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Addicted to His Rejected Mate

Addicted to His Rejected Mate

Werewolf
last updateLast Updated : 2026-03-19
By:  Paw MccartneyUpdated just now
Language: English
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Synopsis

First-Person POV

Steamy

Drama

Alpha

Omega

CEO

Pregnant

Regret

Reject

Killian Voss—the Alpha King, the man Sera had secretly loved for three years—grabbed her by the throat the morning after he marked her. "I would never touch someone like you. Not sober." Then he rejected her in front of everyone. Because she was nothing but a wolfless Omega. But his wolf betrayed him. Every full moon, when his human side lost control, he came crawling back to her bed. Desperate. Hungry. Touching her like she was sacred, tasting every inch his pride refused to claim. They called it Mate Madness—the curse that struck Alphas who rejected their True Mate. He needed her to survive. So she became his dirty secret. His monthly fix. The woman he claimed in moonlight and discarded by dawn. Sera told herself she could handle it. The contract. The money. The way he treated her like a curse he couldn't shake. Until she got pregnant. "Get rid of it," he said without even looking at her. "I don't want any connection to an Omega." That was the moment something inside her finally died. She took her baby and ran. Six months later, there was a knock at her door. The cold-blooded Alpha King was on his knees, begging for a second chance. But this time, she was the one who got to say no.

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Chapter 1

Chapter 1

[Sera]

The service entrance of the Grandeur Hotel smells like industrial soap and someone's leftover cigarette break. I duck past two caterers arguing about shrimp platters and a security guard who doesn't even glance at my badge. Fair enough. Nobody looks twice at the girl in the slightly-too-big barista uniform carrying an espresso tamper like it's a weapon.

That's me tonight. Sera Winters, emergency caffeine slinger for the Voss Group's Annual Charity Gala. My boss Riley hit me up an hour ago. Original barista bailed, desperate times, blah blah. High-society snobs usually turn up their noses at our little coffee joint, but desperation lowers standards. Riley couldn't swing it, so here I am, volunteering like a champ.

Not for the cash, though let's be real, my bank account's a tragedy. Three gigs and I'm still dodging rent notices like they're bad exes. Checking my balance is basically inviting a panic attack.

Not for the overtime bump either. Nice perk, sure. Maybe I could splurge on actual art pencils instead of the bargain-bin ones that crumble if you breathe wrong.

Nah. I'm here for him.

Killian Voss. Twenty-nine. Alpha King. Voss Group overlord. Owner of a face that's haunted my sketchbook for three solid years. I've got G****e Alerts set, magazine clippings tucked away like contraband. That Forbes interview I watched a dozen times, mostly for the sleeve-roll at 4:32 that shorts out my brain cells.

I know how this sounds. A wolfless Omega scraping by on ramen and regrets, mooning over North America's top Alpha like he's attainable. It's not cute. It's a therapy session waiting to happen. If crushes came with legal papers, mine would have a no-contact order.

But tonight we're in the same room. No screens, no pixels. Just actual air molecules shared with the man. I'll brew his joe from behind the machine, steal glances like a pro, and bounce with a fresh memory to doodle till dawn.

Fine. It's enough. For someone like me, it's everything.

The coffee setup's a marble slab by the east wall, near enough for mingling, far enough the grinder doesn't drown the violins. I unpack like clockwork: filter, beans, pitcher, cups in formation. My hands know this dance. Three jobs build muscle memory, or maybe just survival instincts.

First hour's a haze of fancy orders from folks who treat their lattes like offspring. One lady demands a half-caf almond cortado with two vanilla pumps and foam at exactly 140. I nail it, no sweat. Rich people love testing boundaries, see if you'll crack. I don't. Smile, steam, serve. Head down.

And yeah, I scan the crowd like a hawk on espresso. Every dark suit gets a double-take. Every broad back spikes my pulse. Focus, Sera. You're on the clock. But nope, heart's a traitor, pounding like it knows he's orbiting nearby.

Then. Mid-milk froth, I look up.

He's heading my way.

My brain blanks. Not the rom-com cute kind. The full system reboot. He's not pixels anymore. Real. Black suit hugging him like it was born for the job, hair swept back from a face I've sketched a million times.

