After My Alpha Traded Me for Territory

The jasmine hit me three steps inside Devon's door.

I stopped, tray balanced on my hip, and breathed through my mouth. It didn't help. The scent clung to everything—his sheets, his collar thrown over the chair, the Luna seat I'd never been allowed to touch. Thick. Cloying. Wrong.

And underneath it, something sharper. Metallic. Rogue.

My chest tightened. Not pain. Not yet. Just a low hum beneath my ribs, like something waking up after a long sleep. My hand moved on its own, pressing flat against my collarbone where his mark should have been. Six years. He'd never given it to me.

I set the tray on his desk and walked to the bed. The pillow on the right side—my side, the side I hadn't slept on in months—was stained with jasmine oil. I picked it up. The scent rolled over me in waves, and that hum in my chest grew louder. Not quite a growl. Not quite silent.

I heard his footsteps in the hall.

When Devon walked in, he didn't look surprised to see me holding the pillow. He looked annoyed.

"Whose scent is this?" I asked.

His jaw tightened. "Put that down."

"Whose?"

"I said put it down."

I didn't. "There's jasmine oil all over your sheets. And something else. Rogue-clan. Who is she?"

He crossed the room in three strides and grabbed my arm. Hard. His fingers dug into the soft part above my elbow, and I felt the bruise forming under his grip.

"You don't get to ask me questions," he said.

The air in the room changed. His aura pressed down on me like a hand over my mouth, crushing, suffocating. My knees buckled. I tried to speak—tried to say his name—but the words died in my throat.

Alpha tone.

My body obeyed him before my mind could catch up. My mouth snapped shut. My head dropped. I hated it. I hated that I had no wolf to fight back, no aura to push against his. I was just a body he could silence whenever he wanted.

"You're not my Luna," Devon said. His voice was cold. Precise. "You're not my equal. You're not even a proper wolf. You're here because your father owed me a blood-debt. That's it. When the ledger's clear, you'll have no place in this pack."

He let go of my arm. I stumbled back, gasping.

"Do you understand?" he asked.

I looked at him. Really looked. His eyes were flat. Empty. Like I was a piece of furniture he was tired of moving around.

I nodded.

He walked out.

I stood there for a long time, staring at the jasmine-stained pillow on the floor. My arm throbbed. The hum in my chest had gone quiet again, but it didn't feel like sleep this time. It felt like waiting.

I went to his study. The ledger was where it always was—locked in the cabinet beside his desk. I'd watched him open it a hundred times. I knew the combination.

It took me less than a minute to find the page with my father's name on it.

Jared Snyder. Blood-debt: $47,000. Repayment: six years of service, valued at $750/month.

I did the math in my head. Then I did it again on a scrap of parchment. $750 times seventy-two months. $54,000.

I'd overpaid by fourteen months.

I copied every figure onto the parchment, folded it, and slid it into the lining of my boot. My hands were steady. My heartbeat was steady. I didn't feel angry. I didn't feel sad. I felt clear.

I locked the cabinet and left the study. Devon's scent—layered with jasmine and rogue metal—followed me all the way back to the Omega quarters.

That night, I didn't sleep. I lay on my cot and stared at the ceiling, feeling the parchment press against my ankle. Fourteen months. Fourteen months of my life he'd stolen, and he still looked at me like I owed him something.

The Autumn Pack Banquet was tomorrow. Everyone would be there. Including her.

I closed my eyes and felt the hum again. Faint. Waiting.

Not yet, I thought. But soon.