The Alpha Who Auctioned His Wife

Mireya

My fingers were still wrapped around my sister’s shawl, stiff with dried blood, when my phone vibrated in my palm.

The name glowing on the screen made my stomach lurch.

Dominic Ivyclaw.

Once, that name meant safety. Devotion. The man who stood with me beneath moonlight and whispered vows no one else was allowed to hear. His scent used to quiet my wolf instantly—pine, steel, promise.

Now it made bile crawl up my throat.

I didn’t answer right away. My thumb hovered above the screen while my wolf growled deep inside my chest, low and warning. She sensed danger. So did I.

A message came through. It was from Dominic.

[Bring Marianne her handbag. She left it behind. She’s attending the royal auction. I’ve forwarded the location. You have an hour.]

No greeting. No softness. No acknowledgment of what I’d lost.

Just an order.

As if I were nothing more than a runner. A faceless omega. Not his wife—hidden or otherwise. Not an advocate of the High Wolf Court. Not a woman whose twin had just died.

My vision blurred as I stared at the screen. A broken laugh tore out of me, sharp and ugly.

He didn’t even know Ysabel was gone.

Or worse—he didn’t care.

I typed with shaking hands.

[I can’t.]

Barely seconds passed before another notification appeared.

A video attachment.

My heart slammed painfully against my ribs.

Not again.

I tapped it before I could stop myself.

The same footage flooded the screen. Ysabel’s screams. Her sobbing pleas. The way her terror echoed off unseen walls. The laughter—mocking, delighted—of the creature who had destroyed her.

I gagged and dropped the phone, stomach heaving.

My mother, huddled on the floor nearby like something already half-buried, reached out blindly. When her eyes found the screen, her breath shattered into a wail.

“She’s already dead!” she cried hoarsely. “What more does he want? Does he plan to grind what’s left of my child into dust before he’s satisfied?”

I crawled to her, gripping her shoulders, trying to anchor us both. “Mama… please. I’ll handle it. I swear by the Moon Goddess, I’ll stop him. I promise—”

The words broke apart in my mouth.

Because I had no idea how.

All I knew was this: we had five days. Five days before we disappeared completely. If Dominic sensed even a hint of that, everything would collapse. I couldn’t let that happen.

Not for my mother.

Not for Ysabel.

So I swallowed my fury until it burned. Picked up the purse.

And I ran.

The location Dominic sent was deliberately vague, as if meant to remind me how small I was. I pushed through the city, past ancient stone buildings carved with pack sigils, past nobles cloaked in gold-threaded finery, past Luna-blooded women draped in silk dyed with moon-blossom hues.

At last, I reached the auction estate—a vast, guarded hall blessed by royal decree, reserved only for aristocrats and those deemed worthy of standing beside them.

That’s when I saw him.

The man from the video.

Ysabel’s attacker.

He lounged casually against a marble column, immaculate in a tailored suit, a lazy smirk stretched across his face like he owned the world.

My steps faltered. Ice spread through my veins.

“So you’re Mireya,” he said smoothly. “Marianne mentioned you’d show up with her things.”

He adjusted his cuffs, navy fabric embroidered with a silver M. “Custom work,” he added smugly. “Commissioned by Alpha Dominic’s preferred tailor. Marianne thought it suited me.”

My grip tightened around the purse. Leather creaked under the pressure as my claws threatened to break through. My wolf snarled, barely contained.

“Your twin was entertaining,” he continued, voice dripping with filth. “You both carry the same desperate scent. Guess rot runs in the blood.”

Something snapped.

I hurled the purse straight at his face.

“How dare you!” I screamed, charging him. “You don’t get to speak her name! You don’t get to exist after what you did!”

I struck wildly—fists, claws, grief driving every blow. There was no technique, only pain and rage. I wanted him to hurt. I needed him to feel something.

Shouts erupted. The heavy auction doors swung open.

A familiar voice sliced through the chaos.

“Mireya.”

Marianne stepped forward, Dominic at her side. “Who exactly authorized you to attack my client?”

The courtyard fell silent.

Dominic’s arm slid around her waist, possessive, deliberate. She leaned into him naturally—like she belonged there. Like that space had never been mine.

“You owe him an apology,” she said coolly.

My whole body shook. “He murdered my sister. And you expect me to—”

“There has been no verdict,” she cut in smoothly. “What you’re saying borders on slander.”

Before I could respond, the auction announcer’s voice boomed from inside the hall.

“Our next piece—an anonymous donation. Untitled.”

The screen lit up.

I recognized it instantly.

Ysabel’s painting.

The blues she only used when she was drowning. The curled figure beneath a bleeding moon. The one she hid away. The last thing she ever created.

“No!” I screamed. “That’s hers! You can’t sell it! That’s my sister—give it back!”

Guards closed in as I fought against them, sobbing, half-mad with grief.

Marianne folded her arms, smiling faintly. “It was gifted to me. I donated it. You’re mistaken.”

“She would never give you that!”

Dominic’s voice turned sharp. “Enough, Mireya. One more outburst and you’ll be detained.”

I stopped.

Because if I didn’t, my mother would lose me too.

Marianne stepped closer. “You still haven’t apologized.”

“What…?”

Dominic’s tone was steady, unforgiving. “Get down. Say you’re sorry.”

I stared at him, the world tilting.

“You can’t be serious.”

“I gave you an order.”

I tried to speak—but his men moved first.

They yanked my hair, slammed me to the stone. Pain exploded. Blood blurred my vision.

Dominic crouched beside me, offering a handkerchief like a mockery. “Clean yourself,” he murmured. “You used to be impressive. Now you’re just an embarrassment.”

I slapped the cloth away. Forced myself upright.

He didn’t look back. His arm settled around Marianne’s shoulders.

“Dominic,” she purred, “you’re taking me home tonight, right?”

He kissed her slowly. “Always.”

That was the final fracture.

I walked home alone. No escort. No protection. Bloodied feet. Hollow chest. Autumn wind slicing through me.

The Ivyclaw estate rose ahead—once my sanctuary. Now a tomb.

At the door, I stopped.

Sounds drifted out.

Moans. Familiar. Intimate.

I stood there for nearly an hour.

Then I entered.

Clothes everywhere. Condoms on the bookshelf I built myself. The stench of sex clung to the air.

I didn’t cry.

I climbed the stairs.

And she stopped me.

Marianne. Wrapped in my towel. The blue one.

She smiled sweetly.

“Just so you’re clear, Mireya,” she said softly, venom under silk,

“I’m not the other woman.”