Chapter 1

[Sera]

Three jobs should be illegal.

Not in the fun, rebellious way where you're sticking it to the man and living your best outlaw life. No. I mean it should literally be against some kind of labor law, because no twenty-three-year-old wolfless werewolf should have to wake up at four-thirty in the morning smelling like yesterday's espresso grounds, tonight's pizza grease, and the industrial bleach I use to scrub hotel toilets.

But here I am. Sera Winters. Professional disappointment. Pack Omega. And somehow still breathing despite running on four hours of sleep and the cheapest instant ramen money can buy.

My phone buzzes on the café counter, and I glance at it between pulling espresso shots for the morning rush. It's another G****e Alert. Because yes, I have G****e Alerts set up for one person, and no, I'm not ashamed. Okay, I'm a little ashamed. But mostly I'm just committed to my delusions.

"Killian Voss to attend Voss Group Annual Charity Gala tonight."

My heart does that stupid fluttery thing it's been doing for three years—ever since I saw his face on the cover of Fortune Wolves magazine and decided my life's purpose was to pine pathetically for a man who doesn't know I exist.

Killian Voss. Twenty-nine. Alpha King. CEO of the Voss Group. Owner of a jawline that could cut glass and eyes so cold they probably have their own climate zone. He's the kind of gorgeous that makes you forget how to form sentences. The kind of powerful that makes Alphas bow their heads. The kind of untouchable that should make girls like me laugh at the sheer absurdity of ever catching his attention.

Should. But doesn't.

"Sera! Two cappuccinos, one with oat milk!" Riley, my manager, barks from the register.

"On it!" I call back, forcing my eyes away from the photo of Killian in his perfectly tailored suit. Even in a still image, he looks like he could ruin your life and your credit score with a single glance.

I've been obsessed with him since I was twenty. It started innocently enough—I saw him in a magazine at the grocery store, and something in my chest just clicked. Like my wolf, dormant and useless as she is, suddenly sat up and paid attention for the first time in my life.

Now my phone is ninety percent screenshots of his interviews. My notebooks—the cheap dollar-store ones I use because I can't afford real sketchbooks—are filled with drawings of his face. His profile. His hands. That little furrow he gets between his eyebrows when he's listening to something he doesn't like.

I know. It's pathetic. It's creepy. It's the kind of behavior that would get me a restraining order if he knew about it.

But he's never going to know, because people like Killian Voss don't notice people like me.

I'm wolfless. Bottom of the pack hierarchy. I live in a studio apartment that's more "closet with delusions of grandeur" than actual living space. My furniture is from thrift stores. My clothes have holes I've sewn shut so many times they're basically modern art. And my dreams of becoming a real artist?

Yeah. Those died somewhere between my second job as a delivery driver and my third job cleaning hotel rooms for tourists who apparently think trash cans are decorative.

The morning shift drags. By ten AM, I've made approximately four hundred lattes, gotten yelled at by two Karens about milk foam consistency, and seriously contemplated faking my own death to avoid my delivery shift. But I need the money. I always need the money.

So I clock out, grab my helmet, and head to my beat-up scooter that's held together by duct tape and prayer.

Four hours of delivering pizzas, Chinese food, and one very questionable order of "extra anchovies" later, I'm pulling into the parking lot of the Grandeur Hotel for my evening shift. My back aches. My feet hurt. And I smell like a combination of pepperoni and exhaust fumes.

Glamorous.

I'm halfway through scrubbing a bathtub when my phone buzzes. It's Riley. Again.

"Emergency. Need someone for a VIP delivery tonight. Good tip. You available?"

I stare at the message. I'm supposed to clean ten more rooms before my shift ends at nine. But "good tip" means I might actually be able to buy real pencils instead of the ones that break if you look at them wrong.

"What's the delivery?" I text back.

"Coffee and pastries for the Voss Group gala. Last-minute order. They'll pay double. Plus tip."

The Voss Group gala.

Where Killian Voss will be.

My hands are shaking as I type back: "I'll take it."

I'm not delusional enough to think I'll actually see him. He'll be inside with the other alphas and socialites, drinking champagne that costs more than my rent. I'll be at the service entrance, handing off thermal bags to some coordinator who won't even look at my face.

But still. I'll be breathing the same air. Walking the same halls.

It's pathetic, but it's my pathetic, and I'm owning it.

