After the Future Alpha Betrayed Me, His Rival Claimed Me

"You are officially a free woman, Elina Marshall, and free women do not sit around moping in oversized sweatpants!"

Journey hadn't even given me an hour to process the fact that I had just walked out on the Future Alpha of the Silverfang Pack. Instead, my fiercely loyal Beta best friend had dragged me into her bathroom, attacked my face with her expensive makeup brushes, and forced me into a sleek, little black slip dress that hugged curves I usually hid beneath oversized sweaters.

Now, I was standing in the middle of Nocturne, a high-end supernatural nightclub nestled deep in neutral territory. It was a well-known sanctuary where pack politics, ranks, and rivalries were strictly checked at the door.

The club was a sensory overload of flashing neon lights and a bass track so loud it vibrated against my ribcage. The air was thick and chaotic, heavy with the scent of expensive liquors, sweet perfumes, and the faint, musky undertones of hundreds of shifting wolves letting loose.

I smoothed my hands over the silky fabric of my dress, feeling a strange flutter in my stomach. For three agonizing years, my entire existence had revolved around Chris. I had constantly scanned rooms to see who he was looking at, who he was touching, and who he was bringing into his bed. But tonight? Tonight, I wasn't the pathetic, overlooked chosen mate. I was just Elina.

And the taste of that freedom was intoxicating.

Journey squeezed my bare shoulder, her eyes sparkling with fierce approval. "I'm going to the bar to get us the strongest, most colorful drinks they have. You stay right here on the edge of the dance floor. Shake your hips a little! Let the world see what that arrogant jerk just lost."

Before I could protest, she vanished into the throngs of grinding, sweaty bodies.

I let out a breath, awkwardly swaying to the heavy rhythm of the music. I closed my eyes for a brief second, trying to let the thumping bass wash away the lingering sting of Chris's golden, contemptuous glare.

"A pretty little wolf like you shouldn't be standing all by her lonesome."

The voice was slurred, thick, and grating against my ears. I snapped my eyes open to see a bulky, unkempt man leaning entirely too close to my personal space. His scent hit my nose, making my inner wolf recoil in disgust. Sour beer, stale sweat, and the distinct, untethered musk of a rogue. He had no pack scent, no boundaries, and clearly, no manners.

Old habits died hard. I took a polite step back, plastering on the diplomatic, gentle smile I had perfected over years of pack banquets. "I'm waiting for a friend, actually. But thank you."

He didn't take the hint. Instead, he closed the distance again, his bloodshot eyes raking hungrily over the thin straps of my borrowed dress. "Your friend can wait. Why don't you come to the VIP booths with me? I know exactly how to treat a sweet little Omega."

"I'm not an Omega," I said, my voice tightening as I dropped the fake smile. "And I said no. Have a good night."

I turned on my heel to walk away, desperate to find Journey, but his large, calloused hand shot out. He clamped his fingers around my bare upper arm like a vice. His grip was bruising, his dirty nails digging sharply into my skin.

Panic flared hot and bright in my chest. "Let go of me," I demanded, trying to yank my arm free.

"Don't be a bitch," the rogue snarled, his breath hot and foul against my cheek as he yanked me roughly toward his chest. "I'm just trying to show you a good time."

Before I could scream for help, the temperature in the club plummeted.

It wasn't a physical cold. It was a sudden, catastrophic drop in the atmospheric pressure. The thumping bass of the music seemed to instantly mute, drowned out by a high-pitched ringing in my ears. The air turned into pure, suffocating lead.

It was an Alpha aura.

But not just any Alpha aura. Compared to this, Chris's authoritative parlor tricks felt like a gentle summer breeze. This was a hurricane. This was ancient, earth-shattering power that demanded absolute, unquestioning submission from every single cell in my body.

The rogue holding me gasped, his bloodshot eyes widening in sheer terror. The crushing weight of the aura hit him squarely in the chest. His knees instantly buckled, hitting the sticky, neon-lit floor with a sickening crack. He released my arm immediately, clutching his own throat as he choked and gagged on the heavy air.

I stumbled back, rubbing my bruised arm, my heart hammering against my ribs like a trapped bird.

The crowded dance floor parted like the Red Sea. Out of the pulsing strobe lights and lingering shadows stepped a man who looked like he had been carved from marble and midnight.

He was devastatingly tall, broad-shouldered, and clad in a dark, tailored suit that screamed lethal elegance. His jaw was set in a rigid, murderous line. But it was his eyes that froze the breath in my lungs—dark, bottomless, and swirling with a terrifying, violent rage.

I recognized him instantly from the whispered rumors and terrifying legends Journey had shared over late-night wine. Alpha Noah Ferguson. The ruthless leader of the elite Obsidian Pack. Journey's uncle.

Noah didn't say a single word. He didn't need to. He stepped over the trembling rogue, his massive hand shooting out to fist the front of the man's filthy shirt. With a brutal, effortless heave, Noah ripped the rogue off the floor and shoved him violently backward.

The man flew through the air, crashing hard into a high-top table that splintered into pieces upon impact.

The entire club fell dead silent, the only sound the ragged breathing of the broken rogue on the floor.

Noah slowly turned his head, his broad chest rising and falling heavily. His dark, stormy gaze locked onto mine, and right then, the rest of the world simply ceased to exist.