Claimed By My Enemy's Alpha Brother

Ericka POV:

Panic seized me, cold and sharp. I scrambled for the silk comforter, pulling it up to my chin like a shield. My eyes darted around the room, desperately searching for my clothes.

My dress.

It was a crumpled heap on a chaise lounge, torn at the shoulder seam.

The shower shut off. The glass door swung open.

He stepped out, a white towel knotted low on his hips. Water dripped from his wet, black hair onto his broad shoulders.

In the clear morning light, I saw his face for the first time. It was all hard lines and sharp angles, a jaw that could cut glass, and those same gray eyes, colder and more piercing than I remembered.

The sheer force of his presence, the raw Alpha power rolling off him in waves, made me shrink back. The Omega in me wanted to bare my throat in submission.

His gaze swept over me, lingering on the dark marks blooming across my collarbone and shoulders. There was no warmth in his expression, only a detached, clinical assessment.

I bit my lip, hard, forcing myself to meet his gaze.

"Last night," I said, my voice shaking despite my efforts. "It was a mistake."

He didn't answer. He walked over to a sleek mahogany desk, pulled a checkbook and a pen from his suit jacket, which was draped neatly over a chair.

He leaned against the desk, looking down as he wrote. The soft scratch of the pen on paper was the only sound in the room. Each stroke felt like a lash against my pride.

He tore the check out with a crisp, final sound and walked back to the bed. He held it out to me, his movements casual, dismissive.

My eyes fell to the number written in bold, black ink. My breath caught.

One million dollars.

"What is this?" I whispered, my mind reeling.

"Compensation," he said. His voice was a low, emotionless rumble. "Or hush money. Whichever you prefer."

The blood drained from my face.

He was sober last night.

He knew exactly what he was doing.This was him taking what was offered by a pathetic, wasted Omega.

A wave of shame so profound it made me nauseous washed over me. I felt cheap. Disgusting. A prostitute being paid for her services.

Anger, white-hot and cleansing, surged through me, burning away the shame.

I snatched the check from his hand. With all the strength I possessed, I ripped it into tiny pieces.

"I don't need your damn money!" I screamed, the sound tearing from my throat.

For the first time, a flicker of something-surprise?—crossed his features. He frowned slightly, as if my reaction was an unexpected variable in a simple equation.

As I glared at him, my eyes caught a detail I'd missed. A thin, white scar ran across the back of his hand. The image registered for a split second before being consumed by my rage.

My gaze fell to the nightstand. My phone and wallet were there, placed neatly beside a folded man's white dress shirt.

I didn't care. I lunged for it, yanking it on over my naked body. It fell to my mid-thighs, a ridiculously large but welcome covering. His scent-pine and metal-clung to the fabric, a scent that had felt safe last night and now felt like a brand.

I grabbed my phone and wallet, my bare feet hitting the plush carpet as I scrambled for the door.

He didn't move to stop me. He just stood there, a silent, powerful statue, watching my pathetic flight.

My hand was on the cold, brass doorknob when his voice cut through the air again.

"Your wrist is bruised."

I froze, looking down. A faint circle of red was visible on my left wrist, a ghost of a grip from the night before.

His words weren't an apology. They were a statement of fact. A reminder that last night wasn't just my doing. A reminder of his power. It only made me feel more confused, more violated.

I didn't look back. I wrenched the door open and ran.

I heard the door click shut behind me.

Jame POV:

I watched the empty doorway for a long moment. I walked to the desk, took out a cigarette, and lit it, the flame illuminating my impassive face.

Mine. Don't let her go, the wolf in my head snarled, a possessive, primal roar.

I walked to the window, looking down at the street below. I saw a small figure in a too-big white shirt, running barefoot on the pavement. A ghost of a smile touched my lips.

I pulled out my phone and dialed a number.

"Leo," I said, my voice calm and commanding. "I need you to find someone. An Omega. Ericka Montgomery. I want everything you can get on her."