Alpha's Claim

Mira

The sound of a breaking plate echoed down the hallway before I even turned the knob to enter the kitchen. I stood there for a heartbeat longer, hand frozen on the door, breathing in the silence that followed.

Then her voice, sharp and seething. "Mira! Did you forget how to walk faster, or are you just enjoying your usefulness today?"

I pushed the door open, and I stepped into the kitchen like a prisoner entering a cell.

My stepmother Talia stood at the centre of the room, one perfectly manicured hand on her hip, the other pointing to the shattered plates like it was my fault gravity existed.

Her hair was curled in a lazy bun, not a single strand out of place. Besides her, my half-sister sat at the counter scrolling on her phone, smirking like she was waiting for her cue in the cruel play.

"You've got eyes, don't you? Clean that up." Talia's voice grated, cold and impatient.

I swallowed whatever words rose up my throat. Anger was dangerous. Anger made her worse. So I dropped my school bag by the door and crouched, carefully picking up each piece of porcelain. The floor was cold against my knees. The edge of the shards bit into my fingers.

"Be careful," my half-sister Sia said with mock sweetness. "We wouldn't want you bleeding on the floor you haven't mopped yet."

I didn't reply.

There is power in silence; it made them think they'd won.

But I knew better. Every scar they left only built the armour around me tighter.

I finished cleaning and headed to the sink to wash dust off my hands.

My fingers trembled as I turned on the water. Maybe it was exhaustion.

Maybe something else. I hadn't slept much again-same old dreams. Same blurry flashes of my mum, a storm, a scream, a shadow in the woods, and then...nothing. Just that burning emptiness where her voice used to be.

She died nine years ago. I was ten.

They said I killed her.

I blinked hard and shoved the memory away like a splinter under the skin. Some pain didn't fade. You just learnt to limp with it.

"Mira". My stepmother's voice again. I turned her eyes to rank over me. "After school, don't even think of coming straight home. The car shop called. Their cleaning girl quit again. You'll take over until they find someone less pathetic."

I opened my mouth.

"Don't talk back." She snapped. "You're already eating free food under my roof. Might as well work for it."

Free food. Right. The food I bought from my part-time jobs last week. The one they devoured while I stayed hungry and silent.

I grabbed my bag and headed for the door. Just before I left, I heard her whisper to Sia, "If only she'd died with her mother."

The door clicked behind me before I let the tears sting my eyes.

The cold wind bit into my face as I stepped out. Autumn in this town always had a certain cruelty to it-like even the weather knew how to bruise. I kept my hood up and headphones in, not because I listened to music but to drown the whispers when I passed by the others.

They never changed.

"Still hasn't shifted."

"She's 19 and still not wolf embarrassing."

"I heard she's cursed. Something about her mom's death..."

I walked faster. The streets blurred. My body moved on autopilot until I reached the gates of Crescent Hill High.

Inside it was the same story on repeat.

A shove against my locker, laughter echoing in the hallway.

"Ohh, sorry. Didn't see the invincible girls there," Aria sang, flickering her perfect hair. Nelly stood beside her, giggling like a wind-up doll.

I stepped away, gripping my books tight. I'd learnt not to flinch. That only gave them more reason to play harder.

"Still haven't sprouted a tail, runt?"

Aria's smile was all teeth. "Maybe your daddy should have mated with someone more... functional."

The words didn't hurt anymore.

Not because they weren't true. But because pain only mattered when you expected kindness.

And I'd stopped expecting that years ago.

The rest of the day passed in a blur of dull lectures and I didn't return. I worked two hours after school, scrubbing grease off the garage floor and wiping down muddy tires.

By the time I got home, the house was dark. No dinner, of course. Just a cold kitchen and a colder silence.

I stood in front of the cracked bathroom mirror staring at the girl staring back.

Red hair- long curly, impossible to tame . Pale skin. Grey eyes are too big for her face. I looked like a ghost for a girl who never got to be whole.

But it wasn't the hair or eyes that haunted me.

It was the absence of everything else. No wolf. No strength. No shift. Nothing. Like something inside me was frozen. Waiting.

I reached up and rolled back the sleeve of my shirt.

There, hidden beneath years of secrecy, sat the mark I never let anyone see. A soft crescent on the inside of my back- faint , glowing silver in the bathroom light. I can only see it when I use a mirror.

The mark had been there since the night mom died .

And sometimes... just sometimes ... it shimmered when I cried.

I curled up in bed that night without dinner, blankets tucked around me like armor . Somewhere between sleep and memory, I saw it again .

The forest.

The scream.

The blood.

The wolf's eyes staring through the dark.

And a voice-distant and low-whispering words I couldn't understand.

But tonight something changed. For the first time, the voice ended with a word I understood.

"Soon"

I woke up gasping, clutching my wrist.

Mira

The worst part of living with people who don't love you isn't the silence.

It's the politeness.

That sharp, brittle edge barely tolerates your existence.

The Caldwell house was a two-storey relic tucked between newer, flash homes. It looked like it had been nice once. Now it just felt tired-cracked paint, stiff windows and a front porch that groaned under your feet.

