Surrogate for the Alpha Prince in a Coma novel Chapter 6

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Chapter 6

GRAYSON

I’d been awake for eleven days before the girl arrived.

The ambush that put me in this bed was no accident. Rogue wolves don’t coordinate attacks on the Crown Prince’s route unless someone inside the pack feeds them the schedule. Someone close.

So I kept my eyes shut. Let the doctors prod. Let my parents talk succession plans like I was already dead. My wolf maintained the translucent projection — a guard dog convincing enough to keep everyone distant/while I listened and catalogued every voice that entered this room.

Nobody could get close enough to realize the comatose Prince was breathing a little too steadily.

Then the girl walked in. And my wolf – the same beast that had shattered a duke’s daughter’s ribs and broken three Beta warriors’ arms – lay down and wagged its tail like a puppy.

I’d heard the briefings. Lillian, Gamma’s daughter, Shadow Creek Pack. Calvin’s former girlfriend, now his cast- off. Meek. Compliant. A perfect, harmless surrogate.

Harmless girls don’t make my wolf roll over.

I cracked my eyes open for half a second when she first stood over the bed. Cotton dress, bare face, cloth-wrapped boots. She was clutching a locket like it was the only thing keeping her upright. Not what I expected.

Then she told everyone I’d opened my eyes, and I spent the next hour willing her to shut up before she ruined everything. Nobody believed her. Small mercies.

The real problem started tonight.

The chamber door opened. She stumbled in, and the smell hit me before she reached the bed.

Chemical. Sweet and cloying, layered under her natural scent. And something else – feverish heat pouring off her skin that my wolf locked onto like a scent trail in fresh snow.

Drugged. Someone had drugged her.

She crawled onto the mattress. Her fingers gripped my shirt and she pressed her entire body against my side, face burrowing into my shoulder. Shaking. A whimper escaped her throat – small and broken- and my wolf surged so hard I nearly lost my grip on the act.

Mate, my wolf growled. She’s ours. Help her.

I told him to shut up.

“Please,” she whispered against my chest.

She was burning. Her hips shifted against my side – not deliberate. Involuntary. The drug was working through her, and she was losing the fight.

I grabbed her wrist. Hard.

“How dare you.”

Her eyes flew open. Glazed, pupils blown, barely tracking.

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I hauled myself upright and pinned both her wrists above her head. She was small under me. Flushed from her collarbones to her hairline. Her cotton dress had ridden up her thighs, and she smelled like –

I shut that thought down.

“Who drugged you?”

Her eyes widened. Fear cut through the haze, and she twisted away.

“N-nobody. I don’t I wasn’t-”

Lying. Badly. Her pulse hammered under my fingers, and whatever name she was protecting scared her more than I did.

Her hips rolled up against my thigh. Not at me. Not on purpose. The drug was pulling her muscles into involuntary contractions. My jaw clenched. Blood rushed south. A coil of heat tightened low in my stomach. My wolf was no help – panting inside my skull, feeding me her scent in concentrated bursts.

Touch her. She needs it. We need —

I snarled inwardly at the beast. Shut. Up.

She started crying. Quiet, helpless tears sliding from the corners of her eyes. Her body arched and a sound tore out of her half moan, half sob – that scraped down every nerve I had.

I cursed under my breath.

Released her wrists. My hand found the hem of her dress and pushed it higher. She gasped – sharp, startled, fingers curling into the sheets.

“Stay still,” I said. “And keep quiet.”

My palm slid beneath the last scrap of cotton underwear.

She was soaked. Hot and swollen and slick against my fingers. The sound she made when I touched her – a choked, shattered whimper – sent a jolt straight through my spine.

I kept my eyes on the far wall. Moved my fingers in slow, deliberate circles, pressing where the heat concentrated, adjusting to the way her hips bucked against my hand.

Mate, my wolf purred. Ours.

She gripped my forearm. Nails dug in. Her back arched off the mattress, and her thighs clamped around my wrist. I increased the pressure. She turned her face into the pillow and bit down on a cry. Her whole body trembled – tight, coiled, straining – and then she broke.

A ragged gasp. Her muscles seized around my fingers, pulsing, her hips grinding against my palm in shuddering

waves.

I held still until she stopped shaking. Pulled my hand free. Wiped it on the sheets.

My cock was painfully hard. I ignored it.

She curled against my side like a wounded animal seeking warmth. Her breathing evened. Within two minutes, she was unconscious.

I stared at the ceiling. leven days of perfect discipline. And now a drugged surrogate was molded to my side, my wolf was purring, and her scent was burned into every breath I took.

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hapter 6

I didn’t sleep.

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LILLIAN

A knock woke me.

Three sharp raps. I jerked upright and found myself wrapped around the Prince – leg thrown over his hip, arm. across his chest, face pressed into his neck.

I scrambled off so fast I nearly fell off the bed.

He didn’t move. Eyes closed. Breathing even. The faint blue shimmer of his wolf glowed at his side, and neither of them acknowledged that I had just been –

I pressed my palms to my burning face.

“Luna Princess?” Brisk, female. “The Queen has requested I escort you through the pack grounds. May I enter?”

“One moment!”

I smoothed my dress. My underwear was damp. There was a soreness between my legs – not painful, but present. A deep ache that pulsed when I stood.

The fragments came in hot, broken flashes.

Hands. Someone’s hand. Fingers moving against me, slow and deliberate. My own voice making sounds I’d never made. The pressure of a broad chest against my cheek. Cedar and winter air. A low voice saying *stay still*.

My face went so red I felt it in my ears.

I looked at the Prince. Motionless. Serene. Hands resting at his sides, perfectly composed.

There was no way. He was in a coma. The doctors had confirmed it.

Which meant last night — the hands, the voice, the devastating pressure of fingers that knew exactly where to press — was a dream. A drug-induced fever dream about an unconscious man whose clothes I’d changed, whose arousal I’d accidentally felt through his sleep pants just yesterday.

And in my drugged, delirious state, I’d used his hand. Climbed onto him, pressed myself against him, and —

Oh Goddess.

I was a monster. A depraved, touch-starved monster.

The knock came again. I splashed water on my face and opened the door.

The Omega was tall, sharp-featured, and unimpressed. She looked at my wrinkled dress and uncombed hair, and her mouth thinned.

“I see you’re settling in,” she said. Not a compliment.

I followed her out on shaking legs.

I tugged my sleeves down and folded my arms across my chest, trying to hold myself together.

Then I saw four bruises on the inside of my left wrist.

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I turned and looked back down the corridor toward the Prince’s chamber.

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