Clash of Alphas

“You still wear the scar I gave you.”

The voice cut through the music and chatter like a blade. Aiden stiffened, champagne glass halfway to his lips. He turned, and there he was, Dante Veyron. Leaning against the bar as if he owned it, golden eyes glinting, smirk sharp enough to draw blood.

The rooftop gala glittered around them. Fairy lights draped across the skyline, crystal glasses clinked, humans laughed, utterly oblivious that two Alpha heirs were circling each other like predators.

Aiden’s grip tightened on his glass until it nearly cracked. “Funny. I thought you’d learned shame after the last time I beat you.”

Dante chuckled, low and cruel. “Lost? No. I let you feel like you’d won. There’s a difference.”

The words slid under Aiden’s skin like claws. He took a deliberate step closer, close enough that their shoulders brushed, voice low enough for only Dante to hear. “Push me, Veyron, and I’ll.”

“You’ll what?” Dante leaned in, his breath brushing Aiden’s ear. “Snarl at me until you kiss me?”

Heat flared in Aiden’s chest, sharp and dangerous. His wolf stirred restlessly, desperate to break free. The tie around his neck felt like a leash. His lips curved in a cold smile. “If I ever touch you, it won’t be with my lips.”

The tension snapped.

Aiden shoved him. Dante shoved back. Fists flew. Wolves clawed just beneath their human skins, desperate to tear through. Gasps rippled across the rooftop as the future Alphas crashed into tables and shattered glass. Aiden’s knuckles split against Dante’s jaw. Dante’s fist drove into his ribs hard enough to rattle bone. Every strike carried years of hatred and years of rivalry that no gala smile could conceal.

Security swarmed. Two men grabbed Aiden by the arms, dragging him back, but his eyes stayed locked on Dante.

“You’re pathetic,” Aiden spat, chest heaving.

“And you’re predictable,” Dante said smoothly, blood at his lip but smirk still intact. “Same temper. Same weakness.”

“Aiden!”

His father’s voice cracked like a whip. Adrian Blackthorn stormed across the floor, fury radiating in every line of his face. “You’ve humiliated us! Do you think wolves will follow an Alpha who can’t even control himself?”

Across the room, Lucien Veyron stood just as rigid, his glare pinning his son. But Dante barely looked at his father. His golden eyes stayed on Aiden, glinting with something dark and dangerous.

The press whispered eagerly, cameras flashing. By morning, the tabloids would have their headlines.

Dragged out into the night, Aiden yanked free of the guards and stormed down a side street. The chill air bit into his sweat-damp skin, but it didn’t cool the fire in his chest. His father’s disappointment echoed in his head. Worse, Dante’s taunting smirk burned in his memory like a brand.

He needed space.

He needed air.

He didn’t get either.

“Well, look what we’ve got here,” a voice rasped from the shadows.

Aiden turned. Figures stepped into the weak streetlight: four men, their eyes glowing faintly, the stench of musk and blood clinging to them. Rogues.

“The Blackthorn pup,” one sneered. “Out here all alone. No guards. No, daddy.”

Aiden rolled up his sleeves slowly, setting his cufflinks carefully on the pavement as though this were just another meeting. His wolf prowled beneath his skin, restless, eager.

“You picked the wrong night,” he said, voice like steel.

They laughed. The first one lunged.

Aiden moved fast, ducking under the swipe, his fist cracking against the rogue’s ribs. The second came from the side, claws grazing his shoulder, tearing fabric and flesh alike. Pain flared hot, but Aiden spun, elbow slamming into the wolf’s jaw.

Two more closed in. One caught his arm, twisting until his shoulder burned white-hot. The other drove a knee into his gut, air rushing from his lungs. Aiden staggered, vision blurring.

Too many. Too fast.

If he shifted here, the whole block would know. Cameras. Humans. Exposure.

His wolf clawed at him, desperate to tear free. His body screamed with pain. For the first time in years, he thought this might be it.

And then the alley lit up with motion.

A rogue was yanked back and slammed into the wall. Another went down with a grunt, golden eyes flashing above him.

Dante.

Aiden’s chest seized. Of all the wolves in New York, why him?

But there was no time for questions.

“Shut up and fight,” Dante snapped, driving his fist into a rogue’s jaw.

Back-to-back, they moved. No plan. No words. Just instinct. Strike, dodge, counter. Aiden ducked as Dante swung. Dante shifted as Aiden kicked. Their rhythm was sharp, furious, seamless.

Minutes stretched like hours, but slowly, the tide turned. One by one, the rogues fell, groaning on the pavement.

Silence.

Aiden leaned against the wall, clutching his shoulder, blood hot against his fingers. His chest heaved, but he refused to collapse. Dante stood across from him, breathing hard, lip split, shirt torn but steady. Infuriatingly steady.

“You’re welcome,” Dante said, voice rough but amused.

“I didn’t need you.”

“Sure you didn’t.” His smirk was faint, but it was there. “Admit it, Blackthorn. Without me, you’d be dead.”

“I’d rather die than owe you anything.”

Dante stepped closer, his golden eyes glinting. “Careful. You almost sound like you mean that.”

Before Aiden could answer, more footsteps echoed from the far end of the alley. Shadows shifted more rogues, drawn by the fight.

Dante cursed under his breath. “We’re too exposed. Come on.”

“I don’t take orders from you.”

“Fine. Stay and die.”

He grabbed Aiden’s arm anyway, dragging him toward a side street. Aiden wanted to shake him off, to snarl, to tear himself free. But his legs faltered, blood dripping steadily from his wound. Against his will, he let Dante lead.

The city swallowed them both.