I ran blindly through the forest, branches tearing at my already ruined dress, my bare feet bleeding from sharp stones and thorns. The pain of Marcus's public rejection burned through my body like acid, but I welcomed the physical agony—anything to distract from the soul-deep wound of betrayal.
Seven years. Seven years I had loved him, trusted him, believed I mattered to someone. All a lie.
"I, Marcus Thompson, future Alpha of the Silvermoon Pack, reject you, Emily Watson, as my mate."
His words echoed in my mind with each desperate step I took deeper into the wilderness. The mate bond I thought we shared had been violently severed, leaving me hollow and raw. I couldn't go back—not to the basement, not to my parents who had clearly known about this all along, not to Grace's triumphant smirk.
I had nothing. I was nothing.
The sun was setting when I finally collapsed against a gnarled oak, my lungs burning, throat parched. I didn't recognize this part of the forest. Had I crossed into neutral territory? Or worse, another pack's land? It didn't matter. Nothing mattered anymore.
A twig snapped somewhere to my left.
I froze, suddenly aware of how vulnerable I was—a wolfless omega, alone, with no pack protection. The forest had gone eerily silent.
"Well, what do we have here?" A rough voice shattered the stillness.
Three figures emerged from the shadows, their scents marking them as rogues—wolves without packs, dangerous and unpredictable. They wore black masks, but their intentions were clear in their predatory stances.
"Please," I whispered, backing away until my spine pressed against rough bark. "I'm just passing through."
The tallest one laughed, the sound like gravel. "Passing through? No, sweetheart. You're the delivery."
"Delivery?" My voice trembled.
"Your sister sends her regards," said another, stepping closer. "Paid us good money to take care of her little problem."
Grace. Of course. Rejecting me wasn't enough—she wanted me gone completely.
"The Rogue King pays well for pretty little omegas," the third one sneered, reaching out to grab my chin. "Even damaged ones."
I jerked away and tried to run, but a heavy body slammed into mine, driving me to the ground. The air rushed from my lungs as a boot pressed between my shoulder blades.
"Make it easier on yourself," the gravelly voice advised. "King Kaelen likes them spirited, but not too broken."
Kaelen. The name sent ice through my veins. Every wolf knew of the brutal Rogue King who collected she-wolves like trophies, using them until they broke before discarding them.
A fist connected with my ribs, and pain exploded through my side. I tasted blood as another blow landed on my face.
"Stop fighting," one hissed, twisting my arm behind my back until I screamed. "Your sister said you were weak. Prove her right and this will hurt less."
I spat blood onto his boots. If I was going to die or worse, I wouldn't give Grace the satisfaction of hearing I went quietly.
The beating that followed was methodical. They were careful not to damage me too severely—merchandise needed to be presentable—but each blow was calculated to cause maximum pain.
As my consciousness began to fade, I heard one of them say, "Bind her. We move out at—"
His words cut off in a strangled gurgle as the night air split with a thunderous roar that shook the very ground beneath us. The pressure on my back suddenly vanished.
Through swollen eyes, I watched a massive golden-brown wolf, larger than any I'd ever seen, crash through the trees like a force of nature. His fangs flashed silver in the moonlight as he tore into my attackers. The rogues' screams pierced the night, their bodies flying through the air like ragdolls.
This was no ordinary wolf. This was a Lycan—wolf royalty, ancient and powerful beyond measure.
In seconds, the rogues lay broken and scattered. The massive wolf stood over them, his amber eyes burning with rage. Then, in a fluid motion that spoke of immense power controlled, he shifted.
Where the wolf had stood now towered a man with the same golden-brown hair, his muscular form radiating authority and barely contained fury. I recognized him instantly—Alexander Kane, the notorious Lycan Prince of the Shadowmoon Pack.
Our enemy.
His amber eyes locked with mine, something unreadable flickering in their depths.
"Emily Watson," he said, his deep voice washing over me like a physical touch.
How did he know my name? Why was he here? Why would the Lycan Prince save a worthless, rejected omega?
The questions swirled in my fading consciousness as darkness claimed me, the last thing I saw being Alexander moving toward me with purpose in his stride.
