Chapter 2 : MATE. MATE. MATE

Veleria Mary Storm:

I didn’t walk out of that house.

I ran.

Barefoot, rain slamming into me like it wanted to punish me too, I sprinted down the driveway until my lungs screamed. My feet slapped wet concrete, sharp stones biting the soles, but I didn’t care. If I stopped moving, the words would catch me.

Weak omega… boring… you disgust me… no man wants you…

I screamed—long, ragged, until my throat felt torn open. Let the neighbors hear. Let the whole goddamn street know what a fool I’d been for three years.

I’d said no to everything for him.

No to late nights out with Serah because “James might get lonely.”

No to the promotion because “he needs me home.”

No to the therapy I desperately needed because “his trauma comes first.”

No to living.

No to feeling desired.

No to ever knowing what it felt like to be wanted so badly someone couldn’t keep their hands off me.

All for a man who flinched at my touch.

All for a man who’d been pretending.

All for a man who never even liked the way I tasted.

I reached the car, yanked the door so hard it slammed against my hip. I threw myself inside, slammed the door shut, and fumbled for my phone with shaking hands.

Serah.

I needed Serah.

Thumb slipping on the screen, I hit her name.

Ringing.

Ringing.

Voicemail.

“Serah… it’s me.” My voice cracked, barely recognizable. “He—he’s gay. He never wanted me. He said I disgust him. That no man would want me. Call me. Please. I—I can’t breathe.”

The line went dead.

I stared at the dark screen, chest heaving.

No one answered.

No one came.

I laughed—sharp, ugly, broken. The sound bounced inside the car like something dying.

I jammed the key in the ignition. The engine roared. I slammed the gas and peeled out, tires screeching on wet asphalt.

I didn’t know where I was going.

I just drove.

Rain blurred the windshield. Wipers couldn’t keep up. Tears couldn’t stop. My hands gripped the wheel so tight my knuckles turned white. I kept replaying it—his face when he said it. The relief in his eyes. The disgust.

You’re boring. You disgust me. No man wants you.

The words looped, louder than the storm.

I drove until the city lights faded and the roads turned narrow and dark, trees closing in like silent judges.

Then I saw it—a neon sign flickering through the rain.

A club.

Some dive on the edge of nowhere, pulsing bass leaking into the night.

I pulled into the lot, tires crunching gravel. The car jerked to a stop. I sat there, engine ticking, staring at the glowing sign.

I should leave.

I should go home.

I should crawl back to the house and pretend this didn’t happen.

But his voice whispered again:

No man wants you. You’re boring.

Something snapped.

I killed the engine.

Stepped out into the rain.

Let it soak me through.

Walked toward the door.

Inside, the music hit me like a wall—loud, throbbing, alive. Bodies pressed together, lights strobing red and purple. The smell of sweat, alcohol, perfume. Life.

I felt like a ghost walking through it.

I pushed to the bar, hands still shaking.

The bartender—a guy with tattoos crawling up his neck—looked me over, raised an eyebrow.

“Whiskey,” I said. “Neat. Double.”

He poured. I downed it in one go. Fire burned down my throat. I welcomed it.

Another.

Another.

The third one hit.

The room softened at the edges.

I laughed—quiet at first, then louder, bitter.

So this was why.

This was why I never came.

Never experienced real sex.

Never felt hands on me that actually wanted me.

Never knew what it felt like to be taken like I was the only thing that mattered.

This was why I’d lie in bed next to my husband, legs squeezed together, using my pillow between my thighs, biting my lip so he wouldn’t hear me come—because he never would.

I laughed again. Harder.

People glanced over. I didn’t care.

“Fuck,” I whispered to the empty glass. “Fuck him.”

The whiskey burned. The music pulsed.

The room spun.

And somewhere deep inside—under the tears, under the shame, under the heartbreak—a low, feral heat began to rise.

A heat that wasn’t just alcohol.

A heat that felt… hungry.

I didn’t know it yet, but the wolves were already watching.

I dropped my forehead onto the bar top, eyes fluttering shut. The sticky wood was cool against my skin. The music throbbed far away. Three shots. Only three. My body felt heavy, boneless. I just needed to rest for one second. Just one.

Then a hand clamped down on my shoulder—big, firm, burning through the thin fabric of my dress.

I jerked violently. The stool tipped. I slid sideways and hit the floor hard, hip slamming into the tiles, elbow cracking. Pain flared, sharp and real.

I blinked up through the whiskey blur, shapes swimming in neon and shadow.

“Fuck… who are you?” My voice came out small, slurred.

A low growl rolled over me—deep, guttural, vibrating in my chest.

“Is she the one?”

The question wasn’t for me. It was between them.

My heart lurched. I pushed up on trembling arms, blinking hard, trying to see.

“Who… who is she?” I mumbled, head spinning. “What are you talking about?”

Three shapes closed in.

Too tall. Too broad. Too much.

They formed a wall of muscle and heat. No gaps. No escape.

I tried to stand. Legs buckled. I gripped the stool, dragged myself up.

One leaned in—close enough I felt his breath on my neck. He inhaled. Deep. Slow. Nostrils flaring.

A satisfied rumble vibrated from his chest.

The other two mirrored him—one left, one right—noses brushing my wet hair, my skin, breathing me in like I’d been the missing piece of their hunt for years.

My pulse detonated. Skin flushed molten. Thighs clenched involuntarily.

Panic surged.

I shoved forward.

They moved as one.

A hand caught my wrist—gentle, yet unbreakable.

Another blocked my path.

The third pressed behind me, chest to my back, caging me completely.

Surrounded.

Three bodies.

Three heats.

Three pairs of glowing eyes—amber, gold, molten silver—locked on me.

My heart hammered so hard it hurt. Breaths came in short, desperate gasps.

Then—in perfect, terrifying unison—three voices growled the word that broke the last of my world:

“Mate.”

“Mate.”

“Mate.”

The sound hit like a shockwave.

Heat exploded between my thighs—sharp, aching, slick. Nipples peaked painfully against wet fabric. My whole body trembled with something beyond fear.

Need.

Recognition.

I opened my mouth—to scream, deny, beg—

Club lights flared blinding white.

I flinched, eyes squeezing shut.

When they opened again, the alcohol haze had vanished.

Standing before me were three men who looked carved from midnight and storm.

Seven feet of lethal grace.

Shoulders that could block out the moon.

Black hair dripping rain.

Eyes burning—amber fire, molten gold, liquid silver.

Muscles shifting beneath tight black shirts, tattoos writhing like living shadows across necks and arms.

The Drakvolk brothers.

Lycan Alpha and Dragon kings.

Rulers of the most feared and powerful Pack in existence.

What the hell were they doing in a place like this?

And why did my body suddenly feel like it was on fire for them?

My nipples ached, straining. Slick gathered between my thighs, hot and insistent. Every nerve sang with a pull I’d never felt—deep, biological, undeniable.

The amber-eyed one—the tallest—tilted his head, nostrils flaring again as he drank in my scent.

A low, possessive growl rolled from his throat.

“She’s the one,” he said, voice dark velvet certainty.

The gold-eyed one stepped closer, eyes narrowing with raw hunger.

“Finally.”

The silver-eyed one stayed silent, but his gaze—predatory, reverent—made my knees threaten to buckle.

I tried to retreat.

My back hit the bar.

No escape.

They closed in tighter—three walls of power, heat, and promise.

My heart slammed against my ribs.

I was trapped between the three most dangerous males alive…

…and every suppressed instinct in my omega soul was screaming for them to claim me.