The kind of walk that says he's never once wondered where he stands in any room. People shift aside, eyes trailing.

My heart's staging a full revolt. Pretty sure this qualifies as a cardiac event.

He hits the counter. "Black coffee. No sugar."

That voice. Gravel wrapped in silk, no earbuds muffling it. He's scrolling his phone, brow furrowed in that crease I've tried and failed to capture.

To him, I'm scenery. The coffee bot.

And that's cool. Better than cool. He's here, stubble shadowing his jaw, collar framing his throat. Even being ignored beats the fantasy.

Don't screw this up. No spills. No gawking.

Hands tremble as I pull the shot. Force them steady. Espresso flows perfect, rich, dark. Slide the cup over.

Our fingers graze, the tiniest contact, barely there.

But he freezes. Predator-still. Nostrils flare. Phone forgotten, that mask cracks. Sharp, on edge, almost spooked.

He looks. Really looks.

I flinch.

His eyes narrow, jaw locks like he's chewing glass. Whatever pinged him, it's not good.

"What perfume is that?"

Voice shifts to cold steel. No distraction.

"I… none. I'm not wearing any."

His eyes slit further, storm clouds gathering behind them.

"That smell." His voice turns accusatory. "It's overwhelming. Impossible to ignore."

He shoves the cup back. Untouched. Like my effort's poison.

"I'm serious, no perfume." My voice shrinks, pathetic. "Maybe the beans? Or the cleaner on the—"

"Enough."

Cuts like a whip. I shut up.

He glances at my tag. Lip curls, just a twitch.

"I see." Quiet, lethal. "Omegas drenching themselves in synthetic pheromones, hoping to land someone above their station."

Each word lands like a slap.

He tilts his head, dissecting me like roadkill. "Your type always tries."

He grabs the cup, my careful pour, and dumps it, saucer and all, in the trash. Like touching my work dirties him.

Flags a manager. "Relocate her. Somewhere she won't disrupt."

He walks back into the gala without looking at me again.

I stand frozen. Machine hums like nothing happened.

Manager approaches, all awkward sympathy. He heard it all. I nod, cool as ice.

"Where to?"

I gather my equipment and walk to the corner he banished me to. Spine straight. I take my dignity with me. It's the only thing I have that he can't throw away.

My hands don't shake until I'm halfway there. Small victory.

So that's Killian Voss unfiltered.

Noted. Three years wasted on a guy who sees me as a scheming scent-bomb. Awesome. Really glad I set a G****e Alert for this.

The corner station is exactly as glamorous as it sounds. Dim lighting, a decorative column, a potted plant that's seen better days. I make drinks for the handful of guests who wander over and exist in the specific silence of being someone no one is thinking about.

I should be angry. He shamed me, threw bullshit accusations, banished me like clutter. Fury's justified.

But underneath the anger is something worse. The specific humiliation of having your fantasy dismantled by reality. Not the rejection. The contempt. The absolute certainty in his voice when he said your kind. Like I'm a box to check, not a person.

From my corner, I watch him smile at a donor, warm, charming, practiced.

That's the grin I screenshotted.

Looks fake now.

I'm telling myself not to stare when a woman moves to Killian's side, not approaching him the way others do, with that careful orbit. She moves into his space like she's always been there. Stunning. Burgundy silk, diamonds flashing, hair swept up to expose the kind of neck sculptors dream about. She whispers in his ear, and the light off her diamonds dances across his jaw.

He leans in. Automatic. Intimate.

It clicks. Victoria Thorn. Killian's childhood sweetheart. The woman everyone assumes he'll marry.

The contrast lands like a fist to the sternum. Her in the glow, me in the gloom. Her hand on him, mine steadying a pitcher.

She murmurs; he almost smiles.

Something crumples inside. Quiet. No fuss.

I look away. Wipe a spotless counter.

Toward the end of the evening, I glance up. Killian is gone. Victoria is gone. Neither is in the ballroom.

Mind fills in the blank. Left together. Duh.

I set the pitcher down. Apron off. Pack up.

Go home, Sera. Delete the G****e Alerts. Throw out the sketchbook. It's done.

