Accidental Surrogate for Alpha

Ella

Hugo, Sinclair and I are all staring at the television with wide eyes and slack jaws, unable to process the images flitting across the screen. It seems like every time we manage to take a few steps forward, Lydia and the Prince find a way to send us reeling back – and this is no exception.

“This doesn’t make any sense.” Hugo expresses, obviously overwhelmed. “Why would he risk losing the pack’s sympathy by parading around another Woman so soon after his wife’s death?”

“Trust me, Hugo – Damon isn’t the one calling the shots here. This is all Lydia.” Sinclair states gruffly. “She’s going to force her way onto the throne one way or another. Right now she’s playing the doting friend, but mark my words, by the time the election ends she’ll be in his bed.”

“How bad is this?’ I ask, looking up at Sinclair’s handsome face, “Does she have information that could hurt you?”

Sinclair Squeezes my shoulders, “She knows some secrets.” He relates, “but luckily nothing I could imagine as a smoking gun. In fact most of what she knows would be more harmful to the Prince things like my father’s attack, Things the public believes were accidents but our private investigators proved malicious.” His mouth flattens into a hard line. “The real danger is that she knows how we think, how we operate. Not to mention that the Prince doesn’t have more than two brain cells to rub together, but Lydia has plenty.”

“So what do we do?” I ask anxiously, my head replaying the news reel over and over again. “My bed rest isn’t common knowledge, and they’re making it sound like my absence from the public eye is suspicious. Do we tell everyone about my condition? Or do we make an appearance?”

“I’m afraid making an appearance might play right into their hands. This could be some sort of attempt to lure us out of hiding.” Hugo advises, looking very grim indeed.

In the distance I hear the front door open and close – a fact which comes as quite a surprise, since my hearing has never been so sharp before.

Wheels roll over the door jam, and then Henry’s voice floats up toward us, “Good Morning!”

“Henry!” I exclaim, both taken aback yet unsurprised we stayed in bed so long. Sinclair’s father has been coming over almost every day since we agreed to be invalids together, and he’s been an invaluable help, since I learned my true identity.

I grab some loungewear and disappear into the restroom to change. I might be a wolf, but my human modesty is too deeply ingrained to allow me to strut around nude the way Sinclair does – and I’m definitely not changing in front of Hugo.

When I emerge, Sinclair is also dressed, though much more formally than I am.

me of bed rest yet. We all gather around the breakfast table, the men analyzing these recent developments in low, serious voices, and me feeling like an outsider eavesdropping on matters I can’t begin to understand. It’s not that they

They’ve been going around in circles for more than half an hour, debating how

flash of emotion in Sinclair’s eye as he observes the nervous habit. Releasing my swollen lip, I sigh, “Do we ever know what happened with Lydia’s husband?I mean the Princess is dead, but Lydia’s still married to some other Alpha, right?” I clarify. When the men nod, I continue. “Where is he in all this? Even if he doesn’t want her anymore, it must make

a good point.” Henry praises, maintaining a straight-faced expression which reassures me that he’s not

simply leave it at knowing they’re corrupt and respond without

countermove to challenge the media’s narrative, but we might be able to spin ourselves out of the hot seat and refocus the attention onto them – where it

them busy and distract the pack by rustling up her husband and

look over, his features are still drawn with worry.”I still don’t like it. I think it’s the best hope we have, but something about this

“You don’t need to convene a blue-ribbon committee to tell you this is all fucked six ways to

I mean, I feel like I’m missing

bothering me and I just can’t put my

been saying from the beginning that Princess Angeline’s death felt off – like a political scheme.” I contribute

too unimaginative to have

closing his hand into a fist and swearing

know who isn’t too unimaginative?”

than a trophy, he’s not the type to impulsively destroy

both certain I’ve understood and yet unable to

as it seems, what other explanation do we have?” Sinclair inquires, rising to his feet and pacing back and forth behind the dining table. “If the Prince had lost his temper and beat her to death, I wouldn’t question it. And if there was some sort of violent attack, you could make the case for rogues or vengeance

and if it was a political scheme you would think the royal family would have staged her death and spun the details in a way that

agrees. “Instead it

blame and cast aspersions? Why haven’t the Prince and his son