All Chapters of The Alpha’s Forbidden Coyote Mate: Chapter 1 - Chapter 10

“This is not Australia.”“You're a genius, Maryelle—too clever for the world,” my mother deadpans.“Mom, what the heck! You said we were going on a summer vacation. You were taking me to Australia and Rome. Again, I have to point out that this place looks like neither.” I hadn’t been suspicious when our plane landed in Atlanta's Hartsfield-Jackson International Airport. But I grew wary when we exited the plane, and my mother walked me to the car rental kiosk instead of the next gate for our supposed connecting flight. It turns out the trips to Australia and Rome were nonexistent. No wonder the ticketing agent had looked at me crazy when I asked her if there were any dos and don'ts I should follow in the land of down under. It also explains the dirty look she gave me as she pulled on her skirt to cover more of her knees.We pull into the driveway of an old home. Really, calling it old is a compliment. The house is three trash bags away from being a dump. The building has a broken door,

In the club, the music pounds against the speakers like an angry woodpecker trying to demolish a tree. Al yells her order over the noise, and the bartender hands her two shots in return. She shoves one in my direction, and before I can decline, a guy jumps in front of me and shoves the glass filled with dark-gray liquid away. “She's not allowed to drink that,” he says to the bartender, who nods and reaches for the glass. I grab it before he does and turn to stare at the boy with the audacity to tell me what I can and cannot drink. I immediately recognize him. It’s the same guy Gaston fought earlier. Holy mother of all that is hot! The boy—excuse me, man—in front of me looks even more gorgeous than he did earlier. Under the flickering lights, his face is chiseled to perfection, with a square jaw, high cheekbones, magnetic sapphire-blue eyes, and a set of full yet firm lips pressed into a tight line. I avoid staring at the muscular torso hiding behind the gray shirt and dark jeans he's

I come out of the bathroom, thankful Martha left my clothing from yesterday both steamed and smelling like fabric softener. The woman should be nominated for sainthood. I'd call the Vatican myself if I had their number. I'm positive I barfed on myself last night, but confirming it will cause me to die from embarrassment, so I won't. I step back into the room, and their bickering stops as their eyes land on me. Gaston has a smirk on his face, and Phantom looks peeved. “Tell this idiot you're not leaving with him. He seems to think you are.” Phantom glares at Gaston.“Well, that's because I am leaving with him.” “Like hell you are! I forbid it!”I give him the death glare, and it gives me a headache. Damned Edge potion! “I'm sorry. I think you have me mistaken for one of your subjects. So in case you haven't figured it out by now, I don't take orders from anyone.” Phantom huffs. “Um... Maryelle…” Gaston says, obviously still enjoying Phantom's irritation. “You are his subject, and he

A few hours later, Al walks through the door carrying a paper bag in one hand and a bottle of orange cream soda in the other. “It's a poor excuse of an apology, but I suck at apologies.” She hands me both the bag and the soda. She looks down at her feet, shame coloring her face. The delicious smell of burgers and fries makes my stomach growl. I didn't trust my stomach to handle breakfast, so I skipped it when Martha offered earlier. It is now three in the afternoon, and I'm beyond starving. “I'm a rotten person,” Al says with a lowered head. “No, but you're a horrible wing-woman.” I hurry, removing the burger from its foil, practically moaning at the first bite. The mixture of pickles, cheese, and ketchup perfectly bring out the flavor of the juicy patty inside the warm, toasted bun. Another gluttonous growl slips past my lips as I stuff my mouth with crispy fries dipped in ketchup.“Does this mean I’ve been forgiven?” She looks at me with practiced sad-puppy eyes I know she's unleas

Phantom lifts his glass, the slice of lemon catching the glow as he sips. Condensation slides down the crystal, a bead tracing the curve before dropping onto the linen. His eyes stay locked on mine—unwavering, consuming—as if the rest of the restaurant has dissolved into shadow. “Kelsa hates me,” I whisper, the words bitter, heavy. His mouth curves, slow, deliberate, savoring the denial before speaking it aloud. “Why would you say that? She was upset because you were late. What you did on that field today—Maryelle, it impressed her. It impressed me.” His voice is velvet, threaded with certainty, coiling around me like smoke. The knife flashes as he carves into his chicken. Steam curls upward, fragrant with rosemary and garlic. He blows softly across the morsel, then raises it to my lips. My brows knit, confusion flickering. His gaze deepens—amused, daring. “Are you really going to leave me hanging? It’s only chicken, princess.” I surrender. Eyes closed, mouth opening. The m