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."