After My Alpha Chose Power Over His Mate

The darkness of the Alpha’s bedroom was a different kind of exile.

I lay on the plush rug in the far corner, pulling my thin, scratchy blanket tighter around my shoulders. The room was freezing, kept at a temperature that suited Lucian’s overheated blood, but I couldn't ask for warmth. I couldn't ask for anything. across the expanse of polished floorboards, the steady rhythm of his breathing filled the silence.

Alpha Lucian Crawford, the man who had once held me as if I were the most precious thing in the world, was finally sleeping. For weeks, the pack rumors said he paced until dawn, his aura erratic and dangerous. But now, with me curled up like a loyal dog on his floor, his wolf was pacified. My scent—wildflowers and rain—was his sedative.

I stared at his silhouette in the moonlight. He looked peaceful, the harsh lines of his face softened by sleep. A traitorous part of me wanted to crawl into the bed beside him, to soothe the furrow between his brows with my thumb like I used to in the cabin. But I stayed put. I was no longer his savior; I was his dirty little secret, a biological necessity he despised in the daylight. Tears leaked from the corners of my eyes, sliding silently into my hair. I was close enough to hear his heart beat, yet we were worlds apart.

***

The sun had barely crested the horizon when I slipped out, returning to the scullery before the house awoke. My nights were spent as a ghost in the Alpha’s bedroom; my days were spent as a slave in his kitchens.

My hands, once steady enough to stitch wounds, were now red and raw from scrubbing grease-stained cauldrons. The other Omegas avoided me, sensing the Alpha’s disdain, but I kept my head down, focusing on the rhythm of the work. Scrape, rinse, dry. It was safer than thinking.

"Child," a soft voice broke through the clatter of pans.

I looked up to see Elder Martha, the head of the laundry, standing by the service entrance. She was a fixture of the pack, an Omega who had outlived three Alphas. She beckoned me over, her brow furrowed.

I wiped my hands on my apron and approached cautiously. Martha leaned in, sniffing the air around me. Her eyes widened, and she gripped my arm with surprising strength.

"You smell of him," she whispered, her voice trembling. "Not just a faint trace. You are drenched in the Alpha's scent."

Panic flared in my chest. I shook my head frantically, pleading with my eyes for her to stay quiet.

"Hush," she soothed, her expression softening into pity. "I’m old, Hailey, not blind. I know a mate bond when I smell one, even if that fool boy is too blinded by ambition to see it." She squeezed my hand, pressing a warm, freshly baked roll into my palm. "Be careful. The walls have ears, and the future Luna has claws. If she smells this on you..."

She didn't finish the sentence, but the fear in her eyes was warning enough.

***

Later that afternoon, I was sent to clean the Alpha’s private study while he was out on patrol. It was a room forbidden to most, heavy with the scent of old paper, leather, and his power. My heart hammered against my ribs as I dusted the mahogany shelves, every object a reminder of the life he lived without me.

My rag snagged on a stack of leather-bound ledgers on his desk, knocking over a small, velvet-lined box. It hit the floor with a dull thud, the lid popping open.

I dropped to my knees to retrieve it, but my breath hitched in my throat.

Inside lay the wooden wolf carving.

The one I had made for him by the firelight of our cabin. The one he swore he’d never take off. It had been smashed—shattered into three distinct pieces, likely thrown against a wall in a fit of rage. But what made my hands tremble wasn't the destruction; it was the repair.

Jagged, clumsy lines of glue held the pieces together. It was a messy job, done by large, impatient hands that weren't used to delicate work.

I traced the cracks with a shaking finger. confusion swirled in my gut, a nauseating mix of hope and pain. If I was just a "mute stalker," a meaningless rogue he wanted to forget, why did he keep this? Why did he try to fix it?

"Snooping?"

The voice was like shattered glass. I gasped, spinning around, the box slipping from my fingers.

Giselle stood in the doorway. She was impeccable in a silk dress that cost more than my life, her blonde hair styled in perfect waves. In her hand, she held a portable curling iron, the cord dangling like a whip. She must have been using the adjoining bathroom.

She didn't look at the box. Her eyes were fixed on me, cold and calculating. She didn't know I was his mate—Lucian’s rejection of my bond had masked it from her—but she knew I was a threat. She knew I was the reason he slept.

"I know you stay in his room," she hissed, stepping into the study and kicking the door shut behind her. "I don't know what kind of whore magic you're using to soothe him, but it ends now."

I backed away until my hips hit the desk. I couldn't speak to defend myself. I couldn't tell her I didn't want him, that I just wanted to go home.

"Leave tonight," she commanded, cornering me. "Go back to the rogue lands. If you're still here by the full moon..."

She lunged.

I tried to flinch away, but she was faster. The hot ceramic barrel of the curling iron slammed into my forearm.

Agony seared through my nerves, white-hot and blinding. I opened my mouth to scream, but only a choked, broken gasp tore from my throat. The smell of burning skin filled the small space between us.

Giselle held it there for a second longer than necessary before pulling back with a cruel, satisfied smile.

"That is a warning," she whispered, her eyes dancing with malice. "Next time, I won't aim for your arm. I'll aim for that pretty, silent face. Lucian won't want a scarred pet."

She turned on her heel and swept out of the room, leaving me clutching my arm, sliding down the front of the desk to the floor. I didn't cry. I couldn't. The physical pain was grounding, a sharp focus amidst the chaos.

I looked at the burn on my arm, angry and red, and then at the broken wolf on the floor. Lucian had broken me, just like that carving. And no amount of glue was going to fix what Giselle—and he—had done.