Chapter One

The golden hue of a Sunday morning spilled through the thin, threadbare curtains of Liliene’s cramped room—a stark contrast to the grand, sprawling bedrooms the rest of her family occupied. She woke up with a quiet groan, her muscles aching from the endless labor of the day before.

She quickly made her small bed, took a hurried, lukewarm shower to save on the water bill, and practically ran down to the sprawling kitchen. Since her father’s passing, the mansion had become a prison. The staff was let go, and the heavy burden of maintaining the massive estate fell entirely on her fragile shoulders.

She prepared a lavish breakfast—fluffy omelets, crispy bacon, and freshly pressed orange juice—precisely the way her stepmother and stepsister demanded. She ate the burnt scraps left in the pan, washing them down with tap water, before carefully setting the grand dining table.

Taking a deep breath, she climbed the sweeping staircase. She knocked softly on her stepsister’s door. "Ayesha? Breakfast is ready. Please come down before it gets cold."

Next was the master suite. "Mother, breakfast is served," she called out, keeping her voice carefully neutral.

While they ate, Liliene didn't rest. She hurried outside into the biting morning air, sweeping the endless blanket of autumn leaves from the massive driveway, separating the compost from the trash, and watering the sprawling rose gardens her father used to love. By the time she stepped back inside, her hands were raw and trembling from the cold.

She gathered the heavy baskets of laundry, relieved that she at least had the washing machine to lighten her load.

"Liliene!"

Her stepmother’s sharp voice echoed from the dining hall just as Liliene loaded the first batch of clothes. She dropped her arms to her sides and hurried over, stopping exactly a meter away—the distance they required of her.

"Yes, Mother?" Liliene asked softly, keeping her eyes cast downward.

Her stepmother, Mrs. Denver dabbed her lips with a silk napkin, looking at the exhausted girl with calculating, icy eyes. "You are aware of how dire our financial situation has become since your father... abandoned us by dying, aren't you?"

Liliene flinched. The mention of her father always felt like a dagger to the chest. He had been her shield, the only reason this house had ever felt like a home. "Y-Yes, Mother. I know it's been hard." She fought to keep her voice from cracking.

"The company is hemorrhaging money. Firing the staff was only the first step," her stepmother sighed dramatically, swirling her juice. "We must cut down on utilities immediately. Starting today, you are forbidden from using the washing machine and the dryer. They consume far too much electricity."

Liliene’s head snapped up, her eyes wide with dismay. "But... Mother, the linens, your dresses—washing them all by hand will take hours, and they won't dry properly in this weather..."

"Are you talking back to me?" Mrs. Denver’s tone turned lethal.

"N-No," Liliene stuttered, shrinking into herself. Sadness and exhaustion weighed heavily on her small frame. "I understand. I will wash everything by hand."

Her stepmother’s harsh expression instantly melted into a sickening, theatrical look of sympathy. She stood up, walked over, and did the unthinkable—she gently patted Liliene’s head and pulled her into a brief hug.

Liliene froze. Her entire body went rigid, her instincts screaming that a slap was coming. The embrace felt utterly alien. It was devoid of warmth, feeling more like a butcher appraising a lamb before the slaughter.

"It’s for the best, my dear. We have to do whatever it takes to save the company your father left us," Mrs. Denver whispered, her perfume suffocatingly sweet. She pulled away and smiled. "Be a good girl today. We’ll see you tonight."

Ayesha sauntered past, deliberately bumping her shoulder hard against Liliene's. "You missed a spot on my shoes, maid. Do better," she sneered, rolling her eyes before following her mother out the door.

Alone in the vast, empty dining room, Liliene finally let the tears fall. The sincerity in her stepmother’s hug had felt entirely fake, masking some hidden, terrifying agenda.

"I'll do whatever it takes," Liliene sobbed quietly into her blistered hands. "For you, Papa. I'll endure them for you."

If only she had somewhere else to go. If only someone, anyone, would take her away.

Dylan Walton, the Alpha of the most powerful werewolf pack in North America, signed his name with ruthless, fluid strokes. He pushed the heavy contract across the mahogany table, placing a check worth tens of millions of dollars on top of it.

"A pleasure doing business with you, Mrs. Denver," Dylan rumbled. His voice was a deep, menacing baritone that seemed to vibrate the very glass of the conference room.

Mrs. Denver’s greedy eyes sparkled as she snatched the check. She traced the zeroes, practically salivating. "This... this is vastly more than our agreed-upon price, Mr. Walton. How incredibly generous."

