Alpha ruined, p.1
Alpha Ruined, page 1
ALPHA RUINED
LILIANA CARLISLE
Copyright © 2024 by Liliana Carlisle
All rights reserved.
No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.
Cover by Bee at Bitter Sage Designs
Created with Vellum
CONTENTS
Author’s note
Foreword
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Chapter 38
Chapter 39
Epilogue
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About the Author
Also by Liliana Carlisle
AUTHOR’S NOTE
This book contains dark subject matter and explicit content. There is mention of a previous suicide attempt, suicidal ideation, and self harm. There is extreme violence done by the hero but not to the heroine. There are also themes of somnophilia.
FOREWORD
To everyone that loved Alpha Inmate…enjoy this wild ride.
CHAPTER 1
BREE
“Okay, ladies, if you could all smile for me,” she says, standing in front of the group of older women. They hold their small potted plants in their hands, excited smiles plastered on their faces.
The Holden Garden Club just won best flowers in the county, and the members are thrilled. Standing outside the entrance to city hall, Bree takes a picture on her phone, capturing the group’s cheer.
It will make a heartwarming story in the newspaper.
Bree matches the women’s grins, her hazel eyes crinkling in false delight. “Perfect,” she says, and the club members turn to each other and chatter excitedly.
Nothing happens in the tiny town of Holden. Nothing.
Bree can only write so many articles about flowers, dogs, and art clubs before she expires from boredom.
She loves her job, but she knows there are far more interesting stories to tell.
Holden Garden Club Wins Best in Show.
She frowns at the title in the notes app of her phone, wishing she could think of something more catchy.
Friendship Blooms at City Hall.
That sounds a little better.
“We appreciate you so much.” A mature woman with kind dark eyes approaches her, a potted lilac plant in her hands. “We’ve never been featured in the paper before. It’s exciting!”
Bree gives her a smile. “It’s my pleasure. I’m always happy to write stories about others.”
“Well, that’s wonderful. You’re doing a great thing, writing for the paper. Even if no one but us old folks read it.” She waggles her grey eyebrows.
Bree lets out a chuckle. “Thank you, but we have some online readers as well.”
“Still, there’s something about having it delivered on my doorstep that a computer can’t replace.”
“Right,” Bree agrees. “My father felt the same way.”
A twinge of sadness hits her, but she keeps the slight smile on her face as the other woman speaks.
“I’m Dorothy, by the way,” she says as she extends the potted plant to Bree. “Please take this succulent as a thank you for the article.”
“Oh, you don’t have to do that—”
“All of us insist,” Dorothy says, holding out the pot. “Please. This means the world to us gals, really.”
Bree takes the plant and studies it. “It’s beautiful,” she breathes. Hues of lavender, lilac, and light pinks accentuate the delicate swirling leaves that form in an intricate, rose-like shape.
“They’re simple to take care of, too. So even if you don’t have a green thumb, it’ll survive almost anything,” Dorothy adds.
Bree has never been more envious of a plant in her life.
But she simply nods. “I adore it, really,” she says politely. “Thank you.”
The older woman nods, then gestures to Bree’s cream sweater. “I don’t know how you can wear long sleeves in this weather,” she says. “I would be melting.”
“I run cold,” Bree lies, plastering a thin smile on her face.
She’s always in sweaters, and anytime the weather is mildly warm, someone asks about her clothing.
Her fake answer is more appealing than the truth, and no one pushes her about it.
“Well, I have another question for you,” Dorothy says, a gleam in her eyes. “And it has nothing to do with the article, or your sweaters.”
Bree grows wary but doesn’t let it show on her face. “Sure. Ask away.”
“My son would love you. He would just love you, I’m sure of it. You don’t happen to be single, do you?”
“No, I’m not,” Bree says sweetly.
Another lie.
“Ah. You can’t fault a mother for trying,” Dorothy sighs. “You would like him, though. He’s one of the good ones.”
“I’m sure he is,” she agrees.
All the more reason why it’s a good thing she lied.
Dorothy agrees to be interviewed and doesn’t mention her son or Bree’s sleeves again.
At her laptop, Bree gets lost in the story and weaves a tale of friendship and comradery impressive enough for Carl to reply to her email with a fuck yeah, good shit.
It’s her boss’ way of telling her she did a good job, and Bree appreciates it.
She loves being a journalist. Telling other people’s stories brings her a sense of peace she hasn’t been able to find in anything else.
Getting lost in another person’s life, not her own, keeps her sane.
Which is why a certain headline can’t get out of her head. She’s kept the tab open on her phone for days, unable to stop herself from rereading the article.
