After My Alpha Killed Our Pup, I Stole His Fortune

The basement room felt smaller every day. Or maybe I was just shrinking, folding in on myself like paper catching fire.

I sat on the edge of my cot, rewrapping the bandages on my feet. The cuts were healing slowly—too slowly for a normal wolf, but I wasn't normal. I was nothing. The gauze came away pink with fresh blood, and I bit my lip to keep from crying out.

The baby. I had to think of the baby.

My hand moved to my stomach, still flat, still showing no sign of the life inside. But I felt it. A flutter. A presence. Something that was mine and mine alone now.

Footsteps thundered down the basement stairs.

I looked up as two Gamma guards filled my doorway. I recognized them—Jacob and Sam, wolves who used to nod at me in the hallways. Now their faces were blank, professional.

"Hazel Mitchell," Jacob said, his voice flat. "You're to come with us."

My stomach dropped. "Why? What's happened?"

"Alpha's orders."

They didn't give me time to put on shoes. Jacob grabbed my arm, hauling me up, and pain shot through my torn feet as they hit the cold floor. I gasped, stumbling, but Sam caught my other arm.

They dragged me up the stairs, through the Pack House, and out into the courtyard.

The morning sun was too bright. I squinted against it, my heart hammering as I took in the scene.

Alpha Marcus stood near the fountain, his expression carved from stone. Sloane was beside him, her green eyes glittering with satisfaction. And there, on the steps leading to the main entrance, stood Bryce.

His gray eyes found mine, and I searched desperately for something—anything—in them. But they were empty. Dead.

Then I saw her.

"Mom!"

She was on her knees in the center of the courtyard, her hands bound behind her back. Her graying hair hung loose around her face, and her eyes—God, her eyes were terrified.

"Hazel, no—" she started, but one of the guards cuffed her across the mouth.

I lunged forward, but Jacob and Sam held me fast. "Let her go! What are you doing?"

"The Mitchell woman has stolen from the pack," Alpha Marcus announced, his voice carrying across the courtyard. A crowd was gathering—pack members drawn by the commotion, their faces curious, hungry for drama. "Jewelry worth thousands. She used the money to pay gambling debts to Rogues."

"That's a lie!" I screamed, struggling against the guards. "She would never—"

"The evidence is clear," Sloane said, stepping forward with a folder. She opened it, displaying what looked like financial records, photographs of jewelry I'd never seen. "Your mother has been stealing for months. The pack has been more than generous in taking you both in, and this is how you repay us?"

The crowd murmured. I saw judgment in their eyes, disgust.

"Please," I begged, looking at Bryce. "Please, you know her. She took care of you when you were sick, remember? When you had that fever and your mother was away, she sat with you for three days—"

"Enough." Bryce's voice was ice. "The debt must be paid."

An engine rumbled at the gate.

A black SUV rolled into the courtyard, its windows tinted dark. The vehicle stopped, and the back door opened.

The man who stepped out made my blood freeze.

He was massive, scarred, with eyes that were more animal than human. His scent hit me—rotten meat and violence. Rogue. But not just any Rogue.

"Viktor Blackwood," Alpha Marcus said, extending his hand. "Thank you for coming."

The Rogue King smiled, revealing teeth filed to points. "Always happy to do business with the Bloodmoon Pack."

No. No, no, no.

"You can't," I whispered, then louder, "You can't do this! Bryce, please!"

Viktor's gaze slid to my mother, and his smile widened. "She'll do nicely. I've been needing a new breeder."

Breeder. The word hit me like a slap. Breeders were Rogue slaves, forced to bear children for males who had no mates, no pack, no humanity left.

"The debt is settled," Alpha Marcus said. "Take her."

Two of Viktor's men moved forward, hauling my mother to her feet. She didn't fight. She just looked at me, tears streaming down her face.

"Mom!" I thrashed wildly, but the guards held me. "Mom, no!"

"Survive," she called out, her voice breaking. "Hazel, baby, please survive—"

They shoved her into the SUV. The door slammed shut.

I screamed, the sound ripping from my throat, raw and animal. I looked up at the balcony where Bryce stood, Sloane's arm wrapped around his waist.

"Please," I sobbed. "Please don't let them take her."

Bryce turned his back.

The SUV's engine roared to life. I watched through blurred vision as it rolled toward the gate, taking my mother, taking everything.

The guards released me, and I collapsed onto the stones, my torn feet screaming, my heart shattering into pieces too small to ever put back together.

The crowd dispersed. The show was over.

I knelt there alone, the sun beating down, and felt something inside me break. Not just my heart. Something deeper. Something that could never be repaired.

Seven days later, Bryce came for me again.

I was in the kitchen, trying to choke down bread I couldn't taste, when his hand closed around my wrist.

"Come on," he said, his voice manic, his eyes too bright. "I need to feel alive."

He dragged me through the Pack House, and I was too numb to fight. Too empty. The baby fluttered in my stomach, and I wrapped my free arm around myself protectively.

Outside, his sports car waited—black, sleek, modified with racing stripes and an engine that growled like a beast.

"Get in," Bryce ordered.

I looked at the passenger seat, then at him. "Bryce, I can't—"

His eyes flashed gold. Alpha command seized my body, and I found myself opening the door, sliding into the leather seat. My hands shook as I reached for the seatbelt.

Sloane appeared at the edge of the driveway, already shifting. Her wolf was auburn and sleek, built for speed.

Bryce grinned, wild and reckless. "Let's see who's faster."

The engine roared. My fingers dug into the armrest as we shot forward, gravel spraying. Sloane's wolf raced alongside us, her paws eating up the ground.

We hit the main road, and Bryce floored it.

The world became a blur. Trees whipped past. The speedometer climbed—sixty, seventy, eighty. The road twisted ahead, hugging the cliff face, and my stomach lurched.

"Slow down," I whispered.

Bryce laughed, high and sharp. "This is living, Hazel. This is what it feels like to be free."

Ninety. One hundred.

Sloane's wolf pulled ahead, and Bryce snarled, jerking the wheel. We swerved into the opposite lane, the cliff edge so close I could see the drop—hundreds of feet to jagged rocks below.

"Bryce, please!" I pressed both hands to my stomach. "Please, the baby—"

He didn't hear me. Or didn't care.

The curve came too fast.

Bryce yanked the wheel, and the world tilted. Tires screamed. The car fishtailed, spinning, and I saw Sloane's wolf leap clear.

Then we were airborne.

For one impossible moment, everything was silent. I felt the baby flutter one last time.

The car slammed into the guardrail, metal shrieking, and my head cracked against the window.

Darkness swallowed everything whole.