6

Alpha Asher POV

The car was thick with heat, the air heavy and stale despite the night outside. Grunts, gasps, and muffled cries had filled the space for what felt like hours—two bodies locked in a desperate, furious struggle that wasn’t entirely one-sided at first. She fought hard, nails digging, teeth biting, voice cracking with pleas and curses. But eventually, exhaustion won. Her struggles slowed, then stopped. She went limp beneath me, breath ragged, and finally slipped into unconsciousness.

I didn’t stop right away. The fire in my blood wouldn’t let me. Whatever had been in that wine—or whatever else had twisted my senses—kept me going until there was nothing left to fight for. Only when her body slackened completely, when her whimpers faded into shallow, even breathing, did I finally pull back.

Now the silence pressed in.

I sat up slowly, chest heaving, sweat cooling on my skin. The leather seats were sticky. My shirt hung open, buttons missing. Blood—hers—stained the pale upholstery in dark, accusing smears. I stared at it, dazed.

I had never done this.

Never.

I was obsessive about cleanliness. I hated touching women—hated the cling of perfume, the press of unfamiliar skin, the mess of it all. I’d turned down advances from packs, royals, beauties who threw themselves at me without a second thought. Force? Never. Not even in my darkest moments. Yet here I was, drunk or drugged or both, with a stranger’s blood on my hands and her unconscious body curled against the door.

Shame burned low in my gut, but worse than that—something else lingered. Memories of the night crashed over me in flashes: her wide, terrified eyes; the way she tasted like salt and fear; how her body had trembled under mine; how impossibly soft her skin had felt despite everything. She was beautiful—achingly so—in a raw, unpolished way no one in my world ever was. No makeup, no calculated seduction. Just fury and desperation and that stubborn fire that had made her throw water in my face.

I hated that I noticed. Hated that part of me still wanted more.

I dragged a hand through my damp hair and grabbed my discarded suit jacket from the floor. I draped it over her carefully, covering the bruises already blooming on her arms and thighs. She flinched in her sleep at the touch, curling tighter into herself. My jaw clenched.

I cracked the windows. Cool night air rushed in, carrying the faint scent of rain and exhaust. It cleared my head a little—enough to think.

She stirred after a while, eyelids fluttering. She was awake, but she didn’t look at me. She just clutched the edges of my jacket around her torn clothes, trembling faintly. Silent tears tracked down her cheeks, but she made no sound.

I swallowed. My voice came out rough. “What’s your name?”

No answer.

She hugged the jacket tighter, knuckles white.

I forced patience into my tone, though anger still simmered beneath it—anger at her, at myself, at whatever had turned me into this. “Tell me what happened to your brother.”

She finally glanced at me from the corner of her eye, wary, like I might strike again any second. She swallowed hard. I could see her forcing the words out, swallowing pride she probably didn’t have much of left.

“My brother’s name is Lucas Hudson,” she whispered. Her voice cracked on the first syllable, then steadied. “Three days ago, we went to a Lunar Howls concert. It was the first time in forever we did something fun—money’s always tight, and Mom works herself to the bone just to keep us afloat. We met our friends there, danced, laughed… it felt normal. Good.”

She paused, breathing shallow.

“Then this woman—some VIP girl, barely dressed, glowing bracelet and everything—came up to Lucas. She demanded he dance with her. He said no. Politely. Multiple times. She got angry. Left. Came back with guards. Said he assaulted her. Pointed right at him and screamed it. We all shouted that it was a lie—we were there, we saw everything—but they didn’t listen. They cuffed him. Dragged him away. She just stood there smiling like she’d won something.”

Her fingers twisted in the jacket fabric. “There was no evidence. Nothing. Witnesses—our friends, me—could prove he never touched her. But they took him anyway. Locked him up. I got a lawyer. He said the case was moving too fast, no real proof, but then he found out… it was you. You ordered it. Alpha Asher Royal himself pushed for the conviction.”

I frowned, the words hitting like cold water.

“Are you sure you haven’t mistaken me for someone else?”

I didn’t remember giving any such order.

I never interfered in petty assault cases. Never used my seal for personal grudges or favors—not unless it threatened pack security. A random concert scuffle? I wouldn’t even have heard about it.

But the look in her eyes—raw, exhausted belief—made doubt crawl up my spine.

She stared at me, waiting. Silent tears still fell, but now there was a flicker of something else in her gaze. Hope? Fear? Accusation?

I didn’t know what to say.

For the first time in years, the Alpha King felt uncertain.