All Chapters of MARKED BY THE LONE ALPHA : Chapter 1 - Chapter 10

I stared at my reflection in the shattered mirror of a motel bathroom. Blood trickled down from my shoulder, soaking into the sleeve of my black hoodie. The pain throbbed like hell—but I was used to it.I took a deep breath, exhaled slowly, and muttered, “This back pain is killing me.”With a wince, I reached for my phone and dialed the number. As it rang, I peeked through the cracked door into the living room.Bodies littered the floor, limbs bent the wrong way. The furniture was splintered. Plates broken. Bullet holes in the walls. Smoke rose from a smoldering curtain fire.Another successful night.“Lea?”The familiar voice made me blink.“Already done,” I said coolly. “Now my salary. Send it.”I ended the call. No time for back-and-forth. No need for confirmation. The High Table always paid...eventually.I gave one last glance at the bodies and muttered, “You all gave me a hard time. You better be worth every single penny.”Then I bolted for the window.As my boots hit the fire es

There’s a silence that screams louder than any voice.And for the past few days, that silence had been living inside my head, clawing through the gaps in my memory like it owned the place.Something was missing—something important.And that was a problem.Not for most people, maybe. But when you're a government-trained killer with platinum status and a photographic memory, forgetting isn’t just suspicious—it’s lethal.“This is bad,” I muttered, staring blankly at my ceiling.Then the phone rang.Sharp, cold, and right on cue. The sound of a mission calling.I answered.“Details.”There was a pause. Not hesitation—just the kind that happens when someone’s trying to figure out how much they should say before you start asking questions they don’t want to answer.“Lea,” said the voice on the other end. It was Marrek. Old school, loyal to the High Table. “You’ve been one of our most valuable operatives.”That sentence alone made my skin crawl.“You’re stalling,” I snapped. “Spit it out.”

A howl tore through the night like it was trying to rip open the sky. Not a dog. Not a wolf. It sounded… wrong, deep and unnatural. Like a scream that had grown teeth. I sat up in bed, heart racing, knife already halfway out from under the pillow. Silence. I stared at the window. Trees, mist. Nothing. Then I rolled back onto the bed and muttered, “Who lets their emotional support bear out this late?” I closed my eyes. But I didn’t sleep. I waited. The next morning, I was dressed before the sun finished waking up. James, forever carved from old marble and unresolved trauma waited at my door. “The master will see you now,” he said. “Oh good,” I yawned. “Was worried I’d miss today’s 'Stare Like a Cult Leader’ meeting.” He didn’t blink. I’m convinced he doesn’t need to. The easy study was everything I expected. Dramatic bookshelves, unnecessary candles, and curtains so heavy they could double as body bags. Standing by the window, back perfectly straight like

I had faced trained mercenaries, rogue agents, and at least two double-crossing clients who thought "platinum rank" was just a sticker on a file. But none of them made my palms sweat the way a single look from Ivan did.It wasn’t nerves. I don’t do nerves.It was the mark.Every time our eyes met, it pulsed. Not like a wound—more like… a tether. Invisible and unwanted.And this morning, Ivan wouldn’t stop looking.Not in a creepy, stalk-you-from-the-curtains way. More like he was waiting for something. Watching me like I was a ticking clock he’d heard before, just waiting for the chime.I had questions. So many questions. But I needed facts first.Step one: Confirm the impossible.I slipped back into the library when no one was around. I brought a small camera, gloves, and enough paranoia to power a surveillance van.The old photo I found yesterday? Still there. Still wrong.Same faces. Same agelessness. Still no explanation.I scanned the room, looking for clues—books left

The wind had shifted.I wasn’t the poetic type, but when you’ve dodged death enough times, you start noticing small things—the way a room feels before violence, how your heartbeat syncs with danger.Tonight, the wind was wrong.It blew through the hallway like a whisper too close to the ear, cold and sharp. The candles flickered even though there were no open windows. I paused, my hand brushing the hilt of the blade under my cardigan.My gut was talking.So I listened.I’d just left the east wing, where the house’s private archives were supposed to be. For a supposedly rich, tasteful mansion, there were an unusual number of locked doors.Doors that looked recently reinforced.Too many secrets.Too much silence.And then I heard it—footsteps.Not Ivan’s. His were deliberate, grounded, like he walked knowing the earth obeyed him.These were fast. Light. Too many.I pivoted, grip tightening on my blade. “If this is another cryptic poetry session, Merlin, I swear—”Something