I ran blindly through the forest, branches tearing at my already ruined dress, my bare feet bleeding from sharp stones and thorns. The pain of Marcus's public rejection burned through my body like acid, but I welcomed the physical agony—anything to distract from the soul-deep wound of betrayal.

Seven years. Seven years I had loved him, trusted him, believed I mattered to someone. All a lie.

"I, Marcus Thompson, future Alpha of the Silvermoon Pack, reject you, Emily Watson, as my mate."

His words echoed in my mind with each desperate step I took deeper into the wilderness. The mate bond I thought we shared had been violently severed, leaving me hollow and raw. I couldn't go back—not to the basement, not to my parents who had clearly known about this all along, not to Grace's triumphant smirk.

I had nothing. I was nothing.

The sun was setting when I finally collapsed against a gnarled oak, my lungs burning, throat parched. I didn't recognize this part of the forest. Had I crossed into neutral territory? Or worse, another pack's land? It didn't matter. Nothing mattered anymore.

A twig snapped somewhere to my left.

I froze, suddenly aware of how vulnerable I was—a wolfless omega, alone, with no pack protection. The forest had gone eerily silent.

"Well, what do we have here?" A rough voice shattered the stillness.

Three figures emerged from the shadows, their scents marking them as rogues—wolves without packs, dangerous and unpredictable. They wore black masks, but their intentions were clear in their predatory stances.

"Please," I whispered, backing away until my spine pressed against rough bark. "I'm just passing through."

The tallest one laughed, the sound like gravel. "Passing through? No, sweetheart. You're the delivery."

"Delivery?" My voice trembled.

"Your sister sends her regards," said another, stepping closer. "Paid us good money to take care of her little problem."

Grace. Of course. Rejecting me wasn't enough—she wanted me gone completely.

"The Rogue King pays well for pretty little omegas," the third one sneered, reaching out to grab my chin. "Even damaged ones."

I jerked away and tried to run, but a heavy body slammed into mine, driving me to the ground. The air rushed from my lungs as a boot pressed between my shoulder blades.

"Make it easier on yourself," the gravelly voice advised. "King Kaelen likes them spirited, but not too broken."

Kaelen. The name sent ice through my veins. Every wolf knew of the brutal Rogue King who collected she-wolves like trophies, using them until they broke before discarding them.

A fist connected with my ribs, and pain exploded through my side. I tasted blood as another blow landed on my face.

"Stop fighting," one hissed, twisting my arm behind my back until I screamed. "Your sister said you were weak. Prove her right and this will hurt less."

I spat blood onto his boots. If I was going to die or worse, I wouldn't give Grace the satisfaction of hearing I went quietly.

The beating that followed was methodical. They were careful not to damage me too severely—merchandise needed to be presentable—but each blow was calculated to cause maximum pain.

As my consciousness began to fade, I heard one of them say, "Bind her. We move out at—"

His words cut off in a strangled gurgle as the night air split with a thunderous roar that shook the very ground beneath us. The pressure on my back suddenly vanished.

Through swollen eyes, I watched a massive golden-brown wolf, larger than any I'd ever seen, crash through the trees like a force of nature. His fangs flashed silver in the moonlight as he tore into my attackers. The rogues' screams pierced the night, their bodies flying through the air like ragdolls.

This was no ordinary wolf. This was a Lycan—wolf royalty, ancient and powerful beyond measure.

In seconds, the rogues lay broken and scattered. The massive wolf stood over them, his amber eyes burning with rage. Then, in a fluid motion that spoke of immense power controlled, he shifted.

Where the wolf had stood now towered a man with the same golden-brown hair, his muscular form radiating authority and barely contained fury. I recognized him instantly—Alexander Kane, the notorious Lycan Prince of the Shadowmoon Pack.

Our enemy.

His amber eyes locked with mine, something unreadable flickering in their depths.

"Emily Watson," he said, his deep voice washing over me like a physical touch.

How did he know my name? Why was he here? Why would the Lycan Prince save a worthless, rejected omega?

