Protagonist: Sophia
The Alpha: Elvis
Chapter 1: The Scent of Silver and Scraps
The rain in the outskirts of the Silver-Moon territory didn't wash things clean; it only turned the dust into a thick, suffocating mud. Sophia wiped the sweat and rainwater from her brow, her fingers stained black from the scrap metal she had been sorting all morning. At nineteen, her back shouldn't ache this much, but being an Omega—and a "wolfless" one at that—meant she was the pack's footstool.
"Sophia! You missed a spot on the loading dock!" a voice boomed.
She didn't need to look up to know it was Sarah, the Beta's daughter. Sarah lived in a world of silk and high-end perfumes, while Sophia lived in the shadows of the pack's warehouse, sleeping on a thin mat near the incinerator.
"I'm coming," Sophia whispered, her voice raspy.
"Speak up, runt," Sarah sneered, kicking a pile of wet cardboard into Sophia's path. "And remember, tonight is the Blood Moon Ceremony. The Alpha returns from the Northern Front. If a single speck of dirt is found in the Great Hall, I'll make sure you're whipped before the whole pack."
Sophia's heart skipped a beat. Alpha Elvis. The name alone sent a shiver of fear and something she couldn't name down her spine. Elvis was known as the "Iron Claw." He was ruthless, powerful, and notoriously cold. He had been away for three years, leading the war against the rogue uprising. Sophia had only seen him once when she was sixteen, a brief glimpse of a man with eyes like frozen lightning.
As Sarah strutted away, Sophia knelt to pick up the wet cardboard. Her hand brushed against a piece of jagged metal, and a sharp sting erupted. She gasped, looking down at her palm. A deep red line was forming, the blood welling up.
But then, something strange happened.
Usually, as a wolfless Omega, she healed slowly—just like a human. But today, the blood didn't drip. Instead, a faint, golden steam seemed to rise from the wound. Within seconds, the skin knitted back together, leaving only a faint silvery line that quickly faded into nothing.
Sophia stared at her palm, her breath hitching. That's impossible. She looked around to see if anyone had noticed. If the pack found out she had any kind of power, they wouldn't celebrate her. They would fear her. And in the Silver-Moon pack, fear was always met with silver chains.
Chapter 2: The Return of the King
The Great Hall was a sea of expensive suits and evening gowns. The scent of pine and expensive cologne filled the air, nearly masking the underlying smell of wolf. Sophia stood in the far corner, dressed in a faded grey uniform, holding a tray of champagne flutes. Her job was to be invisible.
Suddenly, the heavy oak doors swung open.
The room went silent. The air pressure seemed to drop, making it hard to breathe. A man stepped into the light. He was tall, dressed in a midnight-black tactical suit that hugged a frame of pure muscle. His hair was dark, but it was his eyes—those piercing, icy blue eyes—that froze everyone in place.
Alpha Elvis had returned.
He walked with the grace of a predator, ignoring the bows of the elders. His gaze swept the room with bored indifference until it stopped.
He stopped moving exactly ten feet from where Sophia stood.
His nostrils flared. His head tilted slightly, his eyes narrowing. Sophia felt a heat bloom in her chest, a pull so strong it felt like an invisible rope was tugging her toward him.
No. It can't be, she thought, her hands trembling so hard the glasses on her tray began to clink. I am a beggar. An outcast. He is a King.
Elvis ignored the Beta who was trying to welcome him. He walked straight toward the corner. The crowd parted like the Red Sea. He stopped inches away from Sophia. The scent of storm clouds and sandalwood overwhelmed her.
"You," he growled. His voice was a low vibration that she felt in her very bones.
Sophia lowered her head. "I... I am sorry, Alpha. I will move."
Before she could step away, a large, warm hand clamped around her wrist—the same wrist she had injured earlier. Elvis leaned down, his lips brushing against her ear.
"Why," he whispered, his voice dangerously low, "do you smell like my fated mate, and why do you smell like a god I haven't seen in a thousand years