Social Worker and Prisoner Missing After Inmate Escapes.
It’s been three weeks since an Alpha escaped a prison in the town of Green Woods, and the social worker Omega assigned to him is missing, as well.
Erik Hart is considered armed and dangerous, and Ellie Winters is believed to be his hostage.
She can’t explain it, but the story calls to her.
A manhunt is underway, and the last lead was in Mexico, with a supposed sighting of the two.
But the frustrating part is every article says almost the exact same thing.
The doctor that worked at the prison has declined to give a statement, and the residents claim to have seen nothing the day Erik Hart broke out.
One security guard died in the process.
That’s it.
There’s a story that’s yet to be uncovered, and to Bree, it feels as if the reporters aren’t even trying.
But who is she to judge?
Does she really think she could do a better job than the journalists that report for national news outlets?
Or is she just bored writing about flowers?
She’s about to close her laptop when an idea hits her.
It’s a shot in the dark, but if she doesn’t take it, she’ll regret it.
So, she finds the email belonging to Doctor Richard Porter and begins to type.
“What?” Carl looks up at her from his desk with his half-eaten sandwich in his hand. “You want to do what?”
“The doctor of the escaped prisoner in Green Woods? He agreed to do an interview.” Bree hands him her phone. “Look.”
Carl frowns as he reads the email. “How did you do this? Why did you do this?”
Bree bounces on the balls of her feet. “Because I wanted to know more about it. Don’t you think it’s interesting?”
Carl raises a grey eyebrow. “Of course I do. It’s fucking crazy. Some psycho Alpha escaped prison and dragged his social worker with him?” He takes a bite of his sandwich and places her phone on the desk. “But what are you going to do with the interview? Publish it here?”
Bree shrugs. “Why not? It’ll be an exclusive interview. He hasn’t spoken to anyone else.”
“Yeah, but you know Holden Times doesn’t do that. We only publish local stories.”
“It’s your paper, Carl. You could do what you wanted.”
“Yeah, I know, kiddo. Like I said, we only publish local stuff.”
Bree crosses her arms and raises an eyebrow. Her boss matches her stare.
“Don’t give me that look,” he warns. “It’s not going to get you what you want. You’re my best writer, and I’m sure this would make one hell of an interview. But it’s not for us.”
She huffs. “I really think—”
“Bree. No.”
The B eta man resumes eating his sandwich, pretending to ignore her stare.
She has a few ideas for their next articles, but the interview with Doctor Porter is at the forefront of her mind.
Maybe she’ll submit it somewhere else or post the article online independently.
Someone will care about it.
She snatches her phone off his desk and starts to head out the door, but Carl lets out an exasperated sigh. “After he emails you his interview answers, forward them to me.”
She frowns and turns toward him. “It’s not via email. It’s in person.”
Carl blinks. “What?”
She braces for the inevitable argument and shuffles on her feet. “He agreed to meet with me.”
“He’s coming to Holden?”
Bree remains silent and chews her lip.
Her boss groans and runs a hand through his thinning grey hair. “Please don’t tell me you’re going to Green Woods by yourself. Please.”
She shrugs. “It’s only a few hours away.”
“Isn’t that what the social worker did? She went to Green Woods alone?”
“Yeah, but I’m not working with a killer.” She gives him an incredulous look. “I’m going to be fine. The weather’s not bad, either. I reserved a cabin—”
“Of course you did—”
“—and the interview is Wednesday, so I have a couple days to get settled.”
“You’re going to spend half a day driving just to do an interview that we’re not even going to publish?” Carl frowns. “Are you that bored here?”
Bree picks at her nails. How does she explain to her boss that it’s not about being bored?
“No, I’m not. I just don’t want to miss this opportunity,” she mutters. “I have a gut feeling about this, Carl.”
Guilt clouds his dark brown eyes. “I know I don’t pay you enough,” he mumbles. “You know if I could, I would, right? But if you’re planning on going to another publication, I understand.”
“No, Carl—” Bree exhales slowly. “It’s not that. I just…I have to do this. I think there is more to this story than just a prisoner kidnapping a social worker. And I think that doctor may have some answers.”
Carl frowns.
“Even if we don’t publish it, I need to do this,” she continues softly. “This is a big deal. He hasn’t done any other interviews.”
He drums his fingers on the desk and stares at his laptop screen. “I suppose you’ll need a couple of days off.”
“That was the plan, yes. But I’ll be back in time for the grand opening of the dog grooming salon.”
He chuckles. “I guess our town is kind of boring, huh?”
She gives him a small smile. “It has character.”
“Uh-huh. Well, I still don’t like that you’re going alone. You should take someone with you.”
