Marked for the Enemy Alpha

The Beta of the West Wing once told me that my mother, Luella Grant, had been a servant in the Lycan Queen’s chambers. When the Queen fell ill, the Lycan King, Robert Jacobs, had chosen her at random to spend the night with.

My mother was devastated. She had been counting down the days until her release from the pack’s central territory, where her fiancé, a Delta in the pack’s guard, was waiting for her. They had been deeply in love, planning to start a life together once she was free.

She begged the Lycan King to let her go, but her pleas only angered him. He took her anyway, and afterward, he dismissed her with the title of "Chosen Mate," sending her to live in the forgotten West Wing of the pack’s territory—a place as cold and neglected as her shattered dreams.

Even after she gave birth to me, he never visited. Not once. He didn’t even give me a name.

It was as if he had forgotten her entirely—forgotten me entirely. When I stood before him in the grand hall, he looked at me with a distant, almost amused expression, as if trying to place who I was.

“Samantha,” he said finally, his voice warm but hollow, “what brings you here today?”

I looked up at him, forcing a smile. “I’ve come to ask for a mate pairing. I’m old enough now!”

The room, which had been stiflingly silent, erupted in laughter. The Lycan King chuckled and patted my head as though I were his favorite daughter. “A mate pairing? And who, pray tell, has caught your eye? Shall I arrange it for you?”

The Beta stepped forward, a sly grin on his face. “I’ve heard that Samantha and the Beta, Patrick Cook, have grown quite close.”

The Lycan King raised an eyebrow, his gaze shifting to Patrick, who stood among the pack’s warriors. “Is that so? Samantha, do you fancy Patrick?”

Patrick’s face tightened, his lips pressing into a thin line. His eyes met mine, filled with a mixture of tension and dread. He didn’t want this. I’d always known he didn’t.

Patrick was kind, but his kindness had its limits. We’d met years ago, when he found me being bullied by a group of Deltas, forced to crawl on all fours like a dog in exchange for a few scraps of food. He’d intervened, punishing the Deltas and leaving me with all the money he had on him.

I’d always admired him. He was the future Beta, often visiting the pack’s central territory to train the Lycan King’s children, including my sister, Vera Fernandez. I’d even snuck into the training grounds to listen to him teach, hoping to learn something, anything, that might make me less of an outcast.

But Patrick’s kindness had turned to disdain after a pack gathering, where a group of arrogant young wolves had cornered me, offering me food in exchange for reading vulgar poetry aloud. One of them had even asked if I’d be his mistress, promising me a life of comfort.

I didn’t know what a mistress was, but the promise of warmth and food was enough to make me agree. Patrick had seen it happen. He’d dragged me away, his grip so tight I thought my arm might break.

“You’re the daughter of the Lycan King!” he’d snapped, his voice cutting through me like a blade. “How can you debase yourself like this, throwing yourself at any wolf who shows you the slightest bit of attention? You should be like Vera—proud, unyielding, a true member of the pack!”

I hadn’t understood why he was so angry. My mother had survived by doing what she had to, and after her death, I’d done the same. To me, it was just survival.

But Patrick’s words had shattered something in me. I’d spent the next years living in the shadows of the West Wing, enduring the mockery and cruelty of the pack’s lower ranks, grateful for even the smallest scraps of kindness.

Now, standing before the Lycan King, I felt the weight of Patrick’s judgment once more. He didn’t want me. He never had.

“I…” I began, my voice trembling.

But before I could say more, the Lycan King waved his hand, dismissing the matter. “We’ll discuss this later, Samantha. For now, let’s focus on the pack’s affairs.”

The room fell silent again, and I was left standing there, feeling smaller and more insignificant than ever. I retreated to the West Wing, where I belonged, and continued to live as I always had—quietly, invisibly, surviving.