Alpha’s Bullied Rejected Bride (Skymist Mating Alphas #1)

Prologue - Layla

The candle trembled as she sucked in a steadying breath.

It was the only light in the room, thin and golden, the flame bending whenever she so much as blinked. Shadows danced over the desk, swallowing the edges of the pages and curling over the cracked spines of the books she wasn’t supposed to own.

The air smelled of wax, old paper, and a faint trace of salt.

Layla’s hands hovered over the open grimoire, its leather spine soft and cracked by years of use. Every time she looked at it, her stomach turned over, a mix of fear and reverence.

She shouldn’t have had it. She shouldn’t even have known that books like this existed.

Still, she bent closer, squinting at the faded ink. The handwriting was delicate, looping, half-faded by time. A million times she’d read them, traced her fingers over the swirling letters. Spoke the words into the still air.

Felt her heart sink as yet again, nothing happened.

She nibbled her lip.

“By the four winds,” she whispered, reaching down into herself.

The candle flame held steady. Her skin stayed cool.

She frowned, tracing a finger along the next line. “By the ever-shifting tides.”

Again, nothing.

Layla exhaled, the breath shaky. She’d tried every night this week, always with the same result. No flicker, no warmth, no sign that her words had any power to them at all. She knew she must be doing something wrong. She just didn’t know what.

The book promised signs. The words were supposed to stir things, to make her skin prickle, her fingers heat up.

She knew that. It was what happened with every other spell she cast. She had turned things to dust. Lit fires.

Grown saplings into trees in the space of minutes.

But whenever she tried this one, all she had was the tired throb of her pulse and the weight of her own disappointment.

Her throat ached as she whispered the line again, slower this time, letting the syllables roll softly across her tongue. “By the ever-shifting tides…”

The candle fluttered.

She froze.

The flame tilted sharply, then steadied. Outside, the trees rustled with a passing breeze.

She tried not to throw her head back and groan. It was only a draft from her ancient bedroom window.

“Come on,” she hissed through gritted teeth, her fingers digging into the page, “come on, please.”

For a moment, the air seemed to still.

Then, nothing.

A small, helpless sound caught in her throat. She sat back, rubbing her temples. What did she expect? That she’d suddenly get it? That after a year of trying, after nearly a lifetime of practising other spells, the universe would suddenly take pity on her?

It was no use. She couldn’t shift. And no amount of magic was going to help her.

With a childish growl, she shoved the grimoire aside, turning and rummaging under her bed for a different book.

This one was newer, the leather still firm, the pages crisp and white.

She opened it on the makeshift altar in front of her, glaring at the candle as the flame flickered and diminished, daring it to go out.

She flicked through the pages, landing on a familiar spell. Squinting her eyes at the candle, she held out her hand and spoke the words.

The effect was instantaneous. The tips of her fingers tingled, then grew warm. The air around her seemed to freeze, as if captured by her will. And the flame, for a single second, flared crimson red.

And then, as quickly as it came, the magic faded again.

Layla exhaled, slamming the book shut, and threw an imperious glare at the other grimoire.

“See,” she said, too annoyed to care that her voice came out whiny and high, “now why can’t you just work—"

—and then the sound came.

Tires crunching on gravel.

The flame wobbled piteously.

Layla froze, her eyes growing wide.

No. It was too soon. They weren’t supposed to be back yet.

She listened, not daring to breathe. The night outside was silent. But then, another crunch, closer. Laughter floating through the window. Multiple voices, deep and loud.

Her blood went cold.

Theodore. And the others.

Layla shot to her feet so fast she grazed her knee on the ratty old carpet.

Panic clawed at her throat. She grabbed the candle first, blowing it out in one desperate breath.

Smoke rose instantly, thick and sweet and damning.

She waved it with both hands, but it only spread, the pine scent curling around her like a warning.

Her heart thundered in her ears. Multiple books lay scattered across her floor. A salt circle gleamed on her altar tray, the pure white disrupted by the multiple herbs she’d mixed in.

Boots hit the porch, the low tones of her brother and his friends growing louder.

“Shit,” she whispered, frantic, “shit, shit, shit—ow!”

She’d half-tripped as she stooped to gather the incriminating evidence, knocking her knee against her bedpost. Without worrying about the potential mess, she dumped the salt mix into a satin bag, tying it shut.

