Page 1 of Cruel Alpha: Season One

1

The Invitation

Annalise

Aunt Geneva fluttersthrough the archway, entering my room in a billowing cloud of pale-yellow chiffon. The halls of this estate are her runway, and the robes she parades around in are as grand and over-the-top as every other thing about her.

My body shifts when she drops down onto the bed, buzzing with excitement. I can, literally, feel it when she settles close, the energy moving over my skin like tiny electrical currents.

It’s awolf thing,and it’s presently causing me major anxiety.

“Can I… help you?” I ask, definitely sounding a bit curt. It’s unintended, but she has a habit of interrupting my evening reading. And always when I’m getting to the good parts.

Completely ignoring that her timing is terrible, a girlish giggle bubbles up from Aunt Geneva’s chest. “Do you haveanyidea what this is? Or what itcouldbe?” she asks, switching her words.

Lowering the book from my line of sight, I finally notice the gold envelope pinched between her forefinger and thumb. She squeals with a laugh when I pluck it from her hand, examining the official, black seal pressed to the flap. In my peripheral vision, I’m aware of the glimmer in my aunt’s eyes.

“It’s from the High Chamber,” she says, stating the obvious. Every resident of the Northern Quadrant knows only correspondence from the alpha’s administration arrives in such grandiose packaging.

“Well, aren’t you going to open it?” she asks.

“Yes, just… give me a second.”

I’ve been waiting for this moment. Having submitted petition after petition, there’s a ray of hope that my argument has been heard. It goes against ages of Clan Centauri tradition for women to remove their aprons and rubber gloves to embark on an endeavor involvinganythingnot having to do with her domestic work, but I’ve rejected that narrow ideal since childhood. Since I felt that first quickening in my heart, revealing that my destiny is to bring about change for our quadrant.

Now, it’s possible thatthe patriarchal bullshit is finally on the cusp of extinction.

“For heaven’s sake, Annalise, would you please just open it?”

My aunt’s incessant screeching shortens my time to savor this moment. With a grumbled, “Fine,” I carefully lift the seal, which would be far easier if I weren’t trembling.

But how can Inottremble?

What if it worked? What if Alpha Caspian is actually considering my stance? In the very near future, women in our quadrant may finally be given the right to choose their life’s path.

Quickly scanning the printed words, I read them a second time. Only, a bit more slowly than before. Because if I’m not mistaken, this isn’t just a letter.

It’s an invitation.

Seeing my face fall slack, Aunt Geneva can’t handle the suspense and snatches the paper. Then, a dramatic gasp leaves her.

“Alpha Caspian wants to meet with you?” she asks, maybe thinking her eyes have deceived her, too. But then, realization seems to set in. “My gods, Annalise! Do you have any idea what this means? No one, and I meanno one,receives invitation to visit the High Chamber!”

Hearing those words leave her mouth, it’s confirmed. I’m not insane. My book falls to the floor with a thud when I shoot out of bed to celebrate properly, doing a mashup of every cheesy dance known to wolfkind. Yes, I’m rhythmically challenged, but who freaking cares? I’ve just been invited to visit the High Chamber!

The magnitude of the good news has fully registered for Aunt Geneva, and she’s on her feet, too, but not to mimic my spastic dance. She’s at the armoire, thinking she’ll decide what I’ll wear tomorrow.

She pushes one dress after another aside, floor-length gowns in varying shades of yellow, cream, and white—the basic palette of our dress code here in the Northern Quadrant. I’ve worn those dresses to various charity events and cotillions over the years, but I certainly will not be wearing one to meet with Alpha Caspian tomorrow.

Now, to break this news to Aunt Geneva.

“How about this one?” she chirps, doing an about-face with the lemon-toned strapless pressed to her chest. I wore this particular piece to a wedding last season and have no plans to ever wear it again.

When I approach her to gently slide the hanger from her manicured grip, she frowns, watching me return it to the armoire.

“Aunt Geneva, I know you mean well, but I don’t think that’ll work.”

I don’t say out loud that I’m twenty-one and capable of selecting my own clothes, but I’m certainly thinking it.

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