The questions swirled in my fading consciousness as darkness claimed me, the last thing I saw being Alexander moving toward me with purpose in his stride.

Pain greeted me before consciousness fully returned. Every inch of my body throbbed in dull, persistent waves. I tried to move but winced as fire shot through my ribs. The memory of boots connecting with my side flashed behind my closed eyelids.

I was alive. Somehow.

Slowly, I forced my eyes open, blinking against the soft golden light that filled the room. This wasn't the cold basement I called home. This wasn't anywhere in Silvermoon territory.

Silk sheets whispered against my skin as I shifted slightly. The bed beneath me was impossibly soft, cradling my battered body like a cloud. Gauzy curtains in deep burgundy draped from a canopy above, casting the chamber in a warm, protective glow. The walls were paneled in rich, dark wood, adorned with tapestries depicting ancient wolf legends.

This was a room meant for someone of importance. Not a wolfless omega.

"You're awake."

The deep voice startled me, and I jerked upright, immediately regretting the movement as pain lanced through my side. A large figure moved from the shadows near the window, and my breath caught in my throat.

Alexander Kane. The Lycan Prince of the Shadowmoon Pack.

He stood tall and imposing, golden-brown hair falling just past his shoulders, amber eyes fixed on me with an intensity that made my skin prickle. His jaw was clenched tight, a muscle ticking in his cheek. His aura—powerful, ancient, royal—filled the room like a physical presence, making it hard to breathe.

The last thing I remembered was him standing over the broken bodies of the rogues who had attacked me. The rogues my sister had sent.

"Where am I?" My voice came out as a rasp, my throat dry and raw.

"Shadowmoon territory. My private chambers." His words were clipped, controlled, as if he was holding something back. "You're safe here."

Safe. The word sounded foreign to my ears. When had I ever been safe?

"Why?" I whispered, confusion clouding my mind. "Why would you help me?"

Something flickered in his amber eyes—an emotion I couldn't name—before his expression hardened again.

"Your injuries were severe," he said instead of answering my question. "You've been unconscious for two days."

Two days. Marcus and Grace would be completing their mating ceremony by now. The thought sent a fresh wave of pain through me that had nothing to do with my physical injuries.

The door opened, and two figures entered. A tall man with sharp features—Alexander's Beta, I realized with a start—and a middle-aged woman with kind eyes and healing hands.

"This is James, my Beta," Alexander confirmed my thoughts. "And Elara, our head healer."

"Your ribs are bruised, not broken," Elara said, approaching the bed with gentle movements. "The cuts on your face will heal without scarring, but you need rest."

James stood slightly behind Alexander, his gaze assessing but not unkind. "The rogues have been... dealt with," he said to his Prince. "They confirmed what we suspected."

Alexander's jaw tightened further, his hands clenching into fists at his sides. The anger radiating from him was palpable, but somehow, I knew it wasn't directed at me.

"Your own sister," he growled, the words barely human. "Your own blood."

Shame washed over me. Of course he knew. Everyone probably knew by now—how pathetic Emily Watson had been rejected and left for dead. How her own sister had paid rogues to finish her off or worse, sell her to the Rogue King.

I lowered my gaze, unable to bear the weight of their stares. "I should go," I whispered, though I had nowhere to go. "I don't belong here."

"No."

The single word held the weight of a royal command. Alexander moved closer, and to my surprise, he picked up a cloth from a basin beside the bed. The fabric was warm and smelled of healing herbs as he handed it to me.

"You were never meant to be an omega," he said, his voice low and certain.

I stared at him, confusion and shame swirling together as I clutched the warm cloth. How could he possibly know what I was meant to be? How could anyone?

For the first time in my life, someone was showing me kindness without ulterior motives. And it was coming from the most unexpected source—our pack's greatest enemy.

What did Alexander Kane want from me? And why did his amber eyes hold such conflicted emotions when he looked at me?

I had a feeling the answers would change everything I thought I knew about myself.