Service hall's dim, quiet. Steps echo over vents and distant clatter.

I take the staff exit shortcut. Shift done. Gear handed off. Eight hours till the alarm for tomorrow's grind.

Fine. Reality check. Tomorrow I unbecome the girl who schedules her life around a stranger's spotlight. Healthy. Maybe I'll knit. Or something equally lame.

Then I round a corner and almost trip over him.

Killian Voss. On the floor.

Half collapsed against the wall, collar torn open, tie wrenched loose. His breathing is ragged, his skin flushed, sweat beading at his temples.

He looks wrong. Not drunk. Something else. Like he's fighting something from the inside.

Instincts scream: Walk. He trashed you. Doesn't deserve worry. Step over, bounce.

But another tugs. The one that made me rescue a rain-soaked stray last month, late shift be damned. Can't ignore a floor-collapsed human. Even him.

I crouch. Keep my distance.

"Mr. Voss? You hear me? Are you okay?"

No answer. Head down, hair curtaining his face. Breath worsens. Shallow gasps.

"Should I call for help? Security? The lobby's close, I can—"

His head lifts.

Words die in my throat. His eyes are gold.

Not gray steel. Molten fire, glowing unnatural. Unfocused. Wild. The beast in charge.

Pulse hammers.

I've heard tales of Alphas' wolves surfacing, eyes shifting color. But wolfless me has never seen it firsthand.

I rise slowly, palms up. Animal protocol.

"Okay. You need help. I'll grab—"

I turn.

Wrist grabbed.

He yanks me forward and I stumble, catching myself against the wall with my free hand. Closer now, his strength impossible for a man who was just crumpled on the floor.

"Let… Mr. Voss, you're confused, you probably think I'm someone else—"

"No."

The word tears out of him, guttural, absolute. Like the suggestion itself is an insult.

He pulls me in, buries his face against my neck, and inhales deep. Shuddering. Like my scent is the only air in the room.

Same smell he hated minutes ago. Now it anchors him. His body quakes. Grip tightens. Heat radiates off him in waves.

Then: "Sera."

Not "the Omega." Not "your type." My name. The one he shouldn't remember.

I freeze. Solid.

This guy shamed me. Trashed my work. Banished me. Now he clings like I'm salvation, face buried in my neck, my name on his lips like a broken prayer.

What the actual hell?

Maybe I'm dreaming, hallucinating from my corner exile.

My mouth opens, though I have no clue what for.

Heels click. Approaching. Sharp echo.

"Killian? They're ready for your toast."

Victoria.

Every muscle in my body locks. She's coming down this hallway. He's wrapped around me. And this looks like exactly what he accused me of doing.

If she finds us like this, I'm not just humiliated. I'm destroyed.

I yank at my wrist. Try to pull free.

But before I can react, he moves. One fluid motion, pulling me through a door I hadn't noticed, into a darkened VIP room. The door clicks shut.

Darkness. The muffled sound of Victoria's heels drawing closer on the other side of the wall.

But I can't move. Can't breathe. His arms are around me, his heartbeat slamming against my chest, his breath hot against my throat. Those impossible gold eyes, the only light in the room, fixed on me with an intensity that steals the air from my lungs.

His voice comes out raw. Almost inhuman. A single whisper that cracks something open inside my chest I won't be able to close again.

"Don't go."

A breath. His arms tighten.

"Mate."

