Chapter 2

Chapter 2:

I woke up drowning—not in water, but in the scent of him.

Crushed cedar, ozone, and the heavy electric charge of a violent storm. It was everywhere, seeping into my pores, clinging to the sheets tangled around my legs. I bolted upright, my heart hammering a frantic rhythm against my ribs.

This wasn’t my narrow cot in the servants’ quarters of the Hyde estate. This was a bed large enough to sleep a small army, dressed in charcoal sheets that felt like spun silk. The room was vast—a cavern of glass and dark wood overlooking the city skyline, cold and aggressively masculine.

I looked down. I was wearing a black t-shirt that hung to my knees. It smelled like him. Like Dallas.

Panic, sharp and acidic, clawed at my throat. The memories of last night crashed into me like a tidal wave: the rejection, the library, the desperate plea in the car, the contract.

I own you.

I scrambled out of bed, my bare feet sinking into the plush carpet. On the sleek ebony nightstand, a small collection of items awaited me. A set of clothes in my exact size, brand new. A matte black credit card with no visible limit. And a single sheet of heavy cream stationery covered in handwriting that was jagged and sharp.

Business in the North. Do not leave the city. Use the card. — D

Beside the note sat a velvet box.

𝗥eаd f𝗋om 𝘺o𝘂r 𝘱𝘩оne 𝘰n 𝘨𝗮𝗅ոоv𝘦𝗹ѕ.с𝗼𝘮

My hands trembled as I opened it. Inside rested a platinum band—simple but thick, devoid of diamonds yet radiating a terrifying weight. I slid it onto my left ring finger. It fit perfectly. It felt heavier than a shackle.

My phone buzzed on the nightstand, startling me. I picked it up; the screen illuminated the dim room. A text from an unknown number.

“Legal documents filed. You are now the primary beneficiary of the Marshall Estate and under the protection of the Blackwood Pack. Do not make us regret this p>

His Beta. I sank onto the edge of the bed, the air in the penthouse suddenly feeling too thin. I had traded a life of servitude for a gilded cage. I was safe from the world, yes—but I was locked in with a monster.

The phone buzzed again. And again. A continuous, angry vibration.

I looked at the screen. Braydon Hyde — 52 missed calls.

My stomach twisted. For years, seeing his name would have made me smile. Now it only made me want to be sick. The phone rang again, his face flashing on the screen—a photo I had taken of us last summer, laughing in the sun.

“Leave me alone,” I whispered to the empty room.

The ringing didn’t stop. It was a demand. A summons. As if I were still his little wolfless pet, expected to come running the moment he whistled.

Rage—hot and unfamiliar—surged through me. He had humiliated me in front of the entire Pack. He had chosen Katherine. He had erased me. And now he dared to call?

With one sharp swipe, I declined the call and blocked the number. The silence that followed was deafening, but for the first time in twenty-four hours, I felt a tiny, fragile spark of control.

By the time I reached the university library, my nerves were frayed. I had dressed in the clothes Dallas left—dark jeans and a cashmere sweater that likely cost more than my life’s earnings—hoping to blend into the ordinary world outside his penthouse.

I had barely made it past the reference section when a blur of red hair and boundless energy intercepted me.

Azalea Sterling.

She was stunning, with eyes the color of honey and a smile that could disarm a bomb. As the adopted daughter of the Alpha King, she was royalty on this campus. She was also the only she-wolf who had ever treated me like a human being.

“Azalea,” I managed, clutching my bag tighter. “I have to study p>

“Screw studying,” she said, her voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper. She cornered me against a bookshelf, her expression shifting from warm to intent. “Why did my father just transfer an amount of money into your account that could buy a small island p>

My blood ran cold. Of course she would know.

“I…” My mind raced. I couldn’t tell her I was her new stepmother—the thought alone was insane. “I’m doing some translation work for him. Ancient texts. From the library archives p>

Azalea narrowed her eyes and sniffed the air around me. I prayed the scent of her father had faded, or that she would attribute whatever trace remained to the work I claimed to be doing.

“Translation work,” she repeated, skeptical. “Dad doesn’t read. He growls and signs things p>

“It’s very specialized,” I lied, my voice barely holding steady.

She stared at me for a long moment, then shrugged, the tension evaporating as quickly as it had arrived. “Whatever. If he’s paying, you’re spending. Come on.” She grabbed my arm and dragged me out of the library, across the quad, and toward the student parking lot.

“Azalea, where are we going p>

“To see your other payment,” she chirped.

We stopped in the center of the lot. Surrounded by rusted Hondas and dented Toyotas sat a beast of a car—a brand new Aston Martin painted a lethal gunmetal grey, gleaming beneath the afternoon sun like a weapon at rest.

Heads were turning. Students were whispering.

“He had it dropped off an hour ago,” Azalea said, dangling a set of keys in front of my face. “He said your Ford Fiesta was an insult to road safety p>

I stared at the car in quiet horror. It wasn’t a gift. It was a mark—a flashing neon sign broadcasting to the world that Adelia Everett was property of the Alpha King.

“I can’t drive this,” I whispered.

“You can, and you will,” Azalea laughed, pressing the keys into my palm. She pulled open the driver’s side door, her eyes dancing with amusement. “Get in, Mrs. Marshall p>

The air left my lungs. I looked at her, certain for one terrifying moment that she knew—but she was simply grinning, making a joke about her father’s extravagance. She had no idea the title wasn’t a punchline.

It was my reality.

I slid into the leather seat, the heavy platinum band on my finger clinking softly against the steering wheel, and felt the cage door slam shut.