My Alpha Planned My Death to Keep His Lover Alive

The week that followed was the finest performance of my life.

I smiled at pack dinners, complimented Mrs. Elliott's roast, and asked thoughtful questions about border patrol schedules. I joined the morning runs, keeping pace with the younger wolves while discussing upcoming charity events. When Mrs. Elliott caught me touching my marking scar — a habit I'd never noticed until now — I made sure to do it with the soft, unconscious tenderness of a woman cherishing her bond.

"You seem radiant lately, dear," she said one morning, watching me arrange wildflowers in the kitchen. "Marriage suits you."

"I'm just grateful," I replied, meeting her eyes with perfect sincerity. "For Kayden. For the pack. For everything."

She beamed and squeezed my shoulder, and I let myself lean into the touch like a daughter seeking comfort.

At night, when the pack house settled into quiet, I researched.

I started with whispers. Pack gossip travels in strange currents, and if you know how to listen, you can follow them upstream to their source. A Beta's wife mentioned a rogue who'd been asking questions about Alpha bloodlines. A healer's assistant let slip about someone buying medical records from corrupt pack doctors. A young warrior bragged about his cousin's connection to "that investigator in New York who handles the impossible cases."

Every trail led to the same name: Soren Bennett.

The supernatural underworld wasn't something I'd ever thought to explore. Good Lunas didn't need to know about the shadowy spaces between pack territories, the networks of rogues and outcasts who traded information like currency. But I learned quickly. A few carefully worded questions to the right wolves, a donation to a charity that helped displaced pack members, and suddenly I had an address.

Manhattan. A penthouse in the financial district.

I booked a Luna charity gala as my cover — something about supporting young wolves transitioning between packs. Mrs. Elliott approved enthusiastically, praising my dedication to pack service. Kayden, still in "Seattle," sent his blessing via text.

I drove to New York alone.

---

The building was glass and steel, the kind of sleek tower that housed hedge funds and law firms. Nothing about it screamed supernatural underworld. The elevator required a key card, which the concierge provided after I gave Soren's name.

"Penthouse," he said simply. "Mr. Bennett is expecting you."

My reflection stared back from the elevator's mirrored walls as we climbed. I wore a navy blazer and matching skirt — professional, unremarkable. My hair was pulled back in the same style I'd worn to pack board meetings for three years. I looked like exactly what I was supposed to be: a Luna conducting pack business.

The elevator opened directly into a foyer.

And that's when it hit me.

The scent slammed into my senses like a physical blow — dark cedar and winter rain, wild and clean and utterly intoxicating. My knees nearly buckled. My dormant wolf, silent for so long I'd almost forgotten she existed, surged to the surface with a violence that stole my breath.

*Mate.*

The word echoed through my mind in a voice that wasn't quite mine, desperate and hungry and absolutely certain. My wolf clawed at my consciousness, whimpering and keening, trying to push forward after years of being buried so deep I'd thought she was gone.

I gripped the elevator doorframe and forced her down.

Across the room, a man went completely still.

He'd been standing by floor-to-ceiling windows that overlooked the city, but now he turned, and I watched his nostrils flare slightly as he breathed me in. His eyes — dark green, like pine forests — dilated.

Soren Bennett was nothing like what I'd expected. Tall, broad-shouldered, with the kind of predatory grace that spoke of power held in careful check. His suit was expensive but understated, his dark hair slightly mussed as if he'd been running his hands through it. He looked like he belonged in boardrooms, not supernatural underworlds.

But there was something in his stillness, in the way he watched me with absolute focus, that made my skin prickle with awareness.

"Ms. Elliott," he said, and his voice was low, controlled. Professional.

I forced my expression into the same cool composure I'd perfected over three years of pack politics. Walked into his office with steady steps. Ignored the way my wolf whined every time I moved further from him.

"Mr. Bennett." I sat in the chair across from his desk and placed a manila folder on the polished surface between us. "Thank you for seeing me."

He moved to his chair with fluid precision, never taking his eyes off me. When he sat, I caught another wave of that scent and had to dig my nails into my palms to keep from reacting.

"I understand you need my services," he said carefully.

I slid the folder across his desk. Inside were copies of everything — the hotel reservation, the medical files, the compatibility report. The evidence of three years of systematic deception.

"I need you to help me destroy an Alpha," I said without flinching.

Soren opened the folder and began to read. His expression didn't change, but I watched his jaw tighten almost imperceptibly as he absorbed the contents.

When he looked up, there was something dangerous in his eyes.

"Tell me everything," he said.