The Alpha Who Burned My Pack And Killed My Pup

She only wanted to save her brother. He only wanted an heir to secure his empire. A contract bound us. A heartbeat changed us. I thought the ruthless Alpha was the devil in a tailored suit. Instead, he became the man fate chained me to... the one my body recognises before my heart will ever dare. But power demands sacrifice, and love was never part of our deal. He promised protection, not affection. I offered my womb, not my soul. Now I carry his child... And the secret of who I really am could destroy us both.

Due to an insurgence in rogue activities; wolf groups are finding it essential to forge agreements with other packs to protect themselves . It is largely done by marriages between Alphas and she-wolves of high rank members in another. Snow – who was an abandoned rogue herself; discovered by Amanda, the daughter of the Moonbeam Packs Gamma wolf – is about to be pushed into pre-arranged marriage with an awful, lecher of an Alpha. Neither sister wants Snow to have to marry him - alliance or not – therefore, Amanda helps Snow leave the pack the night before the wedding. Snow finds herself unwittingly intruding onto the Cerberus Pack's territory; and, ending up protecting their Beta's young sister from a nasty rogue assault. When the Alpha sees Snow for the first time; he proclaims her to be his mate. She resists at first, even though she's curiously attracted to him; and, ultimately gives in to her inner-wolf's need and accepts him as her mate. Meanwhile, the jilted Alpha is angry, and wants Snow back . not out of love, but, out of spite and desiring payback for running out on him. He even goes as far as collaborating with renegade cells to go to war with the Cerberus Pack to get Snow back.

I worked three double shifts at the garage just to buy a velvet-boxed cake for my wealthy girlfriend, Arleen. But when I pushed open the VIP room door, I saw her lover kissing her bare leg. She didn't push him away. Instead, she laughed and swirled her martini. "I only forgot Finn because I knew he would stay. He is a poor boy from Queens who follows me around like a loyal dog." Later that night, her lover intentionally crashed a Porsche to scare me, sending a piece of jagged metal into my skull. Lying in a growing pool of my own blood, I watched Arleen crawl out of the wreckage. She didn't even look at me. She threw herself at her uninjured lover, screaming for a medic. "He just got scraped by a piece of plastic. He is faking it. Deal with Jaquez first!" When I woke up, I wasn't free. Arleen had locked me in a private hospital wing with 24-hour security, planning to isolate me and keep me as her broken, captive toy forever. My blind, pathetic devotion finally froze into absolute disgust. I looked at the heart monitor next to my bed and grabbed an IV needle. I severed the sensor wire to trigger a flatline, slipped out the fire stairs while the nurses panicked, and burned my identity to ashes. This time, I was going to disappear to London, build my own empire, and watch hers burn.

It was city gossip that Aiden Elliott, a powerful figure, was old, hideous, and close to death. For money, Millie's greedy father, sly stepmother, and jealous stepsister forced her into marrying this so-called dying man. Refusing to give in, Millie rebelled by spending the night with a male escort-only to find out later he was the very man she was set to marry, the rumored tyrant himself. "I'm old and ugly?" "Impotent?" "You want a divorce?" Aiden wouldn't let her go. From then on, Millie became his cherished wife, pampered and protected, envied by everyone.

I was an intern nurse working exhausting shifts, yet my mother constantly forced me into blind dates with wealthy, arrogant men to secure our family's social standing. During a terrifying hospital lockdown, an assassin disguised as a doctor held a scalpel to my throat. I was almost killed, but a high-ranking military colonel threw his own body down a flight of concrete stairs to shield me. I survived with cuts and bruises, but when I went home, my mother didn't care about my near-death experience. She was only furious that I had rushed out on my blind date with Preston, a rich financial analyst. She forced me to meet him to apologize. When Preston grabbed my arm, bruised me, and mocked my attack as a pathetic lie, my mother still took his side. "Men get angry," she told me coldly. "It's your job not to provoke them. You will beg for his forgiveness, or you are no longer welcome in this house." I had narrowly escaped an assassin, yet my own family was willing to feed me to a monster just for a fat paycheck and neighborhood gossip. My heart went completely dead. So, when the intimidating Colonel appeared, offering me maximum military protection through a sudden marriage, I didn't hesitate. I walked back into my parents' house and calmly slapped a crisp marriage certificate onto the coffee table. "I won't be apologizing to Preston. I got married today."

I was sitting in the Presidential Suite of The Pierre, wearing a Vera Wang gown worth more than most people earn in a decade. It was supposed to be the wedding of the century, the final move to merge two of Manhattan's most powerful empires. Then my phone buzzed. It was an Instagram Story from my fiancé, Jameson. He was at Charles de Gaulle Airport in Paris with a caption that read: "Fuck the chains. Chasing freedom." He hadn't just gotten cold feet; he had abandoned me at the altar to run across the world. My father didn't come in to comfort me. He burst through the door roaring about a lost acquisition deal, telling me the Holland Group would strip our family for parts if the ceremony didn't happen by noon. My stepmother wailed about us becoming the laughingstock of the Upper East Side. The Holland PR director even suggested I fake a "panic attack" to make myself look weak and sympathetic to save their stock price. Then Jameson’s sleazy cousin, Pierce, walked in with a lopsided grin, offering to "step in" and marry me just to get his hands on my assets. I looked at them and realized I wasn't a daughter or a bride to anyone in that room. I was a failed asset, a bouncing check, a girl whose own father told her to go to Paris and "beg" the man who had just publicly humiliated her. The girl who wanted to be loved died in that mirror. I realized that if I was going to be sold to save a merger, I was going to sell myself to the one who actually controlled the money. I marched past my parents and walked straight into the VIP holding room. I looked the most powerful man in the room—Jameson’s cold, ruthless uncle, Fletcher Holland—dead in the eye and threw the iPad on the table. "Jameson is gone," I said, my voice as hard as stone. "Marry me instead."