After My Mate Humiliated Me, the Rogue Claimed Me

The scent of lilies was suffocating. It was a thick, cloying sweetness that coated the back of my throat, masking the smell of the mud still drying on my skin. I stared at the wreath on my bed, at the black ribbon mocking me with its gold letters: *R.I.P. Alpha Charlotte*.

They thought I was dead. Or at least, they wanted me to be.

But I wasn't dead. I was burning.

I didn't cry. The tears had evaporated, replaced by a cold, hard rage that settled deep in my marrow. I grabbed the wreath, the thorns digging into my palms, and dragged it across the plush carpet to the balcony doors. I kicked them open, the night air rushing in to meet me.

With a heave, I threw the floral monstrosity onto the stone tiles of the balcony. I pulled the crumpled rejection letter from my pocket and tossed it on top of the white petals.

My hand went to my pocket, fingers closing around the cold metal of my father’s silver lighter. I flicked the lid open. The flame danced, small and orange against the dark.

"Burn," I whispered.

I dropped the lighter. The dry paper caught instantly, the fire licking up the ribbon and consuming the lilies. The heat flared against my face, and I felt Hera, my wolf, rise within me. She didn't howl in sadness; she snarled. My vision shifted, the edges sharpening, tinting everything with a golden hue. My Alpha eyes were glowing.

"Let it burn."

A voice, deep and velvety, spoke from the shadows to my left.

I spun around, claws extending, but paused. It was the groundskeeper. Nicolas. He was leaning against the railing, his arms crossed over his chest. He shouldn’t have been here—on the Alpha floor, on my private balcony. But he didn't look like an intruder. He looked like a sentinel.

He stepped forward, the firelight casting sharp shadows across the scruff on his jaw. He reached out, his rough fingers brushing a spot on my forearm I hadn't realized was bleeding.

"They will pay," he murmured, his voice low but carrying an undeniable weight of command that sent a shiver down my spine. "For every tear you didn't shed, Charlotte."

He knew my name. And he wasn't mute. The shock of it held me frozen for a second, the electric current of our earlier touch humming in the air between us. His eyes were dark, unreadable, but intense enough to steal the breath from my lungs.

Before I could ask him who he really was, a sound shattered the moment.

*Woooooo-oooooo.*

The pack sirens. The emergency signal.

My head snapped toward the Pack Square below. Floodlights snapped on, bathing the gathering area in harsh, artificial white light. A crowd was already forming, looking like ants from this height. At the center, standing on the Alpha’s podium, was Cade.

"Stay here," I commanded Nicolas, though the words felt flimsy against his presence.

I ran. I sprinted through the ransacked suite, down the grand staircase, and out the front doors of the Pack House. My heart hammered against my ribs, keeping time with the pounding of my boots on the pavement.

I reached the edge of the crowd just as Cade’s voice boomed over the loudspeakers.

"...regret to inform you that the pressure of leadership has finally broken her," Cade announced, his voice dripping with fake solemnity. He held up a sheaf of papers. "Dr. Evans has certified that Charlotte Carter is suffering from acute mental instability following the death of her parents. She is unfit to lead."

"Liar!" I screamed, pushing through the confused bodies of my pack members. "That’s a lie!"

Heads turned. Some looked worried, but many looked away, shamefaced. I saw the Elders standing in the front row—Elder Marcus was clutching a thick envelope that hadn't been in his pocket this morning. Bribed. They were all bought.

"See?" Cade pointed at me, his face a mask of pity. "She’s hysterical. We cannot trust our safety to a broken mind. The Council has been notified. Until she recovers, I, Beta Cade, will assume the Alpha duties."

"And he won't be alone!" Gwen’s voice shrilled.

She stepped up beside him, wearing a white dress that looked suspiciously like a Luna’s ceremonial gown. She grabbed Cade’s hand, lacing her fingers through his. "As his partner, and as the new acting Luna, I will ensure this pack gets the mother figure it deserves."

A cheer went up. It was ragged, hesitant, but it was there. My stomach dropped. They were accepting it.

I lunged for the stairs of the podium, my wolf clawing at the surface, desperate to rip Gwen’s throat out. "Get down from there! That is my place!"

Gwen stepped down to meet me, blocking my path on the bottom step. She wasn't wailing about her dying father anymore. She was smirking.

"Not anymore, sweetie," she hissed, low enough that only I could hear. Then she raised her voice, pitching it to carry. "Omegas! The Alpha suite is for the pack leaders. Clear out the trash."

I froze. "What?"

Above us, on the third-floor balcony I had just left, the doors swung open. Two Omegas appeared, their arms full of silk, denim, and leather. My clothes.

"Throw it," Gwen ordered.

They hesitated, looking down at me with wide, fearful eyes.

"I said, throw it!" Gwen shrieked.

They tipped their arms. My wardrobe—my mother’s vintage coats, my training gear, the dresses I had worn to galas—rained down from the sky. They hit the mud with wet, heavy slaps, splashing dirt onto my boots.

Gwen laughed. It was a cruel, tinkling sound. She leaned in close, her eyes gleaming with malice. "Look at you. No title. No mate. Just a broken little girl standing in the mud."

She gestured vaguely toward the shadows of the Pack House garden, where the groundskeeper's shack stood.

"You don't belong in the Alpha suite, Charlotte," she sneered. "Go sleep in the shed with your filthy rogue. That’s all you’re good for now."