The Alpha’s Chosen Outcast

5. HEATHER

Chapter 5

HEATHER

What the actual fuck just happened?

I knew that coming back here was a risk. I knew that the bride was high profile. I had no fucking clue that she would be a fucking Hanover and that the Alpha’s son would be joining us.

I’m utterly and completely fucking fucked.

I put my hand on my throat where his claws had nearly sliced through my carotid moments ago. If I’d been human, I’d have bled out in minutes.

Thankfully, wolf healing and Violet’s quick moves with the compression on my throat saved me from that fate.

Then again, maybe I’d be better off. At least this whole thing would be over. Now I have to actually design and make a wedding dress for Violet fucking Hanover.

How do I even do that? Will her brother kill me if I make a mistake on one of the sketches? Will he kill me if her hemline is slightly off on the first try?

Why didn’t I see the name “Hanover” on the order when Jessie and Gretta talked about it? I barely heard a word they’d said the whole time they'd been talking.

I was so preoccupied with my normal fears about coming back here that I didn’t even register that there was a reason to be absolutely terrified.

He knows I’m here. The Alpha’s son. The man who pinned me to the wall with his claws. He knows where I am and could kill me anytime he wants. He could kill me in my sleep. I’d never see him coming.

Should I run?

No, I can’t do that either. He’d know, and if anyone else found me here, I’d be dead for sure. At least if I stay inside this store, I have some sliver of hope that I might survive this. He had a chance to kill me when he had me against the wall, and he didn’t do it.

My hand goes to my throat again, thinking about his claws there—the warmth of his body, his power, the growl in his chest threatening my life.

Why does it make me feel like I wish I’d packed my vibrator? I can’t want him. I’m probably disgusting to him as an exile.

I go over to the break room and see my stuff still sitting there. I don’t really have any place to unpack, but I have to do something to feel at home. I’m going to be here for three months.

Three fucking months of wondering if I’ll be killed every time I see my client. I can’t think about it, or I’m gonna drive myself insane. I have to do something else.

So I open my suitcase on the table and check the place out, trying to decide where I might put my things to make it seem more like a sort of dorm room and less like a break room. I’ve already seen the workroom and the showroom.

When I arrived, I barely saw this break room because I’d hastily thrown my bags in before I went to meet Violet. Now, as I undo the straps holding my folded clothes, it feels like that moment had been days ago, not hours.

The rest of the space is pretty basic. There’s a small fridge/freezer comb—not exactly a mini fridge, but not a full-sized one, either. Next to that is a flimsy card table with a microwave, some paper plates, and a little basket with plastic utensils. On the other side of the room, there’s a counter with some cabinets above and below it.

The counter has a pod-based coffee maker and a drawer underneath it containing several pods. Several boxes stocked with more pods are in the cabinet below.

Next to the coffee maker are syrups, different sweetener packets, and tiny sealed cups of shelf-stable flavored creamers. Some packaged baked goods are also on the counter. As I peruse the selection, my mouth starts to water.

I don’t even care what else is in the cabinets or the fridge. These items alone will bring some comfort and enough of a kick to get through the rest of my night.

I painstakingly choose a coffee pod, a flavored syrup, and a couple of those creamer cups. Next, I return to that selection of baked goods and pick a truly decadent-looking brownie.

As I sip the coffee from my paper cup and take intermittent bites of chocolate deliciousness, I start taking things out of my suitcase. One side has clothes, which will probably stay where they are.

The other side has all the other stuff I’d brought like toiletries, my journal, not my vibrator because I’m an idiot and left it at home, sketchbooks, a pencil set, and the photos of my parents I’d had hidden at home. I couldn’t risk anyone finding them.

It hits me then that for the first time in five years, I’m in the same city as my parents. They’re about fifteen blocks down the road, and I can’t even tell them I’m alive.

I can’t see them, can’t leave this shop, can’t let on in any way that they could be walking by me at any time, and I won’t be able to wave at them from the doorway.

I can’t contact them or anyone else. I have to concentrate on staying as invisible as possible. Which means I’m up for three fucking months of using a sink to bathe. Whatever, I do as I’m told.

I find it interesting, if not optimistic, that neither Violet nor her brother let their father, the Alpha, know I was here.

In fact, it looked more like she deferred to her brother for leadership and decision-making. It’s odd that their father wasn’t ever even mentioned.

Time to get to work. I can’t sit here in fear and grief forever. I have a job to do for Violet, and I have to keep Jessie’s image intact. Violet wanted Jessie’s signature on this, so I have to uphold the integrity of her brand. I owe her that much, at the very least.

I’ve been lying to her since the day we met about who I really am. She may know about wolves, but I didn’t want to risk her knowing that detail about me in case anyone came looking for me.

They’re one hour behind back home—because that place is now my real home, not this city. It’s not too late to call Jessie and tell her how the initial client meeting went, minus the claws, of course.

