Luna de Verano Book 1: The Alpha’s Mate
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VitaMia
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Sun. Sea. Peace. That was the plan. Instead, after an accident, I save a stranger’s life and discover that werewolves actually exist. Before I can even begin to process that information properly, a ridiculously attractive Alpha informs me that I’m his fated mate. Honestly, to this day I’m still not sure what was worse: the existence of werewolves or Amaro’s personality. And if he thinks I’m going to let him boss me around just because fate supposedly decided we belong together, he’s about to get a very unpleasant surprise.
The Wreck by the Roadside
ELEONORA
“Eleonora, are you sure you want to go to Salou?” My mother’s voice crackled through the car phone. She sounded worried and slightly dramatic, as she so often did.
“Of course I’m sure, Mom. I’ve already been driving for four hours,” I replied calmly, adjusting my sunglasses.
The sun blazed through the windshield. The road ahead of me was almost empty. Only a few cars passed me now and then, and every so often a motorcycle hummed through the golden light.
The highway stretched long and winding through the Spanish countryside, a silver-gray ribbon between green hills and dried-out fields. The sky was cloudless, vast, deep blue.
My mother sighed. “You didn’t even say goodbye properly. You just packed your things and left, Eleonora.”
“Mom, I just needed a break,” I said. “After all those years at the clinic, the night shifts, the emergencies. I need time off. I want the sea. Alone.”
“Alone,” she repeated, almost reproachfully.
I steered into a long curve. Ahead of me lay an old rest stop with a dented trash can and a single dried-up tree. The water bottle on the passenger seat rolled slightly to the side as I tapped the brakes.
“I’m not leaving forever,” I said. “Just two months. No alarms, no clinic. Just me. Maybe a book. Maybe boredom. I think I’ve forgotten what that feels like.”
Silence on the other end of the line. Just a faint background noise, maybe the television.
“All right then,” she muttered. “But call me when you arrive.”
“I promise.”
I ended the call, set the phone back into its holder, and took a deep breath. About two more hours and I’d reach Salou. Coastline, sun, salty air. The sea still wasn’t visible, but I could already feel it in the way the landscape was changing, the hills flattening, the horizon widening.
Farther ahead, the road shimmered in the light. Time stretched out. And I just kept driving. Southbound. Toward summer. Toward freedom.
The drive dragged on, but I didn’t mind at all. It was the first time in months that I wasn’t being pushed forward by beeping, ringing, or frantic voices.
To my left, the landscape rolled by in waves. The fields grew drier, the rich green of the trees slowly giving way to the dusty gold of the southern provinces. In the distance, hills shimmered in an unreal haze.
Even with the air conditioning, it was hot. Summer wasn’t doing anything halfway.
I turned the radio down. A Spanish pop song, something cheerful about love or sunshine. I wasn’t really listening. Instead, my eyes drifted over the signs by the roadside. Tarragona: 110 kilometers. Salou wasn’t far anymore.
My fuel light blinked on. Yellow. I frowned and sighed. Typical. When I’d left Madrid, I’d thought of everything except getting gas.
A few minutes later, a service station came into view. Not very large, but with a gas station, a café, and two dusty palm trees barely moving in the hot breeze. I exited the highway, rolled onto the lot, and stopped at the last free pump. By now the sun hung low, glaring at me through the mirror.
I got out, and the hot metal of the door burned briefly against my palm. A sweet smell of warm gasoline and asphalt hung in the air. Behind me, a wasp buzzed around the trash bins someone had half-heartedly placed beside the pump.
I slid the nozzle into the tank and leaned briefly against the car. My T-shirt clung lightly to my back. No idea whether it was the sun or the exhaustion. Probably both. The tank filled slowly, the counting display the only sound in the stillness.
When it clicked, I pulled the nozzle out, screwed the cap back on, and went inside to pay. The little cashier booth was air-conditioned, but still smelled of cheap coffee and tire pressure gauges. A young woman with dark hair stood behind the counter, chewing gum and giving me a brief, tired smile.
