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 after thought 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 bre-asts 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.