Page 151 of Ruled By The Alpha

The Alpha’s Revelation

by

Marlowe Roy

Chapter 1

Rosemary

Rosemary’s lungs solidified as if frozen, but not from the late-winter air.

“Toby,” she hissed, instinctively whispering in the presence of the dead, “get back from there!”

Heart stuttering, she flapped her hand, imploring her intrepid dog away from the body sprawled half-in and half-out of the creek bed. Toby, ignoring her as usual, sniffed and nuzzled the mud-encrusted, snow-frosted body, unwilling to give up his discovery.He’dbeen the one to lead her here in the first place. Knowing there was a black bear den nearby, Rosemary avoided this area of the woods, especially in the waning months of winter when mama bears and their cubs would forage for food. Papa had taught her well—nothing will get you killed faster than posing a threat to a baby bear in the presence of its mama.

She eyed the tattered slashes in the man’s shirt and the rust-colored slush haloing his body, then shook her head, cringing at the evidence of prodigious blood loss. Whoever hewas hadn’t learned that lesson—or had learned it too late.

“Toby!” she called, louder this time, her mind spinning as she took in the man’s broad, thick torso and long, meaty legs. This discovery was a problem. A corpse here would poison her water supply, which meant she’d have to bury it in the frozen ground or drag it somewhere and burn it. Apprehensionsickened her stomach. How would she manage that? The man washuge.

“Uhhhhhhhhhhh.” A groan so low and resonant it vibrated through the ground and tickled the soles of her boots sent Rosemary’s heart into fresh conniptions. Was he…alive?

Toby, licking the man’s face, whined in sympathy and shot her an accusing look, as if to say, “Well, don’t just stand there!” Because shewasjust standing there, a morbid conclusion shooting fast and lethal through her mind: that dealing with a dead body was far less complicated than a barely alive one.

She ought to leave him.

Papa’s voice scolded from long-ago lectures, “If you see people, Rosemary—especially men—always,alwayshide. Pull the treehouse ladder up and be silent. You can’t trust them, no matter what.”

Her chin sank to her chest. He was right, of course; Papa wasalwaysright. He’d taught her how to keep herself alive and self-reliant in the ancient forest. Five years since he’d passed, and she was no worse for wear.

Physically, at least.

Wiggling her toes in her boots, Rosemary grounded herself in the present. Five years and she was alive, whole, and as Papa would say,unmolested.So what if loneliness and boredom were her only companions besides Toby and Fiona? What did it matter if the quiet in the small hours of the night suffocated her like a pillow over her face? If sometimes the senseless, uninterrupted churn of her own thoughts made her want to scream? If she sometimes sobbed into the pages of books, longing for repartee she could touch only in daydreams?

Like the slow creep of the sunrise over the horizon, her curious eyes rose to the man in the creek bed. A muscle in his cheek weakly flinched under Toby’s lapping tongue. Couldhe change any of that? Did she want him to? After all, how contentedwasshe, really?

How contentedcouldshe be, knowing she’d left a man to die?

“Damnit.” Grumbling, Rosemary edged forward, boots crunching the half-frozen ground. Circling the man’s head, Toby came to her side, nudging at her hand in search of a comforting pet.

“I know, buddy,” she whispered, granting his wish, “but what are we going to do with him?”

Another groan leaked from the man, this one weaker and more pained. His cracked lips parted silently, as if attempting a plea his too-weak body couldn’t produce.

“Shh.” Rosemary laid her palm against his forehead and then recoiled; his skin was unnaturally hot and clammy and cool all at once. He was burning up with fever and badly dehydrated. Even if she got him home, he might yet die. Then she’d be back to managing a dead body rather than a live one.

No.Shaking it off, she forced her spinning thoughts into order. He wasn’t going to die, not if she had anything to do with it.

Kneeling, Rosemary hoisted his heavy head into her lap, wincing at the deep purple bruise covering the right side of his face. Something had struck him hard, maybe knocking him insensible, perhaps enough to injure his brain. Icy fear trickled down her spine, screeching Papa’s warnings to her. Was she really going to bring this man to her home? A man who might be addled and violent, in addition to being large enough to easily overpower her?

Slipping her canteen from her shoulder, she dribbled a few drops of water onto his parched lips, gratified when his tongue crept out to catch them. His eyelids fluttered open, uncovering a pair of unfocused, yet luminous eyes. They caught her upshort, the unexpected beauty in his ravaged face. Neither green nor brown, his eyes reminded her of sunlight shining through clear, green water down to the brown, silty bottom of this very creek. Transfixed, she stared, wallowing in the stolen, intimate moment, seduced by his bleary, unseeing gaze.

Her attention traveled, cataloging the strong planes of his face underneath the swollen and boggy bruises. Tentatively she coasted her thumb along the arch of his brow. Dark hairs rustled against her bare skin, zipping an electric charge in its wake. She’d never in her life touched an adult man like this—other than Papa, of course, but her aged father, having outlived two wives and everyone else he knew, could hardly compare to this hale and hearty figure. Damaged and injured, yes, but this man possessed a raw, untapped strength that rolled off him despite his current incapacitation. The appeal was exhilarating, terrifying, and so completely foreign she couldn’t identify the source of the racing, pressurizeddisturbancelow—very low—in her belly. The peculiar niggling made her feel squirmy and weird.

A chilly breeze rattled over her ears and Rosemary blinked herself back to reality. This wasn’t time for fanciful notions; she needed tofocus.

With a grunt, she hefted his heavy head higher on her lap. Shushing and consoling noises left her lips, yet his fever-glazed eyes showed no sign of recognition or coherence.

“Drink.” She tilted the canteen, testing his swallow with a few drops. His throat convulsed, thick Adam’s apple bobbing before he opened his mouth wide like a baby bird, hungry for more. She poured a hefty swig, then another, and he swallowed without spilling a drop, smacking his parched lips.

---