“Número cuatro,” I said.
I paid cash, nodded shortly, and stepped back out into the heat. Back in the car, I closed my eyes for a moment before starting the engine again. The air conditioning slowly began blowing cooler air into the interior.
I took a sip of water, turned off the radio, and drove back onto the highway. Two more hours. Then the sea. Then nothing.
The road ahead lay quiet again. I was back on the highway, the steady hum of the engine becoming familiar background noise. The fields to the left and right slowly began to darken. The sun sank lower, painting the horizon in warm shades of orange and rose that gradually faded into violet.
I kept driving, my gaze calm and fixed ahead. My thoughts drifted, suspended somewhere between Madrid and the sea. The first lights came on. In the distance, a small town glittered atop a hill.
I watched the movement of shadows growing longer, stretching, blending together. Dusk arrived quietly, but unmistakably. The day was almost over. Then I noticed it.
A little off the road, just beyond a long curve, a car stood in the shadow of the embankment. It looked out of place, almost abandoned. But the closer I got, the clearer it became that this was no normally parked vehicle. It had spun off the road.
The front end was badly damaged. The car stood crooked on the slope, slightly twisted. The hood was crushed, one side pressed against a tree, bark splintered.
Part of the bumper lay on the ground, bent and crooked. The right headlight flickered weakly. The hazard lights were still blinking at irregular intervals.
I slowed down, finally pulled over, and carefully steered onto the shoulder. When I switched off the engine, everything went silent. No honking, no movement. Only the last rays of dusk stretching across the fields.
I stayed seated in the car for a moment, staring at the wreck by the roadside. My heart beat faster, but I forced myself to stay calm. Then I reached for the door handle and got out.
The air was warm and heavy. A faint wind moved through, carrying the smell of dry grass and dust. My footsteps were quiet, almost automatic, as I approached the wrecked car. The driver’s door stood open. I stepped closer. Then my breath caught.
A man sat in the driver’s seat, his upper body slumped sideways. The seatbelt still held him upright, but his head hung low, chin nearly against his chest. Blood clung to his forehead, his temple, dark stains spreading across his shirt. His hair was matted, his skin far too pale.
I carefully leaned closer. The interior smelled of metal, heat, and something I couldn’t identify. My gaze moved quickly over possible injuries before I reached out with trembling fingers and gently searched for a pulse at his neck. A moment of silence. Then I felt it. Slow. Weak. But there. He was alive.
I inhaled shallowly, pulled my hand back, and instinctively looked around. No other cars. No one anywhere. Just me. And this man.
For a few seconds I stood frozen, trying to gather my thoughts. Then I stepped closer to the car again and carefully leaned inside. My eyes moved over his body.
Initial assessment: Unconscious. Breathing present. Pulse weak but palpable. Noticeable blood loss. Laceration on the forehead, bruising on shoulder and chest. No visible fracture. No obvious spinal injury.
I checked his neck again, felt for the pulse once more, this time consciously paying attention to breathing rate and rhythm. Irregular, but not dangerously shallow. His chest rose at sluggish intervals.
“Hey,” I said, without knowing whether he could hear me.
No response.
The steering wheel pressed against his torso, and from the driver’s side I could barely reach him. So I walked around the car and carefully pulled open the passenger door. It stuck slightly before finally giving way.
The interior was crumpled, the front destroyed. But the man was still buckled in, and that had probably saved his life.
I knelt beside him, took his arm, and with practiced movements searched for his radial artery. Pulse again. Steady, but slow. My gaze checked his pupils as best I could in the weak light. No visible signs of traumatic brain injury, but I couldn’t rule anything out.
I needed to get help. Damn it.
I grabbed my phone and looked at the screen. Two bars. Barely any signal. The emergency call dialed briefly, then dropped immediately.
