The Alpha’s Secret Obsession Now novel Chapter 36

The woman behind the wheel of this sedan is not the Ricky I know.

I watch her from the passenger seat as suburban streets blur past my window, cataloguing the differences that have emerged since we left her apartment.

The Ricky who makes coffee and worries about my eating habits drives with casual distraction, one hand on the wheel, humming along to whatever plays on the radio.

This Ricky grips the steering wheel with both hands at precise angles, her eyes scanning mirrors in a pattern too regular to be unconscious.

Her posture holds a coiled alertness that transforms her entire silhouette into someone I’ve never met.

‘Interesting,’ my wolf observes, and I feel her attention sharpen alongside mine. ‘She checks her mirrors every eight seconds. That’s trained behavior.’

The morning light catches the angles of Ricky’s face as she navigates a turn, and I notice the set of her jaw—harder than the soft warmth I’m used to.

“You’re staring,” Ricky says without taking her eyes off the road. “I can feel it boring into the side of my head.”

“I’m trying to figure out which version of you is real.” The words come out before I can soften them.

“The café owner who fusses over my breakfast choices, or the woman who apparently keeps safe houses like other people keep spare keys.”

Ricky’s mouth curves, but the expression doesn’t reach her eyes. “Maybe both. Maybe neither. People are complicated that way.”

‘This seems like an excellent moment to ask about that mysterious past she mentioned,’ my wolf suggests with pointed sarcasm.

‘Since we’re literally fleeing for our lives with a woman we apparently know nothing about.’

She has a point, even if her delivery leaves room for improvement.

“You said you had a past,” I say carefully. “You said I never asked about it.”

“I did say that.”

“I’m asking now.”

Ricky is quiet for a long moment, her attention fixed on the road ahead as we merge onto a wider highway.

The silence stretches until I begin to wonder if she’s going to answer at all.

“My parents were mafia,” she says finally, and the words land in the car like stones dropped into still water.

“Not the glamorous movie kind—the real kind, with blood debts and territory wars and funerals every other month. They died when I was nineteen, caught in the crossfire of a dispute that had nothing to do with them personally and everything to do with the family name they carried.”

My breath catches, but I force myself to stay silent, to let her continue.

“After that, I had to disappear. The people who killed my parents would have come for me next.”

Ricky’s hands tighten briefly on the wheel before relaxing again. “So Aya Castro stopped existing.”

“Aya Castro,” I repeat slowly, testing the unfamiliar syllables. “That’s your real name.”

“It was. I haven’t used it in years.” She glances at me for the first time since we started driving, her dark eyes holding something that looks like relief.

“Ricky Martinez is who I’ve been for six years now. She feels more real to me than the girl I used to be.”

‘She understands reinvention,’ my wolf murmurs thoughtfully. ‘Good for her.’

The revelation settles into my understanding of her, reshaping everything I thought I knew.

The question hangs between us like an invitation.

I think about werewolves and pack bonds and the child growing inside me that might belong to one of two brothers who both happen to be able to shift into wolves.

I think about Sarah’s cruelty and Paul’s consuming intensity and Zane’s gentle hands.

I think about the world I’ve been living in for months, the one that exists parallel to everything Ricky understands about reality.

‘Don’t,’ my wolf says firmly, and the command carries genuine warning. ‘Her truth and our truth are not proportionate. It would break something in her understanding of the world that she doesn’t deserve to have broken.’

I hesitate, my mouth half-open with words I know I cannot say.

“There’s more,” I admit finally. “But I’m not sure how to explain it yet. Can you give me time to figure out the right words?”

Ricky studies me for a long moment before nodding slowly. “Fair enough.”

The car slows as we round a final curve, and the forest opens into a small clearing dominated by a single structure.

The house sits in the center like it grew from the ground itself—weathered wood siding that blends with the surrounding bark, a roof thick with pine needles, windows reflecting nothing but trees and sky.

Ricky pulls to a stop, and the engine dies with a soft click that leaves only birdsong and the whisper of wind through branches.

I stare at the house through the windshield, surrounded on all sides by forest so dense that civilization feels like a distant memory.

“Welcome to nowhere,” Ricky says quietly.

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