I click on her contact and wait for her to pick up on speaker. No one else is here, so I feel free to talk.

The only reason this isn’t a FaceTime call is because I don’t want her to see the terror probably still written all over my face or the marks on my neck. She answers almost immediately, the excitement practically crackling in my phone when her voice comes through.

“Heather, you’re there!” she says. “How is everything? Did you see all your people yet? Did you meet the client?”

“N-no, I mean yes.” Her enthusiasm has caught me off guard. “I met with the client, but I haven’t had much time for anything else.”

“Oh.”

I feel like a huge loser with that one word.

“I’m sure I’ll see everyone soon enough. I have a dress to make first.”

“Of course. I’m counting on you to make me look good.”

I laugh, but I know it’s not covering my nerves.

“Heather, are you okay? Is something wrong? You sound nervous, hon. You’ve got this, you know?”

“I’m fine,” I lie, “Like you said, you’re counting on me. That’s kind of nerve-wracking in itself. I know you don’t mean it to be. I just want this to go well. I hope Violet loves the dress I make her.”

“Hey, there’s a reason I sent you there instead of going myself. Miss Hanover chose a design that only you can complete. I admit that I can’t do it. Gretta can admit the same. Your talent is unique. Don’t forget that.”

I cringe at the name—Hanover. Why didn’t I hear it before?! I have to say something in response to Jessie’s heartfelt pep talk. This isn’t her fault, and I already feel like shit for making her think she did anything to contribute to my nerves.

“Jessie, I’m honored that you have such faith in my talent. Thank you for the pep talk. I needed that.”

I do my best to sound calm, as if her words had actually had an impact. She seems to accept this.

“Glad I can help! Now get to work,” she chuckles, “and don’t let anyone push you around over there. Miss Hanover may be a high-profile client, but you are the talent. Don’t forget that.”

“I won’t. I’ll update you soon. I’m gonna get started on the prelim sketches from the inspo photos she brought for our first meeting.”

“Magazine clippings?”

I laugh. “No one does magazine clippings anymore. No, she has a bunch of printouts and I gave her my email address so she can send me her Pinterest board.”

“Pinterest? Brides are still doing that?”

“Oh yes. It’s still insanely popular for planning aesthetics. It works for me.”

“As long as it works for you. CC me on that prelim sketch. I’d love to see the process as it goes.”

“Sure! We’ll talk soon. I’m available on text, too,” I remind her.

“You know I hate texting.”

“Get with the times, Jessie!” I grin, suddenly feeling so grateful to talk to her.

“Okay, okay. Talk soon. I’ll text you.” Her emphasis on the word shows her utter disdain.

I laugh again. “Talk soon.”

I end the call, letting the ease of a normal conversation and a bit of laughter linger with me. I make another cup of coffee, move my open suitcase to the floor, then settle in at the table with my sketch pad and pencils.

I brought my computer with my design software and the pattern projector, but I still always do my preliminary sketches with pencil and paper. I use the computer to look at the Pinterest board that Violet sent me.

Her email does not mention her father hunting for me or her brother coming back because he changed his mind about killing me. Those are good signs.

The Pinterest board is basically an extension of the printouts she brought. It features elegant bodices, sweetheart necklines, intricate beading, and a long train with beading on the hem. It will take a lot of work, but that's good. I need the distraction.

I thought about Violet’s personality and style and realized I remembered her from high school. I remember Trey, too.

He’d always been the one to pick her up after extracurricular activities and when we did field trips. I think he had even been a chaperone a few times.

I’m pretty sure I thought he was her father or uncle or something. I guess he’s not that much older than her. He acts like her parent to her now, also.

He’s protective of her and committed to giving her the best wedding possible, including letting an exile design and make her wedding gown.

He was wearing jeans and a plain dark tee today. He always used to wear suits. I think it made him seem older. Why doesn’t he wear suits anymore? Does he work? He didn’t say but I also really didn’t get a chance to ask.

Violet was wearing a suit. She didn’t say what she does for a living either. I know they’re good to pay for this dress—because it’s going to cost a lot.

With their family name, they never need to work. But I still like knowing the hobbies of my customers. I like to know who they are—what they love.

I guess this time, I’ll have to go on the Pinterest board alone. I’m not calling Violet now. I’m going to have to email her the scans of these sketches. I have her number in my files, too.

I’m used to being able to talk to my clients, to be friendly with them. It doesn’t feel right here. One wrong move can get me killed.

For a few hours, I work on my sketches and get in the zone, trying to forget that I’m in such a precarious situation and it’s only day one of 90 or more.

I keep thinking back to Trey’s hand on my throat, his claws scraping my skin, and I can’t help but notice the snap I felt, like something falling into place.

Maybe that was a warning. Maybe it was something else. I don’t know because I’ve never felt it before. All that I know is that his knowledge of who I am and my presence in this city puts my life in danger. And the hardest part is that I can’t tell another soul about this.

I’ve never felt more alone in my entire life.