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reviews

Julia Thomas
Julia Thomas
The story is good and interesting, but if you could add 2 chapters each day, it would be great... please consider it
2026-01-27 01:21:54
2
0
Jai Fuentes
Jai Fuentes
Good story
2026-01-07 05:34:07
3
0
109 Chapters
Chapter 1
[Sera] The service entrance of the Grandeur Hotel smells like industrial soap and someone's leftover cigarette break. I duck past two caterers arguing about shrimp platters and a security guard who doesn't even glance at my badge. Fair enough. Nobody looks twice at the girl in the slightly-too-big barista uniform carrying an espresso tamper like it's a weapon. That's me tonight. Sera Winters, emergency caffeine slinger for the Voss Group's Annual Charity Gala. My boss Riley hit me up an hour ago. Original barista bailed, desperate times, blah blah. High-society snobs usually turn up their noses at our little coffee joint, but desperation lowers standards. Riley couldn't swing it, so here I am, volunteering like a champ. Not for the cash, though let's be real, my bank account's a tragedy. Three gigs and I'm still dodging rent notices like they're bad exes. Checking my balance is basically inviting a panic attack. Not for the overtime bump either. Nice perk, sure. Maybe I could s
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Chapter 2
[Sera] The word hits me so hard the room tilts. Mate. The one thing every wolf girl dreams of hearing, whispered like a curse in this shadowed room. Killian Voss, the untouchable Alpha King, pinning me against the door with eyes like liquid gold, and he's calling me that. Me. The wolfless nobody who couldn't shift if her life depended on it. The girl who sketches his face in secret because real life never hands out miracles like this. I should laugh. Or scream. Or shove him away and bolt before Victoria's heels click back this way. But my body's not listening. It's like every nerve ending has tuned into his frequency, buzzing with something electric and terrifying. "Killian," I manage, my voice coming out as a pathetic rasp. "This... this can't be right." But he doesn't pull back. If anything, he presses closer, his breath hot against my skin. And then his mouth crashes into mine, not soft, not tentative, nothing like the polished gentleman from the ballroom. This is all teet
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Chapter 3
[Sera] "I didn't—I didn't do anything—" The words scrape out, raw and thin, barely audible over the pound of my heart. My free hand flutters uselessly at his wrist, not pulling, just holding on, because if I let go, I might fall apart completely. He doesn't buy it. His face twists, that perfect jaw locking like he's biting back something vicious. "That's not possible." His voice is a blade, precise and freezing. "I would never touch someone like you. Not sober. Not willingly." Someone like you. The words reduce me to a thing, a category. He doesn't remember. The thought crashes in. He doesn't remember the gold in his eyes, the way he held me like I was precious, the bite that still throbs on my neck like a second heartbeat. None of it. His gaze drops to the floor, snags on my crumpled uniform shirt. Recognition flickers, not the warm kind, not you're the one, but the sharp, disgusted kind that says you're the help who got too close. His hand releases my throat, not with c
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Chapter 4
[Killian] The door clicks shut. I'm still holding the bills. She shoved them into my chest, the whole stack, didn't even count it, and walked out before I could get a word in. Barefoot, carrying her shoes, like I was the one being dismissed. A wolfless Omega who can't afford shoes that fit just threw a thousand dollars back in my face. I almost want to laugh. I fold the bills into my wallet. Done. She's gone. A bad night, a lapse in judgment, the kind of story that disappears because no one who matters will ever hear it. I pull out my phone. "Liam. Suite 412. Bring a change of clothes. And have housekeeping gut this room. New carpet, new upholstery. Bill it to my personal account." I hang up before he can ask questions. The room is a disaster. Chaise wrecked. My shirt on the floor next to a toppled wine glass, red bleeding into carpet. My wolf hijacked my body, did whatever it wanted for six hours, and left me to clean up. Chalk it up to the whiskey, the crowd, a sensor
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Chapter 5
[Sera] Six days since I threw his money back in his face. Six days of pulling double shifts, dodging my landlord's texts, and pretending the mark on my neck is just a really committed hickey that refuses to fade. It's darker now. Deeper red, the edges threading out like roots digging in. I stopped looking in mirrors three days ago. Denial is cheaper than therapy. Riley slides a fresh mug of black coffee across the counter, the good stuff she saves for when I look like roadkill. "You look like death. Again." "Charming." I wipe down the steam wand without meeting her eyes. The café's dead tonight. Full moon has the wolves tucked away doing whatever primal nonsense they do. Howling, shifting, eating their feelings. For me it's just another Tuesday. "I'm fine." "You've said that fourteen times this week. I counted." I almost smile. Almost. "Fifteen now." The grinder hums behind me, steady and familiar. Busy is good. Busy means I don't think about gold eyes or whispered promises
