FOUR: The Alpha King

The first thing I register is the cold.

Not the kind that pricks your skin or sends shivers down your spine. No, this is deeper. It’s the kind that settles in your bones and makes everything feel like it’s not yours. My body, the air, the stillness. Nothing fucking feels like mine anymore.

My head throbs. It feels like a jackhammer took a personal interest in my skull.

I blink. Once. Twice.

I look around my surroundings. The floor. I’m in my house. Then I realize—I can’t fucking move.

What the—where’s that psycho killer? I was in the woods? What happened? How did I get here? How did I—ah!

My arms are yanked back behind the chair I’m in, wrists locked with something metallic. It’s not silver, thankfully. I try to twist, but there's no give. Steel. Chains. My ankles are tied too. Not tight enough to cut circulation, but firm enough that struggling just makes me look stupid.

My kitchen light is on. It’s that flickering bulb I’ve been too broke to fix for weeks. I’m still in my apartment. The peeling wallpaper. The mildew stain shaped like Italy on the ceiling. All of it’s here.

Except now there are two strangers sitting in my living room.

Well. Fuck me sideways.

One of them’s lounging on my couch like it’s his goddamn throne. Legs spread, arms draped, head tilted slightly like he’s amused just watching me breathe. He’s in a black button-down shirt, unbuttoned just enough to scream, yes, I do kill people for fun, but also I moisturize. His hair’s tied back in a loose knot. Beard trimmed. Smiling—but not the good kind. The kind that says I know something you don’t, bitch.

The other one stands by the window. Arms crossed. Silent. Sterner face, clean-shaven, taller by maybe half an inch, but he looks like he could break a man with his fucking glare alone.

“Morning, sunshine,” Couch Bastard purrs.

I blink again. No. Not morning. My windows are blacked out. It’s night. Whatever day it is.

“What the actual fuck,” I rasp. My voice sounds like I swallowed glass and chased it with whiskey. “What is this? Who the hell are you? Why the fuck am I tied up?”

No answer. Just that same fucking smirk.

“Oh, I get it,” I mutter. “You two broke into my house, tied me up, and now you’re playing the silent intimidation game. Classy. What is this, American Psycho? You guys role-playing serial killer kink together? Are you together with my neighbor?”

“You’re mouthy,” the couch one says, grinning wider now.

“You broke into my house and chained me to a chair, you dumb fuck. What did you expect, a thank-you note?”

He laughs. The bastard laughs.

But then—

I go still.

The scent hits me like a punch in the gut.

Earth. Blood. Something ancient. My nose flares.

No. No fucking way.

They’re wolves. They’re werewolves like me. Like Dante. What are they doing outside their borders?

My spine stiffens, and I feel the tremble creep into my fingers. I was relieved thinking their humans. No matter how weak I am as a wolf, at least I know I would withstand any human. I’m still a lot stronger.

But all that drains now that I know they’re the same as me.

“You’re . . .” I start, then stop, because what the hell is there to say? I haven’t scented another wolf in over two years. Not since the day I was dragged out of the pack clinic and thrown over the border like trash. My wolf hasn’t come back since.

And now earlier, or last night, or was it the other night that I sensed Dante’s powerful pheromone in the woods. How long was I out?

Which means these fuckers are dangerous, and I have nothing to defend myself with.

“What do you want from me?” I snap, suddenly much quieter. My mouth is still running, but my instincts are in survival mode now. “I don’t have my wolf. I’m not even in the pack anymore. If you’re looking for leverage or something—I’m not it.”

Couch Guy leans forward, lacing his fingers like he’s about to deliver a goddamn sermon. “Oh, we’re not here for leverage. You’re not important enough for that.”

“Thanks,” I deadpan. Fuck you, you bastard.

He chuckles again. “We’re here because we have a problem. And you, darling, are the idiot who made that problem worse.”

I narrow my eyes. “I didn’t do anything.”

The one by the window finally speaks. His voice is calm, precise. “You pushed someone off a cliff.”

My stomach lurches. “He . . .” I emphasized, “-was going to kill me.”

“You still pushed him off a cliff.”

“I didn’t know what to do. I’m sorry if I was trying to survive!” I shoot back. “I thought he was some psychotic murderer in the woods—which, spoiler alert, he fucking was.”

The couch guy raises an eyebrow. “And you think that justifies trying to kill the Alpha King?”

Silence.

Everything stills.

My lungs don’t work. My pulse spikes so fast it’s all I can hear—drumming in my ears, thumping against my ribs like a wild animal trying to escape.

“You’re lying.” I chuckle humorlessly. “He’s not.” I shake my head.

“Nope.” Couch Guy pops the p as if this is some casual fucking conversation. “You tried to murder Dante Morelli.”

The room tilts.

No—no, not just the room. The floor underneath me vanishes.

My mouth opens, but no sound comes out.

The guy by the window steps forward, gaze unreadable. “And the only reason you’re still breathing is because we’re still trying to figure out how the fuck he survived that fall.”

I can’t hear them anymore. Everything’s a low buzzing hum.

Dante Morelli. The Alpha King.

I saw him kill someone. I pushed him off a cliff. And now he’s—

Alive.

And I’m so unbelievably fucked.

“The Alpha King . . .” I whisper, throat dry. “I didn’t know. I didn’t know who he was.”

Couch guy stands now, sauntering toward me like he’s got all the time in the world. “That’s the funny thing. Most humans don’t. Which is why we dumped him here. Where he could tear through your kind instead of ours.”

My voice cracks. “What the fuck are you talking about?”