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

The Silverclaw Pack was crumbling from within.

I didn't know this firsthand, of course. I'd been gone for months, building my fragile new life in Paris. But Hanna's weekly messages kept me informed of the slow decay happening across the ocean.

"Quentin's not himself anymore," she wrote in her latest email. "The pack is restless. He can't sleep. His aura flickers like a dying light."

I sat in Elena's bookstore, reading Hanna's words by the soft glow of a vintage lamp. My fingers traced over the screen, a hollow ache blooming in my chest. Not sympathy—I'd left that behind with my shattered heart—but something more detached, like watching a car crash from a distance.

"The Beta says it's mate sickness," Hanna continued. "He's irritable, snapping at everyone. Even Mya."

I could almost feel sorry for him. Almost.

Mya. The name still sent a jolt of rage through me. Hanna's next message confirmed what I'd suspected all along.

"She's lying about being pregnant. The pack healer told me privately that it's impossible—her Omega genetics are too weak to carry an Alpha heir. But she's convinced Quentin otherwise."

I closed my eyes, picturing Mya's calculating smile as she clung to Quentin's arm at the Solstice party. She'd always been ambitious, always scheming. Now she was desperate.

---

"You have a gift," Mateo said, stirring his coffee thoughtfully. "The way you capture light and shadow."

We sat at a small café two blocks from Elena's bookstore. The afternoon sun warmed the cobblestones outside, casting dappled shadows through the leaves of a nearby tree.

I'd been surprised when he invited me for coffee. More surprised when I'd accepted.

"Thank you," I replied, my fingers wrapped around my cup. "I used to draw more. Before..."

I didn't finish the sentence. Mateo didn't push.

"Before" hung between us like a ghost.

He reached into his pocket and pulled out a small bottle of pills. My enhanced senses caught the herbal scent—strong, earthy, with notes of something I couldn't quite place.

"Sorry," he said, noticing my gaze. "These are just for anxiety."

He popped two into his mouth and washed them down with coffee. Something about the casual way he did it made me suspicious.

"You take those often?" I asked.

He shrugged. "They help me focus."

I nodded, though something didn't quite add up. The herbs smelled like more than just anxiety medication.

"What about you?" he asked, deftly changing the subject. "What brought you to Paris?"

"Fresh start," I said simply.

He nodded as if he understood perfectly. Then he pulled out a napkin and a pen.

"May I?" he asked.

I nodded, curious.

His hand moved across the paper with fluid precision. Within minutes, my face emerged from the napkin—not as I saw myself in mirrors, but as he saw me. The woman with shadows in her eyes.

"You see too much," I murmured.

"Artists notice details," he replied softly.

---

The gallery was small but elegant, tucked away on a side street with stone walls and exposed beams. Mateo had insisted I come with him to this opening—his professor's friend was exhibiting.

"It'll be good for you," he'd said. "Art heals."

I'd reluctantly agreed, drawn by his enthusiasm and the gentle way he never pushed too hard.

The space hummed with quiet conversation and the clink of wine glasses. I felt almost normal for a moment, just another art appreciator in a city full of them.

Then a glass shattered.

The sound cut through the murmur of voices like a knife. My vision tunneled instantly—the Solstice party flashing before my eyes. Mya's dramatic fall. Quentin's rage. Blood between my legs.

I was outside before I realized I'd moved, gasping for air that wouldn't come.

"Sloane." Mateo's voice cut through the panic. "Sloane, breathe with me."

But he didn't touch me. Instead, he stood a respectful distance away, his eyes never leaving mine.

"I'm here," he said softly. "You're safe."

He began to hum—a gentle melody that somehow found its way past the roaring in my ears. Not holding me down, not trying to control my reaction. Just... present. Guarding.

Slowly, the world stopped spinning.

"I was hurt," I whispered when I could speak again. "By someone powerful."

"Not here," Mateo said firmly. "Not now."

"I can't—" My voice broke.

"I won't let anyone hurt you again," he said, his voice carrying a weight I couldn't quite place. "Not while I'm here."

Something in his tone made me look up sharply. For just a moment, I caught a glimpse of something in his eyes—something ancient and powerful that made my silent wolf stir for the first time in months.

What was this human man hiding? And why did part of me already trust him more than anyone I'd ever known?