My Alpha Tried to Drown Me

The corridor is crowded when Amanda finds me.

I'm carrying a basket of fresh linens from the Healer's den back to the storage room—one of the endless small tasks Shane assigns me that keep my hands busy and my mind mercifully occupied. The hallway smells like pine soap and the faint musk of wolves passing through between shifts. I keep my head down, navigating the foot traffic with the practiced invisibility I've honed over the past year.

Then she steps directly into my path.

Amanda Herrera stands there like she's been waiting, her designer boots planted on the stone floor, arms crossed beneath breasts that are definitely enhanced by whatever expensive bra high-ranking she-wolves wear. Her dress is cashmere, dove gray, and probably costs more than I've earned in six months. Zayd's scent clings to her—cedarwood and dominance—so fresh it's obvious they've been together recently. She wants me to notice. I do.

"Briana." Her voice is bright, performative, pitched just loud enough that the wolves passing behind her slow down to listen. "I've been meaning to talk to you."

I shift the basket to my hip, keeping my expression neutral. "Amanda."

Her smile sharpens. "I wanted to thank you, actually. For making things so easy."

I don't take the bait. I just wait.

"I mean, stepping aside like you did." She tilts her head, the motion calculated to show off the perfect curve of her neck—unmarked, I notice, which means Zayd hasn't sealed their bond yet. "It must have been hard, realizing you weren't enough for an Alpha. But honestly, you did him a favor. He needed someone who could actually stand beside him, not some wolfless—" She pauses, letting the word hang. "—freak who can't even shift."

The wolves behind her go still. I can feel their attention like a physical weight.

I meet Amanda's eyes and let the silence stretch just long enough that her smile starts to falter. Then I speak, my voice dry and unbothered.

"You know what's interesting, Amanda? You're wearing a thousand-dollar dress and his scent like a badge, but you're still out here in a public hallway, picking a fight with the Omega he supposedly doesn't care about." I shift the basket again, casual. "If I didn't know better, I'd think you were worried."

Her face flushes. "I'm not—"

"Because here's the thing." I take a small step forward, close enough that she has to tilt her chin up to hold my gaze. "If you actually had him, you wouldn't need to prove it to me. You'd just have him. But instead, you're standing here, in my way, wearing his scent like a costume and throwing around insults a middle schooler would be embarrassed by." I pause, letting the words settle. "So who's this performance really for, Amanda? Me? Or you?"

She opens her mouth. Closes it. Her hands have curled into fists at her sides, and the flush has spread down her neck.

I don't wait for her to recover. I step around her, the basket still balanced on my hip, and walk away without looking back. The crowd parts to let me through, and I can feel their eyes tracking me—some amused, some shocked, most just hungry for the drama.

I don't care. I'm already thinking about the next thing I need to do.

---

The pack courtyard is busiest in the late afternoon, when the day's work is winding down and wolves gather to socialize before the evening meal. It's a sprawling stone space ringed by benches and planters, with the Alpha's balcony overlooking it from the second floor. I know Zayd uses that balcony. I've seen him up there, watching the pack like a king surveying his kingdom.

That's why I choose this moment.

Shane is already at one of the benches when I arrive, reviewing notes in a leather-bound journal. He looks up when I approach, and something in his expression shifts—surprise, maybe, or concern.

"Briana," he says quietly. "Everything all right?"

I sit down beside him, closer than I normally would, close enough that our shoulders almost touch. "Fine," I say, keeping my voice light. "Just needed some air."

He studies me for a beat, then nods slowly. He doesn't push. He never does.

I lean in slightly, pretending to look at the notes in his journal, and let my arm brush against his. "What are you working on?"

"Inventory," Shane says, his tone steady but quieter now. "Checking stock before the next supply run."

I make a soft sound of acknowledgment, then let myself laugh—quiet, genuine—at something he's written in the margin, a small joke about one of the herbs. The sound feels strange in my throat, unfamiliar, but Shane's mouth curves into a faint smile in response.

I can feel Zayd's gaze from the balcony like a brand on my skin.

I don't look up. I just touch Shane's arm lightly, my fingers resting there for a heartbeat longer than necessary, and let the afternoon sun warm the space between us.