Mated To The Dying Ruthless Alpha

Kira Hayes POV:

I leaned against the cold wall of my room, my finger swiping through the encrypted file Zane had sent. The dossier on Dorian was terrifyingly thorough, detailing everything from his corporate holdings to his private medical records.

One photo caught my eye. He was in the driver's seat of a vintage sports car, his profile sharp and unforgiving. His silver-gray eyes seemed to see right through the camera, right through to the person looking. Even in a still image, the raw power of a top-tier Alpha radiated from him.

The last line of the file was highlighted in red: Subject is suffering from advanced silver poisoning. Vital signs are unstable.

The next morning, the Pack lawyer arrived with the documents. I read every single word, my eyes scanning for loopholes, before signing my name. Fifteen percent of Hayes Corporation and a legally binding guarantee for half the bride price were now mine.

From my window, I could see the distant gray cliffs where Caroline had fallen. With the agreement secured, it was time to find the truth.

I changed into a black athletic outfit, tying my long hair into a practical ponytail. Before leaving, I retrieved a small, rolled-up cloth from a hidden compartment in my suitcase. Inside was a set of finely crafted silver acupuncture needles. The tools of my trade. The tools of Healer 'X'.

I slipped out the back of the manor, avoiding everyone, and drove a nondescript car toward the coast.

The wind whipped my hair as I got out of the car, the air thick with the smell of salt and sea. I walked to the edge of the cliff. Below, violent waves crashed against black, jagged rocks.

The official report said Caroline had slipped and fallen. An accident. I never believed it. Caroline was one of the best fighters in our Pack. She wouldn't just slip.

I began to search the cliff's edge, my eyes scanning the damp earth for anything out of place. My gaze snagged on a tiny glint of light half-buried in a thorny bush.

I pushed aside the prickly branches and dug into the mud. My fingers closed around a small, metal object.

A delicate hair clip, inlaid with a single blue sapphire.

My breath caught in my throat. It was the one I had given Caroline for her birthday. She never took it off. The clasp was bent at an unnatural angle, as if it had been ripped from her hair.

Proof. There was a struggle.

I clenched the clip in my fist, a wave of grief and rage washing over me. At that moment, a sound cut through the roar of the ocean—a low, pained snarl from below the cliff.

My heart jumped. I dropped to my stomach and peered over the edge.

On the rocky beach below, a tall figure was on his knees in the churning, icy water. His body was wracked with violent tremors. He wore a white shirt, now soaked and clinging to a broad, muscular back. Even from this distance, I could feel the waves of agony and barely controlled fury radiating from him.

It was Dorian.

What was he doing here? The file mentioned that extreme cold could temporarily alleviate the symptoms of his poisoning. His condition was worse than I thought.

This was an opportunity. A chance to observe him up close. To test him.

I found a narrow path worn into the cliffside by local fishermen and began the treacherous climb down.

When I reached the rocky shore, he sensed me. He whipped his head around, his silver-gray eyes glowing with the feral, dangerous light of a cornered animal.

His face was deathly pale, his forehead slick with sweat. The powerful Alpha looked fragile, volatile.

"Who are you?" His voice was a raw, guttural rasp, laced with suspicion.

I didn't answer, just walked slowly toward him. I could smell his scent—a potent mix of sea salt, cold pine, and something else... the faint, metallic tang of decay that clung to the sick. It was a scent only a Healer could truly identify.

He tried to stand, but his body betrayed him. He staggered and fell back to his knees in the surf.

"Stay back!" he snarled, a clear warning.

I stopped a few feet away. "You need help," I said, my voice even.

He let out a cold, humorless laugh. "Get out of here."

I ignored his command and pulled the cloth pouch from my pocket, unrolling it to reveal the gleaming silver needles.

The moment he saw them, his pupils constricted. A wave of pure killing intent exploded from him. "What do you think you're doing?" The wolf inside him was roaring, triggered by the sight and scent of silver.

To show silver to a werewolf was the ultimate provocation. An act of war.

I met his murderous gaze without flinching.

"Helping you," I said calmly. "Or watching you die here, consumed by your own failing body."

He stared at me, his mind clearly racing, trying to figure out who I was, what I wanted. Pain and reason warred on his face.

The waves crashed around us. We stood in a standoff, one man in agony, one woman holding his potential death in her hands.

Finally, the tension in his shoulders seemed to collapse. "Who sent you?" he asked, his voice laced with weary self-mockery. "What do you want from me?"

He thought I was an assassin sent by his enemies. Good. A misunderstanding was better than revealing my true purpose.

I didn't answer. I stepped forward and knelt, bringing my face level with his.

We were close. So close I could see the tremor in his long eyelashes, the bloodless line of his lips. His breath was hot and ragged against my cheek.

I raised a single silver needle, holding it up between us.