Semua Bab The Alphas’Dirty Desires : Moan for Us: Bab 41 - Bab 50

Vincenzo“No. Absolutely not. I’m not playing that stupid game.”Valentino’s lips curved into that slow, knowing grin—the one that always meant he’d already won. “You mean Rock, Paper, Scissors, Lizard, Spock?”He knew exactly why I hated it. The bastard always knew.“It’s ridiculous,” I snapped, crossing my arms tighter over my black shirt. “Immature. Pointless.”“Immature?” Lorenzo stepped forward, eyes narrowing in mock offense. The faint emerald on his cufflinks caught the low light—the only color among the three of us tonight. Valentino mirrored him, both advancing as I instinctively retreated toward the glass wall. “Who even came up with it? Tell me.”“I don’t know!” I threw my hands up. “Some nerds online, probably.”Valentino chuckled, low and dark. “Admit it, Vin. You only hate it because you suck at it.”“Nice try. I don’t suck. I just have better things to do than glorified hand charades.”“Okay then.” Their voices synced perfectly, dripping challenge. “Let’s play. Right no

Serah White The silence after his “Then go” felt like a door slamming in my chest. I didn’t speak. Didn’t beg for details. Didn’t give him the satisfaction of another second of eye contact. I just moved—quick, numb—grabbing my bag, tugging the polo down over my hips, shoving bare feet into the nearest pair of his old sneakers by the door. Sweatpants sagged; I didn’t fix them. Walked out like the room was burning behind me. Down the stairs. Past the living room that still carried the ghost of Kia’s voice. Front door. Shut. Daylight hit sharp and accusing. I stood on the curb—borrowed clothes hanging loose, skin prickling, body still aching in places I refused to acknowledge. Flagged the first cab that slowed. Slid in. Voice flat: “The outdoor grill.” The driver nodded and pulled away. Forehead to the window. World blurred. Shame coiled tighter. Why him? Why my therapist? Why nothing in my head but flashes—claws, teeth, growling his name like I’d marked him as mine? My

Vincenzo Drakvolk: I eyed the fresh marks on Dante's neck, red welts from what looked like desperate claws digging in too deep. 'What's that on your neck, Dante? A scratch?' I asked, my voice casual but my gaze sharpening as I leaned closer, catching the faint scent of sweat and something sweeter clinging to his skin. He shrugged it off with a quick glance away, handing over his laptop like it was nothing. 'Oh, had an accident,' he muttered, his tone flat, avoiding my eyes. I took the device and tapped open the email notification blinking on the screen. It was from the perfume company—eager words jumping out about his interview, offering him the marketing manager position starting tomorrow. 'Got this message today,' Dante said, rubbing the back of his neck near those scratches. 'Which means I'll be working there from tomorrow. I guess our plan is running fast.' 'Mm,' I hummed in approval, scrolling through the details. They were practically begging for him, praising his 'innovative

Valeria MaryI would say the Drakvolk brothers had ruined me. Perfectly.The kind of ruin that sinks into every nerve, every breath, until anything less feels like half-living. Now I was back at the pack house, the familiar weight of stone walls and wood beams settling around me like a second skin. Lorenzo and Valentino had traveled back with me—three days of shared vehicles, shared glances, shared touches that left me aching in the best ways. Vincenzo had stayed behind to handle pack business, always the steady anchor while the rest of us moved. But tonight we were all under one roof again, and the air already hummed with it.I pushed Vincenzo’s office door open without knocking.“Vincenzo!”He sat behind the wide desk, shirtless, a cigarette balanced between his fingers, smoke curling lazy in the lamplight. His eyes lifted—slow, dark, possessive—and the corner of his mouth curved.“Princess.”He stood in three long strides, pulling me into him. The cigarette met the ashtray without

Valeria Mary Storm The grand hall seemed to breathe differently the moment we stepped through the wide double doors. The air was thick with woodsmoke from the low fires, candle wax, spiced wine, and the layered scents of dozens of wolves—some familiar, some foreign, all watching. My pulse hammered against my ribs, loud enough I was sure someone would hear it, but I kept my chin level, shoulders back, the way Mira had drilled into me. No slouch. No fidget. Just steady. Vincenzo’s hand rested at the small of my back—warm, firm, thumb tracing a slow, deliberate arc that sent heat curling through me even as it anchored me. Valentino walked on my left, arm linked with mine, his fingers laced through my own in that quiet, unbreakable way he had. Lorenzo moved just a half-step behind, close enough that I could feel the brush of his presence like a shadow made of heat and leather. They didn’t crowd me. They surrounded me. And somehow that made the room feel smaller, safer. The murmurs star