swept my leg backward, kicking his ankles out from under him.

As he hit the ground hard, I dropped my knee onto his spine, pinning him down, and pressed the freezing edge of my silver blade right against his carotid artery. He froze instantly, trembling beneath me.

The third Rogue backed away in horror, while Hank, who was hiding behind a boulder twenty feet away, stared at the bloody scene. His legs gave out completely, and he slumped into the dirt, his pants darkening with warm urine.

Leaving the pinned Rogue choking on dust, I stood up and walked slowly toward Hank, blood dripping from the tip of my silver dagger.

Hank shook violently, scrambling backward on his hands and heels as I towered over him, his sanity completely shattering under my icy stare.