Chapter 2: The Alpha's Proposition
Sera awoke to the oppressive, absolute silence of wealth.
It was not the sterile, clinical quiet of a hospital room, nor the familiar, anxiety-inducing silence of her late-night office. This was the profound, insulated silence of supreme power—the kind of silence achieved by thick, soundproofed walls, plush Persian carpets, and a location high above the ordinary noise of the city. The air was heavy, smelling distinctly of sandalwood, fine leather, and a strange, faint, primal scent—like rain hitting ancient pine needles, underscored by raw musk.
Her body registered as a map of intense, throbbing aches, but miraculously, nothing felt fundamentally broken. She eased herself up on the massive bed. The sheets were pure silk, cold and alien against her skin.
The golden eyes. The car crash. The impossible sight. The fragmented memory brought a fresh wave of ice-cold panic. She wasn't just in a strange place; she was possibly kidnapped. She frantically scanned the room. It was an enormous bedroom suite, decorated in cool tones of slate and obsidian, a fortress of minimalist luxury. A towering window overlooked a glittering, rain-slicked cityscape she recognized as the exclusive Upper East Side—an area far out of Mark's and her own league.
The polished mahogany door clicked open, and he entered.
He was even more imposing now than he had been moments after the crash. Alistair Thorne. He moved with a quiet, lethal grace that belonged solely to a apex predator, a creature completely confident in its domain. He was dressed impeccably in a dark, custom-tailored suit, the fabric stretched taut across the breadth of his shoulders, doing nothing to hide the coiled, latent power beneath. His platinum blonde hair was immaculate, his profile severe, yet his luminous golden eyes held a dangerous, untamed quality.
He didn't look at her with concern, but with clinical irritation, as if she were a complicated delivery he hadn't ordered.
"You're awake," Alistair stated, his voice a deep, resonant rumble that seemed to vibrate through the very structure of the room. It held zero warmth, zero compassion. "Try not to be dramatic. You have several cracked ribs, some severe bruising, and a mild concussion. You'll heal faster than a normal human, but nothing permanent. You have my doctor's assurance."
"Who are you?" Sera demanded, ignoring the pain and clutching the silk sheet to her chest. "And where am I? I need to call the police, and I need to call my workplace."
Alistair walked to a dark mahogany bedside table, pouring himself a drink from a crystal decanter. He studied her over the rim of the glass, his golden gaze unblinking and unnervingly thorough, like a scientist assessing an anomaly.
"The police will not be called, Miss Hayes. You are in my personal penthouse. As for who I am—you already know the surface. I am Alistair Thorne, CEO of Thorne & Co. I own the building where you work, the hospital you should have gone to, and several patrol units of the city police." He paused, letting the crushing weight of his influence settle. "The true answer is more inconvenient."
He took a slow, deliberate sip of the dark liquid. "I am what you call an Alpha. The leader of the Thorne Pack. A werewolf."
Sera blinked once, then twice. Her mind, usually razor-sharp even on three hours of sleep, struggled to process the sheer audacity and the bizarre impossibility of the statement. "That's… ridiculous. I had a car accident. I must have a severe concussion. Call a neurologist, Mr. Thorne."
Alistair let out a low, predatory chuckle—a dry, humorless sound that sent a strange shiver down her spine. He stepped closer to the bed, and the enormous room instantly felt smaller. His intense, primal scent—pine, musk, and undeniable masculinity—was overwhelming, choking the clean air.
"Delusion is a human luxury. This is instinct," he corrected, his voice dropping an octave to a raw, demanding sound that vibrated deep in her ribcage. "Feel it, Seraphina. The connection. The immediate, unwanted pull in your gut. That is the Mate bond. You are mine."
Sera did feel it. A terrifying, irrational warmth was pooling in her stomach, contradicting every logical, scientific thought she possessed. Her body felt a deep, instinctive relief just from his proximity. She hated him for making her feel anything beyond the pure, clarifying rage she had finally embraced.
"I am not yours," she spat, summoning the memory of Mark's cruel words. "I belong to no one. I just divorced a man who thought I was dead weight. I won't be claimed by some delusional stranger, regardless of his fictional pedigree."
Alistair's eyes narrowed, the gold flaring brighter, a flash of pure predator replacing the CEO. "My Pack needs a Luna to stabilize the hierarchy. I did not ask for a weak human, Miss Hayes. But Fate does not consult me." His tone was blunt and utterly dismissive of her humanity.
He placed a heavy manila folder on the silk sheets. "I am offering you a contract."
The Contract and the Condition
Sera ignored the throbbing pain and the primal urge to obey the Alpha. She reached for the folder. Inside was a dense legal document titled: MARRIAGE & LUNA AGREEMENT.
"A contract marriage," Alistair summarized, his tone purely business. "One year. You will act as my public consort—my Luna—at galas, meetings, and Pack events. You will provide the stability I need. You will never, under any circumstances, reveal my true nature. And I guarantee, there will be no physical intimacy. This is purely business."
He listed the benefits with cold efficiency: "Your debts, your parents' mortgage—gone. A multi-million-dollar trust fund. And absolute, non-negotiable protection. No one touches my Mate, human or otherwise, without dying."
Sera looked up, her icy blue eyes meeting his golden glare. The rage against Mark and Chloe instantly eclipsed her fear of the impossible werewolf. This was power. This was an invitation to the highest table. This was a weapon handed to her.
"One year of playing the silent, supportive wife?" she challenged, a wry, dangerous smile touching her lips—a smile he hadn't seen before. "I just spent six years doing that for a pathetic man, and it landed me in a wreck. I need more than money and protection."
Alistair raised a single, skeptical eyebrow. The Alpha in him seemed momentarily intrigued by the audacity of the fragile human female. "What precisely do you need, Miss Hayes? My blood?"
Sera pushed the pain aside, sitting straighter. The contract didn't mean she was subservient; it meant she was protected by the most dangerous creature in the city. And protected people could exact maximum revenge.
"My first condition is non-negotiable, Mr. Thorne. I want Mark Reynolds and Chloe Simmons destroyed. I want their lives ruined. I want the struggling tech company Mark is trying to fund—the one he claims is his future—to become my property. I want to see the face-slapping, Alpha, and I want it to be public, painful, and complete. Can your power deliver that level of vengeance?"
Alistair stared at the determined, bold human. A flicker of something that looked like approval—or perhaps genuine, unexpected respect—crossed his golden eyes. The challenge in her gaze mirrored the ruthlessness in his own.
He gave a slow, predatory smile that was infinitely more terrifying than his growl. "Done. Welcome to the Pack, Sera. Your ex-fiancé just became my first priority."
END OF CHAPTER TWO.