One Night With The Rival Alpha

Heads turned. Of course they did. Even with her modifications, a girl in a silk gown-torn or not-didn't fit in here. She walked with a straight spine, channeling every ounce of aristocratic training she had. Fake it until you make it. Or until you collapse.

She marched to the bar, ignoring the whistles and catcalls from a table of men wearing leather vests. She found a stool at the far end, in the shadows.

The bartender was a giant of a man with a beard that reached his chest. He slammed a coaster down. "Lost, sweetheart?"

"Thirsty," Debra corrected. She dug into the truck's ashtray earlier and found a crumpled twenty-dollar bill. She slapped it on the counter. "Whiskey. Double. Leave the bottle."

The bartender raised an eyebrow but poured the drink. "Keep the twenty. You look like you need it more than I do."

Debra took the glass. Her hands were still trembling. She downed the amber liquid in one gulp. It burned all the way down, a welcome fire that distracted her from the cold ache in her heart.

The alcohol hit her empty stomach hard. The room spun slightly.

She leaned her elbows on the bar, scanning the room. She needed to figure out a plan. Sleep in the truck? Drive to the next town?

Her gaze snagged on a booth in the darkest corner of the room.

A man sat there. Alone.

In a room full of loud, boisterous wolves, he was an island of silence. He wore a black button-down shirt, the sleeves rolled up to reveal forearms corded with muscle. He wasn't looking at the dancers or the TV. He was looking at a silver Zippo lighter, flipping it open and closed. Click. Clack.

He looked up.

Debra's breath hitched. His eyes were dark, intelligent, and utterly cold. Across the crowded room, his gaze locked onto hers with the weight of a physical touch. A jolt of electricity, sharp and undeniable, zipped down her spine.

Wolf. A powerful one.

She quickly looked away, staring into her empty glass. Don't engage. Don't draw attention.

"Hey, princess."

A hot, sour breath fanned against her neck.

Debra stiffened. A man in a grease-stained mechanic's shirt had leaned over her. He was close. Too close.

"You look lonely," he slurred. His hand reached out, grabbing a lock of her hair.

"Let go," Debra said, her voice low.

"Feisty," the man laughed. He pulled the hair, forcing her head back. "I like feisty. How about you and me go out back and-"

"She said let go."

The voice wasn't loud. It was a low rumble, like distant thunder, but it cut through the music and the noise instantly.

The mechanic froze. He turned slowly.

The man in black stood behind him. Standing up, he was massive. He towered over the mechanic, radiating an aura of suppressed violence that made the air feel thin.

"This ain't your business, pal," the mechanic tried to say, but his voice squeaked.

The man in black didn't speak. He just tilted his head slightly. His eyes flashed-not the yellow of a common wolf, but a deep, terrifying amber.

The mechanic paled. He dropped Debra's hair as if it were burning. "My bad. My bad, man. I'm going."

He scrambled away, knocking over a stool in his haste.

Debra let out a breath she didn't know she was holding. She turned to her savior. Up close, he was devastating. High cheekbones, a jawline that could cut glass, and a mouth set in a grim line.

Caleb Sterling looked down at the woman. He recognized the scent immediately. Vance.

His upper lip curled slightly. It was the cloying, distinct floral scent of the ruling family, but mixed with cheap whiskey and the sweat of a dive bar. A bastard daughter? A rebellious runaway?

Or a high-end escort using the Vance perfume to attract a specific caliber of client?

His gaze raked over her torn dress. It looked expensive but ruined. A "distressed" look for a roleplay? He knew the type. Women who played at being broken so a rich Alpha would pay to fix them.

"You're far from the castle, princess," Caleb said. His voice was dry, mocking. "Or is 'damsel in distress' the service menu for tonight?"

Debra bristled. "I didn't ask for your help."

"You needed it," he countered. He sat on the stool next to her, signaling the bartender for a refill. "What is a girl smelling like Edward's estate doing in a hole like this? Trying to undercut the competition?"

Debra's grip on her glass tightened. "You don't know anything about me."

"I know your type," Caleb said, his voice dropping to a transactional murmur. He looked at her torn dress, her smeared makeup. To him, she looked like a commodity. Expensive, damaged, and for sale. "High maintenance. High price tag. Looking for a whale to fund your daddy issues."

"I'm not bored," Debra snapped, the whiskey making her brave. "I'm surviving. And for your information, I hate him more than you do."

Caleb paused. He looked at her again, really looked at her. Beneath the makeup, her eyes were haunted. There was a raw edge to her scent-fear, adrenaline, and... blood?

"You're bleeding," he said, nodding to her hand.

Debra looked down. The cuts from the ruby shards were still oozing slightly. She hid her hand in her lap. "It's nothing. A broken glass."

"Right," Caleb drawled. "A broken glass."

He didn't believe her. But the pull... god, the pull was getting stronger. His wolf was pacing in his mind, scratching at the door. Mate. Mate. Mate.

Caleb crushed the thought. A Vance bastard or a working girl? Impossible. But for tonight... his wolf didn't care about her resume.

Debra felt it too. The air between them crackled. Every time he moved, her skin prickled. It was magnetic. Terrifying.

Buzz.

Her phone vibrated on the bar.

She glanced at the screen. A text from an unknown number.

Nice dress. The Neon Moon suits you. But not as much as a jail cell will. The police are on their way. - C

Debra's blood ran cold. Colin. He knew. He was watching.

She spun around on her stool, scanning the room frantically. Was he here? Was one of the bikers watching her?

"Paranoid?" Caleb asked, watching her panic.

"I have to go," Debra whispered. She stood up, but her legs wobbled. The alcohol and the fear were a bad mix.

She looked at the door. If the police were coming, they would be at the front. The back exit?

She looked at Caleb. He was powerful. The mechanic had run from him. He had a car.

It was a crazy, desperate idea.

Debra stepped closer to him. She didn't think; she acted on instinct. She put her hand on his forearm. The heat of his skin burned hers.

"Get me out of here," she pleaded, her voice trembling. "Please."

Caleb looked at her hand on his arm. He looked at her dilated pupils, her flushed skin.

He misinterpreted the desperation. He saw a party girl who wanted to leave with the hottest guy in the room. He saw a transaction.

"You want to leave with me?" Caleb asked, his voice rough with implication. "You know I don't pay for conversation, Ivy. If we leave, you're working."

Ivy. She had given him a fake name earlier.

Debra nodded frantically. She didn't care what it implied. She just needed to escape Colin's net. "Yes. Whatever. Just drive."

Caleb finished his drink. He stood up, towering over her. He took off his suit jacket-it smelled of cedar and rain-and draped it over her shoulders. It was heavy, warm, and possessive.

"Let's go," he said.

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