 

Two hours later, I'm wearing my cleanest café uniform—which is still stained but at least smells like coffee instead of toilet cleaner—and pulling up to the Grandeur Hotel's service entrance with two massive thermal delivery bags.

The gala is being held in the hotel's grand ballroom, and even from the back, I can hear the music and see the glow of a thousand expensive lights. Luxury cars line the front entrance. Wolves in designer suits and glittering dresses glide through the doors like they're walking on air.

I park my scooter and hoist the bags. They're heavy. My arms are already tired from today's marathon of manual labor, but I grit my teeth and head toward the service door.

A staff coordinator meets me inside—clipboard in hand, expression harried.

"You the coffee delivery?"

"That's me."

"Third floor. Staff corridor. There's a service station set up. Just leave everything there and sign out."

"Got it."

I take the service elevator up, my heart pounding stupidly in my chest. I'm not going to see him. I'm not. But maybe I'll catch a glimpse through a doorway. Maybe I'll hear his voice.

The third floor is elegant in that understated way that screams "we have more money than you'll ever see." The staff corridor is quieter, separated from the main event by thick doors that muffle the sounds of the gala.

I'm walking toward the service station, bags in hand, when a door ahead of me opens.

And he walks out.

Killian. Voss.

In person.

My brain short-circuits. Completely. Like someone just yanked the power cord on my entire nervous system. He's taller than I imagined. Broader. And somehow even more devastating in person. His suit is black, perfectly tailored, making him look like sin and power wrapped in Italian wool. His dark hair is styled back, showing off those sharp cheekbones and that mouth I've drawn approximately six hundred times.

He doesn't see me at first. He's on his phone, expression tight, irritated about something. But then his eyes flick up.

And meet mine.

I freeze. Completely forget how to breathe. How to think. How to exist.

For one impossible, crystalline moment, we're just staring at each other.

Then his expression changes. His nostrils flare slightly. His jaw tightens.

He takes a step toward me, and I swear every nerve ending in my body lights up like a Christmas tree.

"You," he says, and his voice is even better in person—deep and commanding and slightly rough around the edges.

My mouth opens. Nothing comes out. I'm pretty sure I've forgotten language entirely.

"What is that smell?" He sounds disgusted now, and my heart plummets into my stomach. "Are you wearing perfume?"

"I—what?" I manage to squeak out.

"That scent. It's..." He shakes his head sharply, like he's trying to clear it. "It's making me dizzy. Get away from me."

The words hit like a slap. My fantasy—three years of stupid, hopeless fantasy—crumbles in approximately five seconds.

"I'm not—I don't wear perfume," I stammer. "I'm just delivering—"

"I don't care what you're delivering. Just go." He turns away from me, one hand braced against the wall like he's steadying himself. "Get out of here."

Humiliation burns through me, hot and acidic. Tears prick at my eyes, but I blink them back furiously. I will not cry. Not here. Not in front of him.

I force my feet to move, hurrying past him toward the service station. My hands are shaking as I set down the bags and sign the delivery sheet. The coordinator barely glances at me, already moving to transport everything.

I need to leave. Now. Before I completely break down.

I head back toward the service elevator, but the coordinator redirects me. "That elevator's temporarily out. Use the stairs at the end of the hall. They'll take you down to the back exit."

Fine. Whatever. I just need to get out of this building before I suffocate on my own mortification.

The staff corridor is dimly lit, utilitarian. My footsteps echo on the linoleum floor. I'm speed-walking, nearly running, when I round a corner and nearly trip over something.

No. Not something.

Someone.

A man. Collapsed on the floor. Face-down, one arm stretched out like he was reaching for something.

My first instinct is to run past him, to get help, to—

Then I see the dark hair. The expensive suit.

The silver wolf cufflinks on his sleeves.

No.

No, no, no.

I drop to my knees beside him, my hands hovering uselessly. "Mr. Voss? Mr. Voss, can you hear me?"

He doesn't respond. His breathing is shallow, labored. His skin is burning hot even through his suit jacket.

What do I do? What the hell do I do?

I reach for my phone to call for help.

And then Killian Voss's hand shoots out and grabs my wrist.

His eyes open. But they're not the cold gray I saw five minutes ago.

They're gold.

Pure, molten gold.

And they're looking at me like I'm the only thing in the world that matters.

"Mine," he growls, his voice completely different—primal and raw and definitely not human. "Mate."