The Dirty Blood Mate Of The Lycan Alpha

Lyra

I sat on the ground of the rusting cell, my own wrists bruised from years of chains and torture.

My body was weak, but my spirit still clung to the fragile hope of survival.

The room smelled of iron and damp stone, the scent of old blood lingering in the air. For six long years, this had been my prison—my world.

Captured by my father's enemies and the ruthless hybrid-killer agency, I had become nothing more than a vessel, my blood taken to fuel their twisted experiments.

Tomorrow, on my eighteenth birthday, I was to die.

I leaned my head against the bars, my gray eyes staring blankly at the flickering light bulb above.

The memory of my mother's death still haunts me like a ghost, replaying in my mind over and over, as if it had only happened yesterday.

I was twelve—a child with no way to defend myself or my mother. I hid behind the crumbling wall of our burning home, my small hands pressed tightly over my mouth to muffle my sobs.

The scent of death filled the air—it was metallic and thick, filled with smoke and ash.

"Run, Lyra!" My Mother screamed, her voice was raw and filled with desperation.

But I couldn't run. My legs were glued to the floor, frozen in fear.

My mother—my protector—even in her fragile state, tried to defend me.

What could a human do against monsters?

A dry laugh escaped my lips at the thought of those dreadful memories.

She fought with everything she had, a whirlwind of power and fury, but she was outnumbered.

I saw the blade pierce her chest, saw the life leave her eyes as they turned white. She collapsed to the cold ground, laying in a pool of her own blood.

A scream had ripped from my throat. Before I could think—before I could run—they took me.

They threw me into this horrible cell, calling me "dirty blood," a disgrace, a creature born from the forbidden bond between a shifter and a human.

The cold needle, the dizziness, the feeling of emptiness.,my blood used to enhance their own strength, treating me like nothing more than a tool.

I was still surprised I had survived this long.

And now, the countdown to my execution has reached its final day.

I exhaled shakily, my fingers tightening around the bars.

Was this really how it would end?

Pain twisted in my chest as I thought of him.

My father.

The man whose name I had forced myself to forget, whose existence I had buried beneath years of agony and solitude.

If he hadn't abandoned me and my mother, she would still be alive.

If he had cared, if he had loved us, he would have come for me. He would have burned this place to the ground.

All those empty promises—every day, I stood by the door, waiting for him to visit me. But he never did.

Instead, he made excuses, and my mother tried to defend him, trying to protect me from the truth.

But I knew.

I had seen pictures of him and his family. He never missed an event with them, but with me, there were only excuses.

I was mocked at school, laughed at for not having a father.

If he had ever cared, he would have looked for me.

Instead, I had spent six years in this cell—a living experiment.

My blood drained to fuel the very monsters that hunted my kind.

"You were never meant to survive."

The words of my captors echoed in my mind, a cruel reminder of my reality.

They spoke of my father often—not with respect or fear, but with disdain.

A coward. A traitor.

The man who had broken the sacred laws of our kind by sleeping with a human mate.

The man who had fathered a hybrid abomination.

I had hated them for their words.

But I had hated him more—for proving them right.

My fingers curled around the rusting bars, my nails biting into the metal.

I wanted to scream. I wanted to curse his name.

Where had he been when I begged for help? When my mother died protecting his mistake?

Where had he been when I spent endless nights in agony, my blood drained, my body bruised and broken?

If he had loved me at all—if he had ever seen me as his daughter—I wouldn't have been alone.

I remember every time Gunnar came to my cell at night to torture me. After trying to reach out to my father and realizing it was pointless, he had nothing left to hold over me—because the man I called father didn't care.

The final straw was when I laughed in his face for even trying. That night, he beat me so badly that he left scars all over my body.

Sometimes, I stare out the tiny window, watching the moon, and wonder if things would have been different if I were like my father—a wolf, not human. Maybe then, I wouldn't be so weak.

But fantasies like that never come true. I let out a bitter laugh at the thought.

And that's when I felt it. A shift and a presence.

It was faint at first, a whisper at the edge of my consciousness, like a ripple in still water.

My heart pounded.

I wasn't alone.

A voice echoed through my mind, warm and familiar, yet distant.

"Lyra …"

I gasped, my body going rigid.

The voice wrapped around me like a forgotten melody, sending shivers down my spine.

"My name is Amira, and I am your wolf."

Her name left my lips in a breathless whisper, and for the first time in years, something other than despair flared within me.

"He's not the only one to blame …"

My jaw clenched.

No. I refused to listen to that voice—that quiet plea for a reason. I needed to hold on to this anger. It was all I had left.

Because if I let it go—if I let doubt creep in—I would have to face the truth I had buried beneath my hatred.

That maybe, just maybe… I wasn't as forgotten as I had believed.

"My wolf is awake," I whispered, my voice barely audible.