Smoke still curled around the room. She waved her arms about, kicking the grimoires under her bed, shoving several blankets in after them, desperate to conceal the scent of leather and herbs.

She could hear keys in the lock, a metallic jangle, and she quickly spun about, chest heaving, desperate to see if she’d missed anything.

The lock was jamming; she could hear Theodore swearing at the broken mechanism, the jeering laughter of his friends.

Without pausing to think through the consequences, she thundered down the stairs and spilled into the kitchen, racing to the cupboards.

As the lock finally clicked open, she wrenched open the cupboard door and grabbed a pot of loose-leaf herbal tea, dumping nearly half the contents into a mug.

As the front door slammed open, the thick scent of rose and jasmine clogged in her nostrils, and she muttered a prayer that it would be enough.

Wolves had strong noses, after all.

“Still awake, Layla?” Theodore called, kicking his muddy boots off as he strode into the kitchen. “Christ, have you got enough tea there, d’ya reckon?”

She swallowed reflexively. “I…I spilled it, I was just…”

Her words died in her throat. The other boys were following close behind Theodore. Leonid. Rhett.

Dominic Volkhov.

He didn’t say a word as he stepped through the doorway, but his presence immediately overwhelmed the room. The son of the Alpha never needed to so much as speak to command attention. He simply existed, and the rest of the world accommodated him.

Layla’s fingers curled around the edge of the counter.

His eyes tracked across the room, the edge of a sneer pulling at his lip. Then, his gaze fell on her. And stilled.

All the breath left her lungs.

He was, without a doubt, the most painfully beautiful male she’d ever seen.

He always had been. Sure, Leonid was the golden boy, the shining angel-faced heartbreaker.

Arthur, the young alpha of the neighboring Norden Pack, had a savage wildness to him that she’d always found alluring.

Even her brother, she had to admit, had a certain rough-and-tumble charm with his chestnut curls and cheeky, dimpled smile.

But Dominic was made from a different material altogether.

His dark hair fell in carefully controlled waves around the sharp planes of his face, slightly tapered ears poking out.

It gave him an ethereal edge, a constant reminder that he was not entirely human.

None of them was, of course, but none of the others carried themselves with such marked distinguishment as him.

It was a sign, Layla had always thought.

A sign that his wolf was always closer to the surface than the others’.

His eyes glowed faintly as he watched her, ice-blue.

“Didn’t know you were still awake,” Theodore said, blind to the silent appraisal his friend was giving her, opening the fridge and grabbing a beer. “We were just at the river. Wanted to warm up.”

Layla nodded, eyes dropping from Dominic’s unreadable expression. “You shouldn’t be here. Mom doesn’t—”

“She’s not here,” Theodore said lightly. “Will you relax for once?”

Rhett, with his weasel face and crooked teeth, laughed. “Always so nervous, this one.”

Dominic stepped forward, the sudden movement lithe and assured, a panther stalking its prey.

He leaned against the counter beside her, close enough that she could smell the smoke on his jacket.

“What were you doing, Layla?” His voice was smooth, quiet, threaded with something sharp. “All by yourself?”

She said nothing. She was aware of her every breath, her every movement.

Leonid raised an eyebrow, honey-blond curls falling into his sharp green eyes. “More like what wasn’t she doing. Spending time with the pack. With other wolves. But…oh yeah…she’d have to be a wolf for that.”

Layla’s eyes snapped up to Leonid’s, indolent. He was two years older than the others, the Alpha’s nephew, and comfortable in his position at the top of the heap. He might have been the cruelest of them. That was, if she hadn’t felt the way she did about—

“Even if she was a wolf,” Dominic said, his eyes glittering as he leant in closer, “why should we welcome her into the fold? I mean, look at this place. Look at her. It’s pathetic.”

The boys all laughed, including Theodore, though Layla didn’t miss the tightness in his grin at Dominic’s easy insults.

After all, why would he bother defending their family when males like Dominic and Leonid were only too happy to forget his bloodline when it was convenient to them?

Theodore wasn’t like her. He was outgoing, popular, and powerful even.

He was a much stronger ally than an enemy.

“So go on then,” Dominic said softly. “What have you been up to this evening, Layla?”

She looked down at her feet, cheeks burning. “I was just…reading.”

“Romances, eh?” Leonid asked, grinning lecherously at her. “Have you got a boyfriend, Layla?”

She grit her teeth together, hard enough to hurt. “No.”