The Alpha’s Forbidden Mate

Ryder Blackthorne was going to win the championship this season or die trying, and the second option had never scared him.

He stood at the edge of the pit lane, arms folded, watching the Blackthorne Racing team prep his car for the morning trial run. The Lunar Racing League's new season kicked off in four days. Four days to bury every other Alpha on the circuit. Four days to remind the supernatural world who the Blackthornes were.

His phone buzzed.

He ignored it.

It buzzed again.

Noah Rivers appeared at his shoulder, dangling the phone in front of his face. "You're going to want to see this one."

"I told you to handle media requests."

"This isn't a media request." Noah's voice had that careful quality it only got when something was about to go sideways. "League Comms just sent the updated press roster. They assigned a new journalist to cover us this season. Full access. Paddock clearance. Personal interviews."

Ryder finally took the phone.

He read the name once.

Then he read it again.

Evelyn Hart. Daughter of Victor Hart. Senior correspondent, Lunar Press Network.

The phone cracked down the middle. Ryder had not realized he was squeezing it until the screen went dark.

Noah stepped back half a pace. "So that's a no on the welcome party."

Ryder said nothing. The name was a lit match thrown into the part of him he had spent eight years trying to bury. Victor Hart. The journalist who had published a fabricated exposé on his father, Damon Blackthorne, calling him a corrupt Alpha who laundered pack funds and bribed league officials. Every word had been a lie. But the supernatural public had not cared about the truth. By the time his father's lawyers had gathered proof that the story was built on planted evidence, the damage was done. The pack had fractured. Sponsors had pulled out. And Damon Blackthorne, a man who had never lost a single race in his entire career, had died of a heart attack six months later, alone in a hospital room while the wolves who had once sworn loyalty to him stayed away to protect their own reputations.

Ryder had been eighteen years old.

He had stood at his father's grave and made a promise.

Now Victor Hart's daughter wanted paddock clearance.

"Tell League Comms she's not welcome on our side of the circuit," Ryder said.

Noah pulled a face. "Ryder. She has league-sanctioned credentials. We can't legally bar her from coverage access."

"Then tell her she will not get a single word out of me or anyone on my team."

"Already thought about that. Problem is the league's media partnership contract requires cooperative access from all racing teams. If we block her they can dock us championship points before the season even starts." Noah paused. "I know. I hate it too."

Ryder turned back to his car. The engineers were calibrating the fuel injectors. Everything precise. Everything controlled. The track was the only place in his life where the rules were simple. You drove faster than everyone else or you lost. There was no grey area on the circuit.

Off the circuit, apparently, Victor Hart's daughter got to walk into his space and breathe his air.

Not if he could help it.

He had just pulled on his driving gloves when the commotion started near the paddock entrance. A ripple of attention moved through the crew. Ryder did not turn around. He had learned long ago that turning toward commotion was how you gave it power.

Then he heard her voice.

"Excuse me. I'm looking for the Blackthorne Racing paddock. I was told it was past the fuel station."

Clear. Confident. Completely unaware of what she was walking into.

Ryder turned.

She was standing at the paddock gate, media badge clipped to a navy jacket, a camera bag over one shoulder and a recorder in her hand. Dark hair pulled back. Eyes scanning the space with the focused calm of someone who did this for a living.

She had her father's jaw. The same sharp intelligence in her eyes.

It made Ryder's chest go cold.

She spotted him. He watched the moment she recognized who he was. Her chin came up. She did not flinch.

That surprised him.

Most people flinched.

She crossed the paddock toward him with measured steps, hand extended. "Mr. Blackthorne. I'm Evelyn Hart from Lunar Press Network. I've been assigned to cover your team this season. I wanted to introduce myself in person before the season opener."

He looked at her hand. Did not take it.

"I know who you are," he said.

The temperature in his voice was enough to make three of his engineers find something urgent to look at on the other side of the garage. Noah went very still.

Evelyn Hart lowered her hand. She did not look away. "Then you know I'm here on a professional assignment."

"I know whose daughter you are."

Something moved through her eyes. Not fear. Something harder than that. "My father and I are not the same person."

"Your last name is Hart." He took one step toward her. "That name ended my family. So here is what happens now. You do your job from a distance. You use the press pool like every other journalist. You do not approach me, my car, my team, or anyone in my pack for personal comment. If the league forces an interview, you go through my media director." He held her gaze. "And you stay out of my way."

For three full seconds, Evelyn Hart said nothing.

Then, quietly and without any tremor in her voice, she said, "Understood. But for the record, Mr. Blackthorne, I'm not afraid of you."

She turned and walked back toward the paddock exit.

Ryder watched her go.

His wolf, the part of him that had been silent and cold for eight years, stirred for the first time since his father's funeral.

And said one word.

Mine.