She sighs. “You know I’m going to be fine. I can handle myself.”
But Carl gives her a pitying look. “Don’t make me say it, Bree. You know what I mean.”
She swallows. “Then don’t say it,” she murmurs.
Without thinking, she reaches to touch the mating gland at the junction of her neck and shoulder.
It’s not that she’s in danger by going to Green Woods by herself. It’s just not ideal.
But she’s made it twenty-six years so far as an Omega without a mate, and another week won’t kill her.
Carl isn’t impressed as he looks up at her from his desk. “Wasn’t that social worker alone, too?” he asks gently.
Bree shrugs, as if she doesn’t already know the answer. Ellie Winters was an unmated Omega that visited Green Woods by herself and never returned.
But Bree won’t be alone with any prisoners.
The prison isn’t even in operation anymore—the doctor assigned to Erik Hart’s case has returned to his private practice, and the remaining occupants of the prison have been transferred.
Bree isn’t Ellie.
She just wants to interview Doctor Porter, then come back in time for the opening of Furry Paws Salon.
Carl looks at her as she stands awkwardly in his doorway. She wants to go back to her office, but she’s been with him long enough to recognize when he wants to say something that has the potential to be awkward.
He clears his throat. “Look, kiddo. I know I’m not your father…”
Her chest constricts and ice shoots through her veins.
“But hell, I’m old enough to be,” he chuckles awkwardly. “Just be careful, okay? And check in with me. And if something goes wrong, call me. I’ll drive up there to get you in a heartbeat.”
She chews her lip and shifts uncomfortably.
“Thank you,” she says. “I’ll text you the minute I get there.”
Her boss nods, seemingly satisfied. “Damn right you will.”
Bree knows better than to argue with him, despite how ridiculous his request may be.
He doesn’t need to worry about her. No one does.
It’s not like anything will happen while she’s there.
CHAPTER 2
BREE
Carol Hanson’s home is gorgeous.
Bree supposes at one time it could have been called hers as well, but it never exactly felt like a home, just a fancy house purchased with a generous life insurance policy.
The stone walkway leads up to white double doors bordered by cream French windows. Potted bright flowers line either side of Bree, with bumblebees swirling around the petals cheerfully. There are no clouds in the sky today, so the sunset makes the red brick colonial house a photographer’s dream.
Despite how impressive the residence is, there’s nothing but dread in her chest as she rings the doorbell.
She waits one minute. Then two.
But Carol is almost always home, and unless she’s decided to spend an extra evening with her book club, she’s simply taking her time answering the door.
Bree doesn’t want to be here. She’s twenty-six years old and doesn’t need to tell her mother where she’ll be for the next week.
But she supposes a good daughter would.
The door finally swings open, and Bree is greeted by a striking woman with high cheekbones and dyed blonde hair. Even as a child, Bree was struck by her mother’s beauty, hoping to one day look like her. Despite the obvious hair color difference, she inherited her mother’s grey eyes, upturned nose, and full lips.
Carol’s smile is wide, but it doesn’t quite reach her eyes. “Hi, honey,” she says, and before Bree can protest, she’s pulling her into a hug. Bree immediately recognizes her mother’s perfume, sharp red roses and a strong powdery note.
It was her father’s favorite, and her mother has never stopped wearing it.
With one last awkward squeeze, Carol steps aside as Bree walks through the doorway of her childhood home.
Not much has changed since she moved out six years ago. The armoire still stands to the left, full of glass and crystal knick-knacks that Carol has collected throughout the years, while the staircase is to the right of her, large and sprawling up to the second floor.
She’s sure if she checked the kitchen the bowl of plastic fruit would still be in the middle of the white marble island, and the countertops and double sink would be polished. She’s sure the wine fridge is still full of fancy bottles, and the pantry is stocked to the brim with perfectly organized snacks.
“That’s a cute sweater,” her mother remarks, reaching out to touch the fabric of the sleeve. “Is it new?”
“Mmhmm.” She doesn’t want to talk about sweaters with her mother. She doesn’t really want to talk about anything. The only reason for her being here is to let Carol know she’ll be out of town for a week.
“You know, you should start wearing some cute sundresses. I was shopping the other day and almost bought you one. It’s light blue—you would like it.”
“I thought you said I should always wear sweaters.”
Carol blinks.
Bree doesn’t mean to snap. It’s a kind gesture from her mother after hearing so many years of “you should cover those up, we have guests coming over.”
“I never said that,” Carol says, defensive. “Not always.”
Bree blows out a breath she didn’t know she was holding. “Okay, well, maybe I’ll look into it. Sundresses are cute,” she adds awkwardly.
