Page 70 of The Alpha King’s Hidden Mute Mate

"I said, you've got the wrong person." My voice was flat as still water. "Please leave. Or I'll take stronger measures."

He looked at me.

Those gray-blue eyes held too much—shock, regret, pain, and that pleading look of a drowning man grasping at the last piece of driftwood. He stood there, his tall frame casting a long shadow in the dressing room's warm yellow light, looking like a statue about to crumble.

"You..." His raspy voice began. "Rest well..."

Then he turned and left.

I stood there, staring at that closed door, and counted to ten.

Then I walked to the table, picked up the cold honey water, and drained it.

The honey was sweet. Sweet enough to taste bitter.

What I didn't expect was that for the next three days, he followed me like a ghost.

Not in that creepy, hiding-behind-dumpsters way—he was completely obvious about it. Across from my hotel was a café. Every morning at eight sharp, he appeared at the window seat, ordered black coffee, and sat there watching the hotel entrance. When I went to the theater for rehearsal, he stood under the streetlamp across the street, hands in his coat pockets, like a forgotten statue on the sidewalk.

My security team reported to me daily. "That man's here again, Miss Vela. Should we—"

"No need." I didn't look up from my sheet music. "Let him stand there. When he gets tired, he'll leave."

But he didn't leave.

On the third evening, I finished my final rehearsal and exited through the theater's back door, ready to drive back to the hotel. My guards surrounded me, forming a moving wall—standard procedure, since I was currently the hottest touring singer in all four kingdoms, and fan enthusiasm sometimes exceeded manageable levels.

But that day, things spiraled out of control.

Someone had leaked my location. The back alley was packed with people. At least two or three hundred fans, holding glow signs and banners, chanting my name—"Vela! Vela! Vela!"—loud enough to lift the roof off the whole street.

My guards tensed immediately. They tried to clear a path through the crowd, but there were too many people, and they kept getting more excited. Some started pushing forward, shoving, screaming, camera flashes popping like fireworks.

I was trapped in the middle, back against the wall, facing a surging sea of heads. My guards got scattered by the crowd. I heard them shouting "Back up! Back up!" but their voices drowned in the screaming.

Then a hand grabbed my wrist.

Instinctively, I tried to pull away, but the grip was firm—not painful, but certain, unshakable. I turned my head and saw those gray-blue eyes.

"Come with me," he said.

"Let go—"

"Don't argue." He cut me off, voice edged with urgency I'd never heard before. "You want to get trampled?"

I looked around. The crowd kept surging forward. Someone was already in my face, phone held high, almost touching my nose. My guards were stuck several yards away and couldn't get through.

I bit my lip and nodded at him.

He moved immediately. He pulled me behind him, used his body to block the crowd, then—he shifted.

Right there in that crowded alley, with two hundred fans screaming, he tore through his clothes, bones cracking, and within seconds, a massive silver-gray wolf appeared before me.

The crowd erupted in louder screams—terrified ones this time.

He used his body to ram open a path, then lowered his head, grabbed my collar in his jaws, and tossed me onto his back. Instinctively, I grabbed the fur at his neck, legs clamping his body—

Next second, he bolted.