The cursed Alpha Virgin bride

The satisfaction of seeing Althea's face turn purple was sweet, but short-lived. As I turned on my heel to leave, her shock morphed into a screech that clawed at my eardrums.

“Don't you walk away from me!”

Althea lunged forward, though she didn't dare touch me. Her voice echoed off the high, vaulted ceiling of the hallway.

“You think you've won just because you warmed his bed for a night? He will never Mark you! He's going to Reject you the moment he gets the chance, you stray!”

I paused, my hand tightening on the strap of my trunk. My Inner Wolf growled low in my chest, urging me to snap back, to show this pup her place.

But before I could open my mouth, the heavy oak door behind us flew open with a force that shook the floorboards.

A wave of power, cold and suffocating, slammed into the corridor. It was pure Alpha command.

Draven stood in the doorway, a pair of dark sweatpants hanging low on his hips, his chest heaving. The golden light in his eyes hadn't fully faded, swirling with a storm of irritation.

“Is there a reason,” Draven’s voice was dangerously quiet, “that you are screeching like a dying cat outside my door, Althea?”

Althea shrank back, her earlier bravado dissolving instantly. She paled, pressing herself against the wall.

“Draven, I… she was just”

“Leave,” he barked. Althea scrambled away without another word.

Draven’s gaze then snapped to me. It was heavy, physical, like a hand gripping my throat. He was searching for something fear, perhaps, or submission. I gave him neither.

I simply adjusted my bag, met his burning stare with a cool nod, and walked away toward the guest wing.

Behind me, I could feel his gaze following every step I took.

The tension didn't dissipate; it merely changed venues.

The hallway stretched endlessly ahead of me, lined with tall windows that let in the pale light of morning. Servants moved quietly along the edges of the corridor, pretending not to notice the confrontation that had just taken place. Yet their glances flickered toward me every few seconds.

News traveled quickly in pack houses.

By the time I reached the staircase, I had no doubt half the mansion already knew I had walked out of the Alpha’s bedroom.

My wolf huffed in irritation. Let them talk. An hour later, I sat at the massive polished oak table in the pack's dining hall.

The room smelled of old money and judgement.

Cordelia Whitmore, the former Luna, sat at the head of the table, slicing into her grapefruit with surgical precision.

“A proper Luna,” Cordelia began without looking up, “would have been awake at dawn to inspect the warriors' training. Sleeping in is a human habit, not one befitting the Shadowclaw Pack.”

I unfolded my napkin, placing it on my lap. Across the table, Draven was drinking black coffee, his eyes glued to the tablet, ignoring us both.

“I am here per Elder Thalos's Arrangements, Mrs. Whitmore,” I replied, my voice steady. “I wasn't aware I was auditing for the role of pack housekeeper. My duties will be defined by my Alpha, not by the traditions of the past.”

The silence that followed was sharp enough to cut glass. Cordelia’s knife screeched against her plate.

Draven didn't look up, but the corner of his mouth twitched whether in annoyance or amusement, I couldn't tell.

A few pack members seated farther down the table suddenly became very interested in their food.

Cordelia dabbed her mouth with a napkin, her expression tightening.

“You would do well to remember where you are,” she said calmly. “Shadowclaw is not one of those careless packs that tolerates arrogance.”

“And I would do well,” I replied quietly, “to remember I was invited here by your elders.”

Draven finally looked up.

His gray eyes locked onto mine.

For a brief moment, something unreadable flickered across his face. Interest. Curiosity.

Then it vanished.

He returned his attention to the tablet as if the conversation bored him.

Breakfast concluded in suffocating silence.

As I stood to leave, Cordelia intercepted me near the archway, her face a mask of faux benevolence.

“Wait,” she said, sliding a sleek black credit card across the sideboard toward me.

“Take this. Go buy some decent clothes. The Luna of Shadowclaw cannot be seen wearing... whatever this is. You look like a Rogue.”

I looked at the card, then at her.

The insult was wrapped in charity, designed to make me feel small, indebted.

My phone buzzed in my pocket.

I pulled it out.

A notification flashed on the screen:

Bank Transfer Received: $50,000,000.00.

Immediately, a familiar, gruff voice echoed in my mind, bypassing the physical distance between us.

Have fun, my little wolf. Don't let them think we Holloway wolves can't afford a skirt.

My grandfather.

Former Alpha Kutcher of the Nightveil Pack.

A smile tugged at my lips.

“Thank you for the offer, Cordelia,” I said softly, sliding my phone back into my pocket.

I didn't touch the card.

“But I think I can manage without the Pack's charity for now.”

I walked past her, leaving her staring at my back, mouth slightly agape.

Behind me, I heard the faint sound of the credit card being snatched off the table.

The drive to the Whitmore Group headquarters was a different kind of torture.

The interior of the Alpha's SUV was a sealed capsule of sensory overload.

The air was thick with Draven's scent cedar, rain, and that underlying spice that made my mouth water despite my hatred for him.

My scent, jasmine and forest pine, mingled with his, creating a heady cocktail that made the air feel electric.

Draven sat in the back seat beside me, his long legs cramping the space.

He hadn't spoken a word since we left the estate, but the aggression rolling off him was palpable.

The driver kept his eyes firmly on the road.

No one wanted to interrupt the Alpha.

Finally, Draven broke the silence.

“You enjoy provoking my family.”

His voice was calm, but there was steel beneath it.

I looked out the window, watching the city blur past.

“I enjoy defending myself.”

He let out a low breath that almost sounded like a laugh.

“You're bold,” he said.

“Or foolish.”

I turned to face him.

“Perhaps both.”

His gaze slid toward me slowly.

For a moment, the tension between us thickened.

“You should be careful,” he murmured. “Shadowclaw is not a place where outsiders thrive.”

“And yet,” I replied, “your elders brought me here.”

His jaw tightened.

“Yes,” he said quietly.

“They did.”

The SUV rolled to a stop in front of a towering glass building.

Whitmore Group headquarters.

As the driver stepped out to open the door, Draven spoke again.

Low enough that only I could hear.

“You may have survived breakfast,” he said, “but don't mistake that for victory.”

I met his gaze calmly.

“I'm not trying to win.”

The corner of his mouth lifted slightly.

“That,” he said as he stepped out of the car, “is exactly what makes you dangerous.”