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Chapter 6
[Sera] Mate. The word doesn't come from me. It slides into my skull like warm honey, thick and golden and impossible to rinse away. Not a thought. His. Low and rough and aching, like the wolf is pressing its whole soul against the inside of my ribs. I stare down at the massive black wolf still nuzzling my neck, its hot breath fanning over the mark that refuses to fade. "Killian?" My voice cracks. Golden eyes flash up at me—molten, desperate, relieved. A low whine vibrates through its chest, so full of raw need it makes my knees want to buckle. Then the shift starts. Bones crack and pop like gunfire in the narrow hallway. Fur ripples and recedes, melting away in dark waves. The huge body shrinks, contorts, reforms with wet, sickening sounds that turn my stomach. I can't look away. It should repulse me. Maybe it would, if the man crouching where the wolf was didn't look so completely wrecked. Naked. Panting. Sweat gleaming on golden skin stretched over muscle that belongs
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Chapter 7
[Sera] "You look like shit." Riley's standing at the espresso machine, watching me wipe down the counter with the intensity of someone who's already diagnosed my entire medical history through vibes alone. The morning rush just ended, leaving the café in that blessed mid-morning lull where only a few stragglers nurse their drinks by the window. "Good morning to you too," I mutter. "I'm serious." She leans against the pastry case, arms crossed. "Didn't you rest yesterday? You look worse than you did before your day off." "Just didn't sleep well," I say, scrubbing a spot that's already clean. What I don't say: I spent most of the night sitting in my wrecked hallway with glass in my hair and an unconscious loan shark at my feet, waiting for someone to call the cops. Nobody did. Guess gunshot-level noise is just Tuesday in my building. I dragged the thug to the stairwell before dawn—couldn't leave a whole body outside my door—and duct-taped a garbage bag over the shattered wind
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Chapter 8
[Sera] "What if I say no?" The words hang between us like a dare. Killian's jaw tightens, and for a moment, I see something flicker behind those icy gray eyes—surprise, maybe. Like he genuinely didn't consider that possibility. Rich people. They really do live in their own reality, don't they? "The terms are negotiable," he says finally. His voice is clipped. Controlled. Like he's conducting a board meeting instead of trying to buy access to my body. "If you're unhappy with the compensation—" "It's not about the money." His brow furrows. "Then what is it about?" He sounds genuinely confused. Like the concept of someone refusing him on principle is a foreign language he never bothered to learn. I let out a laugh that scrapes my throat raw. "It's about the fact that I hate you." Silence. His knuckles whiten on the steering wheel. The leather creaks under his grip. "Hate is a strong word," he says slowly. "Good. I meant it strongly." I press myself harder against t
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Chapter 9
[Sera] The Voss Group headquarters looked like it was designed by someone who wanted to make poor people cry. Glass and steel stretching toward the sky like a middle finger to everyone who couldn't afford the view from the top. I'd walked past this building a hundred times during delivery shifts—seen it gleaming against the sunset, glowing like a beacon for the rich and powerful. Never once did I think I'd actually walk inside. Never thought I'd have to. I stood on the sidewalk in my nicest clothes—which is to say, my only shirt without visible patches and jeans that were merely faded instead of actively disintegrating. The business card felt like a lead weight in my pocket. Cream-colored paper, embossed logo, a direct number I'd stared at for six hours before finally calling. The conversation had lasted eleven seconds. I said my name. The voice on the other end said, "Tomorrow. Ten AM. Main lobby." Then the line went dead. My reflection in the polished glass doors looked l
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Chapter 10
[Sera] The words hit like ice water. Like a blade sliding between my ribs. He meant it. Every cold, calculated syllable. To him, I was just another acquisition. Another problem to be solved with money and power. His finger still held my chin, and I yanked away from his touch like it burned. It did burn. The mate mark on my neck throbbed with a heat that made me want to claw at my own skin. "You have twenty-four hours to consider," Killian said, stepping back. His expression had already reset to that infuriating blankness—bored billionaire discussing quarterly reports. "I suggest you think carefully." Twenty-four hours. Like I needed that long to know I was standing at the edge of a cliff with nowhere to go but down. "I'll sign." The words left my mouth before my brain caught up. His eyebrows rose slightly—the most emotion I'd seen from him in the past ten minutes. "Now?" A hint of something in his voice. Surprise? Amusement? Probably just wondering if I was stupid enoug
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