Wedding her Sister

A man sat alone in the corner of his study, the old leather wallet open in his palm. Inside, tucked behind faded credit cards and a forgotten receipt, rested a small photograph of a teenage girl with wild dark hair and eyes that once sparkled like forbidden secrets. A faint, bittersweet smile curved his mouth as he traced the edge of the image with his thumb.

Her voice drifted back to him, soft and taunting, from years long buried. "You don't understand how much I matter to you. When I'm gone, all you'll feel is regret for not seeing the signs... for not asking me to be yours."

He remembered every syllable, the way her lips had shaped the words like a promise wrapped in warning. His vision blurred, heat pricking behind his eyes, but he refused to let the tears fall. Not now. Not ever.

"Love..." The whisper escaped before he could stop it, raw and private. He swiped at the corner of his eye just as warm fingers settled lightly on his shoulder.

"How many times have I told you not to call me that anymore? It's Luther." He turned, forcing a half-smile that didn't reach his eyes when he saw his mother's face soften with worry, the gentle curve of her mouth fading.

"What's wrong?" He caught her hand, thumb brushing over her knuckles in quiet reassurance.

Alene hesitated, her voice barely above a breath. "Everyone's heading to The Alpha's pack for Valentine's memorial. Do you want to come?"

The name landed like a blade between his ribs. He exhaled slowly. "No. Why would I? You all decided she was dead. I never did. She's still out there."

Alene offered a sad, knowing smile and shook her head. "If that's true, then why marry her little sister Brenthena the day after tomorrow?"

His jaw tightened. "Because our pack needs the alliance with her father's. Strength matters more than sentiment." A smirk ghosted his lips as he rose and crossed to the maid waiting with his jacket.

"Do you even care about Brenthena?" Alene pressed gently.

"I'm marrying her, Mom. That's enough." He shrugged into the dark wool, already turning for the door. "I'm going to the human world. That traitor who sold our secrets to the rivals? I handle this myself."

"You could send someone," she said, voice thick with unspoken ache. She saw it all: the way he buried grief under duty, the way he ran from anything that smelled like heartbreak.

"I want him to look me in the eye when he realizes he crossed the wrong Alpha." Luther stepped out without another word.

In the backseat of the sleek black car, he pulled the photo out one last time, pressing it to his chest like a talisman before slipping the wallet away. The window rolled down at a tap. Micha, his second-in-command, slid in with a respectful dip of his head and passed over a stack of surveillance shots.

"This is the Red Club. Thompson hits it every Saturday, picks a girl, indulges." Micha's voice stayed low as the car pulled away.

Luther flipped through the images until one froze his hand. In the background of a crowded table shot, a woman sat apart, hood up, black mask concealing everything but her eyes. Those eyes. Something ancient stirred in his blood.

"Who is she?" He tapped the photo.

Micha shrugged. "Not sure. Only working girls get inside, so probably one of them."

Luther's palm lifted, silencing him. He tore the picture in half, then quarters, and flicked the pieces out into the rushing night air.

An hour later, traffic snarled the streets of the human city. Luther's patience frayed, foot tapping restlessly against the floorboard. A strange prickle crawled up his spine, like the air itself held its breath, waiting for something irreversible.

He glanced into the rearview mirror and there she was again. The same hooded figure from the photo, standing on the sidewalk amid a cluster of ragged homeless people. She moved with quiet purpose, handing out wrapped food, her masked face turned away from the world.

A filthy hand reached up, brushing across her forehead in clumsy gratitude. Luther's lip curled in instinctive disgust, yet his gaze stayed locked on that small patch of skin the beggar had touched. Something about it pulled at him.

His wolf stirred inside him. "She has something special."

"She looks filthy," Luther shot back, but the denial felt hollow.

"The Alpha... we've arrived," Micha said, stepping out to open the door.

Luther emerged into the neon-drenched night, buttoning his black coat with deliberate movements. Head to toe in darkness, he radiated power, danger, the kind of lethal grace that made strangers step aside without knowing why. Women stared openly as he passed, drawn to the sharp lines of his jaw, the shadowed intensity of his eyes. He ignored them all.

Inside the club, the air thickened with bass and perfume. Bodies pressed close, hands reaching, lips parting in invitation. Every sultry glance slid over him like silk, but his focus cut through the haze, searching only for Thompson.

Micha steered him toward the VIP section, ordered drinks neither would finish. Luther stood rigid, senses humming.

"She's here,"his wolf growled low.

Luther's brows knit. "She? Who?"

He scanned the room again, and the world narrowed to a pinpoint.

There, across the crowd, she stood.

A tight red dress barely covering her, the fabric straining over hee curves, low enough to tease the swell of her breasts, riding high on thighs. Long legs, smooth and endless, caught the strobe flashes. Her hair spilled dark and untamed over bare shoulders.

Her soft thighs could make any man loose control