Eleven

I saw a tall figure with the kind of muscle that came from real work, not a gym. His leather jacket was unzipped just enough to reveal a black vest underneath, showing a hint of tattooed skin. His hair was messy black, like he'd just run his hands through it or pulled off a helmet.

And his eyes— damn I was trying to find my way back from it because I felt lost in it.

It was hazel, intense and sparkling. The kind of eyes that saw everything and gave away nothing.

He flexed his fingers, and I noticed the black and white biker gloves, the chain that dangled from his belt down to those heavy boots.

He was what one would call sculpted perfection.

But there was nothing soft about him. Nothing felt safe.

He looked dangerous and powerful, I could tell why he was feared and respected in his pack.

Despite that feeling I felt being around him felt the safest in the world.

His aura was suffocating. He smelled like musk and gasoline and danger.

He was the definition of an Alpha.

Not just any Alpha. THE ALPHA.

The one my father called a disgrace. The one his men feared enough to stand at attention.

And he was looking at me like I was the most interesting thing he'd seen in years.

A lazy smile tugged at his lips as he took in my appearance—the bandages, the bruises, the way I sat tensed on the bed like a cornered animal.

His smile was a sharp contrast to the way his eyes seemed to strip me bare, seeing past the injuries to something underneath.

"Who do we have here?" His voice was low, commanding, with an edge that made it clear this wasn't really a question. It was a test.

"My Alpha—" one of the men started.

He raised a hand without even looking at them, and they shut up immediately. Stepped back like scalded dogs.

Then those hazel eyes fixed on me again.

"I'm sure she's not mute." It wasn't a question. "Tell me your name?"

I swallowed hard. My throat was bone-dry, so parched it hurt to speak. When was the last time I had water?

Oh. When Stephanie had come in to braid my hair for the wedding.

The memory hit me like a physical blow. Yesterday was my wedding day.

Yesterday was my birthday.

Yesterday, I had a home. A family. A future.

Yesterday morning whoever had asked me my name I would have told them I was April Quinn, the heiress of the Quinn Corporation, and to the supernatural world I was the Luna to be of the Black Shadow Pack.

Now I had nothing.

A sad smile tugged at my lips before I could stop it. Funny how fast everything could fall apart.

"April," I managed, surprised my voice worked at all. It came out raspy, broken. "April."

"April who?"

My heart skipped a beat.

Fuck!! Why the hell did I tell him I was April? I could have just lied about my name.

If I told him my last name—Quinn—he'd know exactly who I was. The outcast. The wolfless twin. The disgraced heir.

Howard Quinn's daughter.

His enemy's daughter.

And I'd be dead before I hit the floor.

"Just April." I met his eyes, refusing to look away even though every instinct screamed at me to submit.

I had nothing left to lose. Pride was all I had.

He approached me slowly, predator-like. There was a flicker of amusement in his eyes, like he knew exactly what kind of effect he was having on me.

The atmosphere grew tense. The air felt thicker, harder to breathe.

He stopped directly in front of me, so close I could feel the heat radiating off him. Then he crouched down to meet me at eye level, his movements fluid and controlled.

My breath caught.

His eyes traveled from my face, down my neck, across my shoulders, lower—

I followed his gaze and suddenly realized what he was looking at.

The outline of my nipple was clearly visible through the thin cotton dress they'd put me in.

Heat flooded my face. My cheeks burned red-hot with embarrassment and something else I didn't want to name.

I cleared my throat loudly, crossing my arms over my chest.

His eyes snapped back to my face, and for a second—just a second—I thought I saw the corner of his mouth twitch with suppressed amusement.

Then his expression became serious again. Calculating and assessing.

He spoke, his voice quiet but commanding, forcing me to look up at him. His gaze was stern and calculating.

"You don't seem like one of mine."

Was that a statement or a question?

"Maybe because I don't belong to anyone," I replied, forcing my voice to sound firm even though it cracked halfway through.

My jaw hardened. I refused to back down. Refused to look away.

I might be injured. I might be helpless. But I wasn't going to cower.

Not anymore.

That April—the one who made herself small, who apologized for existing—died at the altar.

I wasn't going to choose that path or become that weak girl no more.