Rejected by My Fated Alpha

The pack gathering was supposed to be a peaceful event, but of course, it didn’t stay that way for long.

Ayra Robertson, the Gamma from the Lycan Prince’s pack, called me forward, her eyes sharp and scrutinizing.

“Is this your poem?” she asked, holding up a piece of paper.

I glanced at it and nodded. “Yes, I wrote it.”

But Ayra’s expression darkened.

“Ximena claims you plagiarized her work, and Raphael has confirmed it. How dare you steal from your own sister and claim it as your own?”

I froze.

This had happened in my past life too.

Back then, I still had some pride left in me, so I refused to admit to the accusation, even when the consequences were dire.

But Raphael had stood by Ximena’s side, vouching for her, and I became the pack’s outcast, my words and poems forever attributed to Ximena.

And now, here we were again.

Raphael stepped forward, his brows furrowed with silent disapproval.

“Quincy,” he said, his tone firm, “Ximena has been working hard on her poetry lately. This is her work. Even if you don’t get along with her, you can’t just take credit for someone else’s efforts.”

I stared at him, taking in the sharp lines of his face, the piercing eyes that had once made my heart flutter.

But now, all I felt was a dull ache.

He had forgotten—or chosen to ignore—that we had exchanged poems for five years in that small town. He knew my writing style better than anyone.

Yet here he was, defending Ximena.

The favoritism was so blatant it was almost laughable.

Almost.

“Are you sure this is Ximena’s work?” I asked quietly, my voice steady despite the storm brewing inside me.

Raphael’s frown deepened.

“If it’s not hers, then whose is it? Yours? Quincy, it’s alright to admit it. Ximena is kind; she’ll forgive you.”

Quincy. The name felt hollow now, stripped of the affection it once carried.

I looked down at the ground, focusing on the intricate design of my boots—a pattern Raphael had once complimented.

“I’m not just Quincy,” I said softly, more to myself than to him. “My name is Quincy Morrison.”

A flicker of something crossed Raphael’s face—recognition, perhaps, or regret.

But it was gone as quickly as it appeared.

We both remembered the past, the promises we’d made, the bond we’d shared.

But now, it felt like a lifetime ago.

And I wasn’t sure I wanted it back.