The Alpha's Bride: Season One

No signal.

I stare at my phone like it personally betrayed me. Twenty minutes ago I had four bars. Now? Nothing.

Great. Perfect. Exactly what you want when you’re driving into the middle of nowhere to find out what happened to your missing sister.

“Isn’t this so romantic?” The blonde across from me presses her face to the window. “It’s like a fairy tale!”

Outside, the pine trees are so thick they block out the sky. It doesn’t look like a fairy tale. It looks like the opening scene of a true crime documentary.

“Totally,” I say. “Very romantic.”

“I’m McKenzie, by the way.” She’s already told me. Twice. “What’s your name again?”

“Tessa.”

The lie comes out smooth. I’ve been practicing.

Tessa Cole. Twenty-six. Kindergarten teacher from Portland. Loves hiking, golden retrievers, and true love.

None of it is real.

My name is Tess Calloway. I’m twenty-seven. I used to be an investigative journalist, before a senator sued me into the ground and every editor in America blocked my number.

I don’t believe in true love.

And I’m not here to find a husband.

* * *

“Ugh, I’m so nervous.” The redhead next to me fans herself. “What if he doesn’t like me?”

“Who?” I ask.

Four women turn and stare at me like I just asked what year it is.

“Him,” McKenzie says. “The bachelor! The mystery billionaire!”

“Right. Him.”

Nobody knows who he is. That’s the whole gimmick of Wild Hearts. Twenty women. One secret millionaire. A mansion in the mountains. No phones, no internet, no contact with the outside world for eight weeks.

The perfect place to make someone disappear.

“I heard he’s a prince,” the redhead whispers.

“I heard he’s, like, forty and bald,” says someone else.

McKenzie gasps. “Don’t say that!”

They all laugh. I laugh too, a beat too late.

The camera mounted in the corner of the limo blinks red. I give it my best kindergarten-teacher smile.

Smile, Tess. Look happy. Look stupid.

Lily would have loved this. The sequins. The champagne. The drama.

She did love this.

That’s the problem.

* * *

Fourteen months ago, my little sister got into a car just like this one.

She called me the night before she left. I was busy. I let it go to voicemail.

“Tessie! I got in! They’re flying me to Montana tomorrow. I can’t say anything else, I signed, like, a million NDAs. But I’m gonna be on TV! Love you. Call me back, loser.”

I never called her back.

Six weeks later, the production company told my dad she’d “left the show early to travel.” They sent a postcard in her handwriting.

Need some time to find myself. Don’t look for me.

The police said she was an adult. Adults are allowed to leave.

But Lily dots her i’s with tiny circles. She has since she was nine.

The postcard had dots.

The first season of Wild Hearts never aired. “Production issues,” they said.

I found three other families whose daughters went up this mountain and sent home postcards instead of coming home.

So when they announced Season One, I applied.

And they picked me.

* * *

“Ladies,” the driver says over the speaker. “Welcome to Blackthorn Lodge.”

The trees open up, and every woman in the car screams.

Okay. Fine. Even I’ll admit it’s beautiful.

The lodge is huge. Three stories of dark wood and glass, every window glowing gold. Lanterns hang along the porch. Behind it, the mountain rises into the clouds, and a full moon sits right on top of the roof, so big and bright it looks fake.

“Oh my God,” McKenzie breathes. “I’m gonna cry.”

The car stops. Lights flood the windows. A man in a headset yanks the door open.

“Out, out, out! Walk slow, smile big, and don’t look at the cameras!”

I climb out last.

The cold hits me first. Then the smell.

Pine. Smoke. And something else underneath. Something wild and musky, like wet fur.

Weird.

Then, from somewhere up the mountain, a howl.

Long. Low. Close.

The hair on my arms stands up.

The other girls giggle. Someone says, “Oh my God, how atmospheric!” The director shouts, “Keep rolling!”

And the howl stops.

Not fades. Stops. Mid-note.

Like someone clamped a hand over its mouth.

Nobody else seems to notice.

I keep smiling. I walk slow. I don’t look at the cameras.

But I do look at everything else.

The second road behind the garage, with a locked gate. The guards by the tree line who are definitely not wearing production badges.

And the security cameras under the roof.

There are a dozen of them.

None of them are pointed at us.

They’re all pointed at the woods.

* * *

Inside, the lodge is even bigger.

A stone fireplace you could park a car in. Antlers on the walls. A chandelier made of, I’m pretty sure, actual bones.

Cute.

“Champagne?” A waiter holds out a tray.

I take a glass. I don’t drink it. Rule number one of undercover work: never drink anything you didn’t pour yourself.

Rule number two: find the exits.

Front door. Kitchen, through the swinging door on the left. A staircase going up. And at the end of the hall, a heavy wooden door with a brass lock and a sign that says STAFF ONLY.

