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The Biker Alpha's Contract Mate: The Hidden Heiress

Kattie Eaton

5.0

Werewolf

30 Chapters

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I was forced into a ninety-day probationary contract as the Old Lady of Darrell Sexton, the Alpha Prez of the Iron Claw MC. Hiding my rare White Wolf bloodline under a dead, human-like scent, the entire pack treated me like worthless country trash. His jealous club girls hated me, and one night, they finally made their move. They tricked me into a condemned, remote warehouse in the freight yard and padlocked the heavy iron doors from the outside. When the lights suddenly died, plunging me into pitch-blackness, the trauma of being locked in a blood-soaked underground pit ten years ago violently triggered. Suffocating, trembling, and bleeding from a bad fall in the dark, I pulled out my phone. With exactly one percent battery left, I texted an "SOS" to the only person on this territory strong enough to tear down those iron doors-Darrell. But half a mile away in the roaring Clubhouse, Darrell glanced at the message from my unsaved number. Assuming it was just another desperate club girl playing games for his attention, he let out a cold sneer. "Looks like another desperate club girl playing stupid games." He locked the screen and flipped his phone face-down on the bar without a second thought. As my screen went permanently black and I lay gasping for air on the freezing, oil-slicked concrete floor, the agonizing truth crushed my chest. He didn't care, and he wasn't coming. Right before the darkness swallowed my consciousness completely, the last shred of my patience died. Darrell Sexton, I will never forgive you for this. When I get out of here, I'm tearing up this contract, and this arrogant pack will learn exactly what kind of monster they just woke up.

The Biker Alpha's Contract Mate: The Hidden Heiress Chapter 1

Daphne POV:

"Cough-stop that!"

I threw my arm up to shield my eyes as two high-pressure jets of disinfectant sprayed straight into my face. The chemical mist hissed against my denim cuff, eating bleached white spots into the fabric. My skin prickled with a sharp, fiery sting. It was diluted silver water. Silver is the only metal on earth lethal to our kind; it burns werewolf flesh like acid and kills our healing, which is why it is strictly banned inside any territory.

Standing on the porch of the Sexton estate was a burly maid named Rhonda, sneering as she lowered the brass sprayer. Behind me, the cross-country bus roared away into the California desert heat, leaving a cloud of burnt diesel.

I adjusted my wide-brimmed cowboy hat and pressed the herbal sachet sewn inside my vest. The bitter weeds masked my true scent-pine needles and snow-leaving me smelling like nothing at all. To every nose in this compound, I was a wolfless, a defective outcast born without an inner beast, unable to shift or link minds.

In this outlaw world, a motorcycle club isn't just a gang; it's a werewolf Pack on two wheels, where bloodline dictates rank. My grandfather, Cornelius of the hidden pureblood White Wolf Winters Pack, had made a three-month pact with his old war brother Boone Gilliam, the founder of the Iron Claw MC. I had to hide my identity, wear a trial Property Patch-a leather tag stitched over the heart that marks a woman as claimed by the club's leader-and audit the club's bleeding Club Fund before the monthly full-moon Tribute was due to the Lycan Emperor, the single immortal ruler who taxes every Pack on the continent. If no true Mate-bond formed between me and the current President in ninety days, the contract died and I walked free.

Inside the main hall, a woman in velvet sat on a heavy leather sofa, puffing a thin cigarette. That was Debbie Mcfarland, an Old Lady-the recognized wife of a deceased senior officer. Beside her lounged Eunice Craig, a spoiled Club Princess coasting on family status, filing her blood-red nails.

"Stray dogs from the dirt towns get sprayed for fleas before they cross our threshold." Debbie blew a stream of acrid smoke at me. "Don't bring your poverty into our Clubhouse."

"I'm here on Original Boone Gilliam's signed writ." I lowered my arm, holding up the stamped leather scroll, my voice flat. "He ordered me housed."

Debbie's eyes narrowed at the founder's seal. "A scentless defect without an ounce of wolf blood thinks she can wear the Prez's patch? Wait until Church-the full-moon council where the Pack votes on life, death, and tribute. They'll tear it right off you."

"Mother, why waste breath on this country bumpkin?" Eunice stood up, her lips curving into a nasty smile. "The servants' quarters downstairs are full. Take the suite at the very end of the second-floor hall. It gets great light."

Beside the door, Rhonda sucked in a sharp breath and quickly dropped her gaze to her boots.

I picked up my faded canvas bag and walked up the stairs. At the end of the second-floor corridor, a heavy oak door radiated the suffocating scent of crushed cedar and hot iron. Every territorial wolf marks his den with his scent, and only a purebred Alpha has the physical strength and Dominion to ride at the front as President-or Prez. This was Darrell Sexton's private bedroom. Eunice was counting on his territorial instincts to rip an intruder's throat out.

I pushed the door open anyway. Shotgun barrels and a scarred leather vest hung on the wall. Exhausted from the ride, I sat on the edge of the leather bench in the dark, slipping three tempered copper needles between my knuckles just in case.

At midnight, a massive V-twin engine thundered into the courtyard below, followed by raw, feral howls. Heavy boots pounded up the stairs.

The oak door flew open with a splintering crash. A wave of bourbon and scorching Alpha heat flooded the room. Darrell Sexton-road name Havoc-stumbled inside, his broad shoulders blocking the hall light. His black vest hung open over a bronze chest raked with old claw scars, his pupils glowing blood-red with pre-moon rage.

"Get out..." he growled, lunging straight for my throat.

I stood up, copper needles poised at his neck. Just as his calloused fingers grazed my collar, his nostrils flared. He caught the faint trace of cold pine beneath my desert herbs.

The raging beast froze. The blood-red madness in his eyes flickered, then dimmed. His massive frame collapsed forward, pinning me between the bench and the mattress. Iron-hard arms locked around my waist, burying his burning face into the crook of my neck.

"Don't move... that scent..." he rasped against my skin, his violent trembling subsiding into deep, even breaths. My heart skipped a beat; his furnace-like heat felt identical to the dying boy I had dragged out of Eagle Cliff ten years ago. Outside the door, Eunice's muffled, triumphant giggle faded down the hall.