After My Alpha Cheated with the Omega, I Found the Lycan Prince

Paris in springtime was supposed to be magical. For me, it was just another place to hide.

Three months had passed since I'd fled the Silverclaw Pack with nothing but a passport and the clothes on my back. Three months of trying to piece together what remained of my shattered soul.

"Sloane, could you rearrange the poetry section?" Elena called from the front counter of her tiny bookstore.

"Of course," I replied, setting down the book I'd been pretending to read.

Elena Dubois was the elderly French woman who owned this sanctuary of leather-bound volumes and faded pages. She'd hired me without questions when I appeared at her doorstep, a ghost with hollow eyes and a broken spirit.

"The customers prefer the poetry by the window," she explained, her accent warming the words. "It makes them dream."

I nodded and began rearranging the books, my fingers tracing the spines with practiced ease. This small routine had become my anchor in a sea of chaos. Each book I shelved was another moment I didn't have to think about what I'd lost.

My wolf, Luna, had gone silent since that night. I could still feel her presence, a dull ache in my chest where our bond used to sing with vitality. Now she was just a shadow, curled into herself, refusing to acknowledge the world that had betrayed us both.

"You're doing well," Elena said, appearing beside me. "The store has never been more organized."

I managed a small smile. "Thank you for giving me this job."

She patted my hand. "You needed purpose. I needed help. It was serendipity."

Purpose. Such a small word for the vast emptiness I was trying to fill.

---

The Seine glittered in the afternoon sun as I sat on a bench during my lunch break. I'd taken to bringing my sketchbook here, though I rarely drew anything but abstract shapes and shadows.

I was attempting to capture the way light danced on water when a small terrier bounded toward me, leash dragging behind him.

"Hey there," I murmured, setting my pencil down as he sniffed my shoes.

The dog's owner called out in rapid French, slowing to a jog as he approached. "Sorry about that! He's friendly but impulsive."

I looked up, taking in the stranger's appearance. He was young—younger than me by at least a few years—with dark hair that caught the sunlight and kind eyes that crinkled at the corners when he smiled.

"It's fine," I replied in English. "I like dogs."

He crouched down to retrieve the dog's leash, his movements fluid and graceful. "Max, you rascal. You know you're not supposed to bother people."

When he reached for the collar, his hand brushed against mine.

ZING.

A violent, electric shock shot up my arm—the unmistakable jolt of a mate bond recognizing its other half.

My sketchbook crashed to the ground as I jerked away, my heart hammering against my ribs. This couldn't be happening. Not again. Not after everything.

"Are you okay?" he asked, immediately backing away with his hands raised in a gesture of surrender.

I expected anger, dominance, the crushing weight of an Alpha's presence—but none came. Instead, his scent washed over me: oil paint and rain, with an undertone of something I couldn't quite place.

"You're human," I blurted out, the realization hitting me like a second shock.

He tilted his head, confusion flickering across his features before he smiled gently. "Last time I checked, yes."

I stared at him, trying to make sense of what had just happened. The mate bond was exclusive to werewolves. It couldn't possibly exist between a wolf and a human.

"I'm sorry about that," he said, bending carefully to retrieve my fallen sketchbook. "Static electricity can be pretty intense sometimes."

Static electricity. Of course. What else could it be?

He handed me the book, making sure our fingers wouldn't touch again. "These are beautiful," he said, nodding to my sketches. "Are you an artist?"

"I used to be," I admitted, clutching the book to my chest like a shield.

"Well, you still are," he said with quiet confidence. "I'm Mateo, by the way. Mateo Torres."

"Sloane," I replied, the name feeling strange on my tongue after months of being just "the rogue" or "the rejected one."

"Nice to meet you, Sloane." His eyes were warm, devoid of the predatory gleam I'd grown to fear. "You draw like someone who sees the world differently."

For the first time in months, I felt something other than pain or emptiness—a tiny flicker of curiosity about this human who seemed to see right through me.