I’m halfway to it when a voice stops me.

“Lost already?”

I turn.

The woman in front of me looks like she walked out of a perfume ad. Long black hair. Red dress. Legs for days. Her smile is very white and very sharp.

“Just looking for the bathroom,” I say.

“It’s the other way.” She looks me up and down, slowly. “I’m Brooke.”

“Tessa.”

“Tessa.” She says it like she’s tasting it and doesn’t like the flavor. “Kindergarten teacher, right? I read the bios.”

“That’s me.”

“Adorable.” She leans in. Her perfume is strong, but there’s something under it, sharp and earthy. “Little tip, Tessa? Girls like you go home first.”

“Girls like me?”

“Boring.” She taps my champagne glass with one red nail. “Try not to cry on camera. It’s embarrassing for everyone.”

Then she walks away, hips swinging, and three girls immediately flock around her.

I stare after her.

Okay. So that’s the villain.

Every reality show needs one. Lily used to scream at the TV when the mean girl won a challenge.

“Don’t let her get to you.”

I turn again. A woman in a simple green dress is standing beside me, holding a glass of water. She’s older than most of the girls here, maybe thirty, with warm brown skin and tired, kind eyes.

“I’m Jada,” she says. “And for the record, she said the same thing to me. And to the girl from Texas. And to the girl who’s crying in the bathroom right now.”

I laugh. It’s the first real laugh I’ve had in months.

“So she’s an equal-opportunity witch.”

“Basically.” Jada clinks her water glass against my champagne. “Nurse. Single mom. Here for the prize money, not the man. You?”

Here to find out if my sister is dead.

“Here for the free vacation,” I say.

“Smart girl.”

* * *

The man doesn’t show up.

At eight, a producer announces he’s “running late.” At nine, the host, a tan guy named Grant with teeth like piano keys, says the bachelor is “preparing something special.”

At ten, the girls start getting drunk and restless.

“Maybe he’s ugly,” the redhead slurs. “Maybe that’s why he’s hiding.”

“Maybe he’s a serial killer,” someone jokes.

Everyone laughs.

I don’t.

At eleven, Grant claps his hands. “Ladies! Our bachelor sends his apologies. You’ll meet him tomorrow night. And every one of you will get a little time alone with him. For now, get some rest. Your rooms are upstairs.”

Groans all around. Brooke rolls her eyes.

But as the girls head for the stairs, I notice something.

Grant’s smile is gone. He’s staring at the front windows, at the dark trees outside, and his hand is shaking a little.

Then he sees me watching, and the smile snaps right back on.

“Sweet dreams, Tessa.”

* * *

My room is on the third floor, at the end of the hall.

It’s nice. Too nice. A huge bed with a fur blanket. A fireplace. A window that looks straight out at the forest.

There’s a camera in the corner of the ceiling. Of course there is.

I check everything. Under the bed. Inside the closet. Behind the mirror. The vent.

Nothing.

Then I turn off the light, sit on the edge of the bed, and look out the window.

The moon is so bright that the snow on the mountain glows silver. The trees are black. Still.

And then I see him.

A man. Standing at the edge of the tree line, right where the lawn ends and the forest begins.

He’s tall. Broad shoulders. Dark clothes. He isn’t moving.

He’s looking up.

At my window.

At me.

My heart slams against my ribs. I can’t see his face. It’s too far, too dark. But I can feel his eyes, the way you can feel someone standing behind you in an empty room.

Heavy. Hot. Like a hand pressed against the back of my neck.

I should step back. I should close the curtains.

I don’t.

I don’t know why, but I can’t look away. Something low in my stomach pulls tight, like a string being tugged.

Who are you?

A cloud slides over the moon.

The lawn goes dark.

When the light comes back, he’s gone.

* * *

I don’t sleep.

I lie on my back for an hour, listening to the lodge creak and settle, telling myself it was a guard. A cameraman. Some creep from the crew.

But guards don’t stand that still.

At one in the morning, I give up. I roll over and slide my hand under the pillow, then under the mattress, an old habit from childhood, when Lily and I used to hide candy from Dad.

My fingers brush something soft.

I freeze.

Slowly, I pull it out.

A purple scrunchie. Velvet. With a tiny silver star charm stitched to the side.

I can’t breathe.

I bought it for her at a gas station in Idaho, the summer she turned sixteen. She wore it every day after that. She was wearing it in her audition video.

I bring it to my face. It still smells faintly like her strawberry shampoo.

Lily slept in this bed.

Lily was here.

And somewhere in this house, someone knows exactly what happened to her.

I close my fist around the scrunchie.

I’m coming, Lily.

Outside, far up the mountain, something howls again.

This time, it doesn’t stop.