I clenched my teeth. I couldn’t just leave him here. And at the same time, I knew that without equipment, without a team, without an emergency physician, there was little I could do. But if I moved him without knowing whether he had internal injuries, I risked making things worse.
I looked down at him again. Tall. At least six foot three. Black hair, soaked with sweat, but thick. His eyelashes rested like shadows against his cheeks, his beard a few days old, even, almost perfect. Despite the blood, the injuries, the seriousness of the situation. He was beautiful. Unfairly beautiful.
His arms, where the shirt was torn, showed defined muscle. Not bodybuilder muscle, but trained.
What the hell, Eleonora. I swallowed and shook my head inwardly. He was unconscious. Injured. Covered in blood. And I had just been thinking about how attractive he was. I felt heat rise into my neck. Not because of the sun.
I forced myself to look away from his face and focus again. His breathing was growing shallower. His head kept sagging farther forward, chin almost pressed to his chest. His airway wouldn’t stay clear like that.
I tried stabilizing him a little in the seat, but the seatbelt held him in a position that only made everything worse. I exhaled.
“Okay,” I murmured. “Then it’s me.” I pushed the passenger door wider open and carefully leaned inside. His legs were bent in the footwell, but not visibly trapped. No glass. No debris in his lap. I supported him with one hand against his chest and slowly released the seatbelt with the other.
His body fell heavily forward, but I caught him as best I could. He was heavy. Damn heavy. As strong as he looked, I could feel every single pound now. I slid my arm beneath his shoulder, trying to keep his head as still as possible, and gently pressed him back a little.
“You need to help me out here, big guy,” I muttered. “I can’t carry you alone.”
No response. No movement. Only his weak, sluggish breathing.
I slowly pulled him partway out of the seat, just far enough so his upper body no longer collapsed forward. His breathing sounded rough, but freer than before.
Only then did I go back to my car, grab my water bottle, and rip open my backpack in a rush. Tissues. Anything useful. Then I found an old dish towel I must have carelessly packed at some point.
I dampened it with water, leaned over him again, and carefully wiped the blood from his forehead. The wound was deep, but not gaping. It had stopped bleeding. He looked peaceful. Far too peaceful for someone who looked as though he had just wrestled with death.
I looked at him a moment too long. Then I cleared my throat softly, almost guiltily.
“You’re way too good-looking for this kind of mess.”
He didn’t move. But my heart still beat faster.
I had no other choice. I supported him again, pulled the belt fully away, and slid both arms beneath his shoulders. Step by step, inch by inch, I pulled him farther out of the car. His weight pressed down on my shoulders, my back tightened, but I didn’t let go.
His upper body sagged heavily against me as I dragged him backward out of the vehicle and slowly lowered him onto the warm asphalt. His legs slid from the footwell, his head falling sideways against my chest.
“Almost there,” I murmured. “Just get out of here.” I laid him on the ground, positioned him as straight as possible, and checked his posture again. His chest. Wasn’t moving anymore.
I stared at his ribcage. No rise. No fall.
“No, no, no.”
I immediately knelt beside him, leaned forward, and checked his pulse again. Nothing.
“Damn it!” I placed two fingers beneath his chin, tilted his head slightly back, opened his mouth, and checked for breath sounds. Nothing. No movement, no sound, no air.
My heart was racing, but my hands weren’t shaking. Not yet.
“Okay. Focus.” I quickly checked his mouth again. No visible obstruction. Then I started chest compressions. Thirty fast, forceful compressions, right in the center of his chest, just enough pressure to pump blood to the brain.
“One, two, three…” I counted in my head, refusing to lose focus. Then I tilted his head back, pinched his nose shut with two fingers, and breathed twice into his mouth. Checked again. Still no reaction.
Back to chest compressions.
“Come on. You are not dying on me, you hear me?” I didn’t know who he was. Only that I had to save him. At any cost.