Dylan leaned back in his leather chair, his piercing, predatory gaze pinning the woman to her seat. "I don't care about the money. I am simply ensuring there are no... misunderstandings regarding the handover of my property. Your stepdaughter, Liliene Denver, belongs to me now. If you attempt to deceive me, money will be the least of your concerns."

The temperature in the room seemed to drop. The joy on Mrs. Denver’s face curdled into stark terror. She tried to force a smile, her hands trembling violently. "O-Of course. We signed the contracts. She is officially yours. I will have her sent to your estate tomorrow morning."

Dylan stopped playing with the silver dart in his hand. His eyes flashed a dangerous, unnatural gold. "Tomorrow morning?" he echoed softly.

Mrs. Denver swallowed hard. "Y-Yes, Mr. Walton. First thing in the—"

"I want her tonight." Dylan’s voice left no room for negotiation. He stood up, towering over the mortal woman, exuding an aura of pure, suffocating dominance. "I want my Luna on my doorstep by eight o'clock this evening. Am I clear?"

Before she could answer, Dylan flicked his wrist. The silver dart sliced through the air, grazing the very edge of Mrs. Denver’s cheek—just close enough to draw a microscopic bead of blood—before burying itself dead-center in the wooden door frame behind her.

Mrs. Denver whimpered, her knees knocking together beneath the table. "She... she will be yours by eight. I swear it."

"Good." Dylan adjusted his immaculate suit cuffs. "Our meeting is concluded. I expect my demand met in exactly eight hours. Do not disappoint me."

He didn't wait for her breathless farewell. He strode out of the office, the heavy doors parting for him as his Beta, Harris, and his Delta, Frank, fell perfectly into step behind him.

“Do you honestly think that pathetic woman is trustworthy?" Beta Harris asked as they stepped out of the high-rise and into the crisp air.

Dylan smirked, a cruel, sharp expression. "She’s a coward driven by greed. But it doesn't matter if she's trustworthy. We have the legal human documents, and more importantly, she knows she is entirely out of her depth. She won't risk my wrath."

A sleek, black SUV pulled up to the curb. Delta Frank opened the rear door for his Alpha before sliding into the front passenger seat. Harris took the wheel, and they merged seamlessly into the bustling city traffic.

To the mortal world, Dylan Walton was a ruthless billionaire holding monopolies in oil, gas, and real estate. To the underground world, he was an apex predator—an Alpha whose pack blended perfectly into human society, pulling the strings of global economics from the shadows.

"Alpha..." Delta Frank hesitated, glancing at Dylan through the rearview mirror. "Are you absolutely certain about this? Mating a human? Someone so utterly fragile who doesn't belong to our world?"

Dylan looked out the tinted window, his jaw tight. "She isn't just a human, Frank. She is the key to surviving the Grotesques."

Frank’s brow furrowed in deep concern. "The soul-eaters? But how? She's weak. She’s been abused by a mortal family for years. How is a broken girl going to save our pack?"

Dylan’s expression softened imperceptibly. "Our Emperor Alpha prophesied that I would fall in the upcoming war—slaughtered by enemies possessed by the Grotesques. But my father uncovered an ancient contingency. He told me to find the bloodline of Irithel Albrecht."

"Irithel?" Harris chimed in from the driver’s seat, his tone hushed with reverence. "The mind-bender?"

"Exactly," Dylan nodded. "Irithel was a rare and powerful wolf who could control the minds of both humans and our kind. She passed away, but not before having a daughter. Liliene. My Luna."

"So you think the girl has the power?" Frank asked, still skeptical.

"She hasn't phased. She likely doesn't even know werewolves exist, much less that she carries the Albrecht blood," Dylan explained, his voice low and resolute. "But the Albrecht mind-control is genetic. It passes down regardless of a wolf form. When the time comes, I will awaken it in her. She is the only one who can rip the Grotesques from the minds of our enemies."

"Maybe Delta Frank is just offended you spent fifty million dollars on a human maid," Harris joked, letting out a booming laugh.

Frank shoved Harris's shoulder. "Shut up, man, I'm just looking out for the Alpha. And your laugh is obnoxious."

"Watch your tone, pup," Harris chuckled, though his eyes remained sharp on the road. "You don't question the Alpha’s moves. We’re lucky he tolerates your endless interrogations."

Dylan tuned out their bickering, leaning his head back against the leather seat. His mind drifted back to the dossier he had memorized. Photos of a beautiful, exhausted girl with bruised hands and hollow eyes.

‘She has suffered enough at the hands of those parasites,’ Dylan thought, a low, possessive growl vibrating in his chest. ‘Tonight, she becomes mine. And I will burn the world to the ground before I let anyone treat her like a servant again.’