I walked through the door after classes, my headache blooming again, and I was instantly met with the scent of chicken stew.

Sia was on the couch, legs curled under her in perfect yoga pant indifference. She glanced at me once and turned her eyes back to her phone.

"Ohh," she said dryly, "look who survived another day of peasant school."

I ignored her; I was too tired for her usual routine.

Cassie and Lan were at the dining table pretending to study while gaming on their laptops.

Lan flicked his eyes up briefly.

"You've got paint on your shirt."

I looked down. A streak of gold shimmered across my sleeve. Leftover from the emergency design board, Professor Langston made me reprint during lunch.

"It's metallic", I answered, "it's supposed to be there."

He snorted like that somehow made it worse.

In the kitchen, my dad stirred the pot slowly, as if he were in a commercial about midlife crisis management. His salt-and-pepper hair was slicked back like always, his face as expressionless as ever.

"You're late," he said without turning.

"I had studio cleanup," I replied. "Langston kept me rehanging the mock-ups."

"I thought that was group work."

"It is."

He finally turned around, "So why are you the only one doing it?"

I paused "because no one else does it right".

It wasn't even a lie. I just didn't say the rest-that my professors let it happen. That I'd gotten used to being invisible. That even when I had ideas, they were stolen or ignored. That when I spoke up in critique, eyes rolled like I'd interrupted something more important than my own education.

He sighed. "You always make things more complicated than they need to be."

I blinked. "What does that even mean?"

"It means you need to stop playing the victim."

The words hit harder than I expected.

"I'm not..." I started but stopped.

What was even the point? Outsiders treat you according to how your parents keep you. But mine?

Every time I tried to explain how I felt, how I was treated like an unpaid intern in my own project, how I stayed hours after class cleaning up while the others got full credit-he acted like I was inventing problems just to complain.

To him, hard work was supposed to hurt.

And recognition? That's earned with smiles and obedience. Not with defiance and sensitivity.

"I'll be upstairs," I said instead, walking out before I cracked.

My room was the smallest in the house. It had been the storage closet before my father married Talia. Now it was my safe space.

Except it wasn't safe. Not really.

Not when the walls were thin enough to hear whispers. Not when Sia sometimes invited friends over just to joke about me from the next room.

Some days , it wasn't just whispers. They had the speaker turned in loud, music thumping through the wall, but everytime the beat dropped their voices slid through the cracks.

"She still sleeps in the broom closet," Sia said, and a chorus of laughter followed.

"Bet she's in there right now, sketching her little sad designs." Another voice skimmed in.

I sat frozen at my desk, fingered hovering over my sketch pad.

"Or maybe she's listening." Sia said her voice rising with mock drama

The girls shriked with laughter,

Then came a sound of footsteps- light at first then heavier- and the deliberate rattle of my doorknob.

"She locks it?" One of them asked.

"Hey, come out, we wanna show you something."

I didn't move.

Scared? They asked.

And they finally laughed their way back down the hall, music swallowing their retreat.

I exhaled. Just the permission to breathe.

And then that was when the mischievous changed- lower, bass heavy, like a slow heartbeat under the floor. I heard the shuffle of feets, a door closing, and a muffle of giggle.

Then came a sound of fabrics heating the floor, the soft slap of skin on skin, a male voice- Low, amused- murmuring something I couldn't make out.

Sia gasped sharply, turning into a high, breathy moan that carried through the wall as clearly as if she were standing beside me. "Turn," he said. The man answered with a guttural hum.

And the then the headboard began to thud against the wall - steady, rhythmic, harder each time.

Her moans stretched into long, shaky gasps. He said something filthy and she laughed, the sound breaking into a sharp cry as the pace picked up.

The mattress creaked under their weight, spring groaning in protest.

I could hear the wet sound of him moving into her, the slap of their body meeting over and over.

She wasn't trying to be quiet. If anything, her voice got louder - moaning his name, swearing, gasping, letting me know exactly what was happening.

Every noise drilled into me: the stutter in her breathing when he changed angles, the urgent rustle of sheets, the sharp smark of skin that made her yelp and then laughed helplessly.

The bed frames flamed against the wall so hard I felt the vibration through my desk.

And then - silence, except for the uneven rush of their breathing. A few seconds later, a low moan, slower now, stretched out into something satisfied and smug.

I sat there frozen, my palm damp, my face hot.

The silence afterwards was worse than the noise. It pressed in around me, heavy and deliberate , carrying the certainty that she knew that d heard every second - and that was the point.

My phone buzzed.

Langston [6:11 pm]:

"I need you to stay behind tomorrow and help fix the dimensional model. Group three was a mess. You're the most reliable."

Reliable.

That's what they called me when they didn't want to say "dormant".

I clenched my hand around the phone.

I wanted to scream. I wanted to throw the phone across the room, break the window, shift into whatever monster I knew lived under my skin and roar loud enough that every smug voice around me finally shut up.

But I couldn't; I didn't have that monster. I was not in contact with my wolf.

And I didn't.

Because Mira Caldwell didn't scream.

She stayed quiet.

She fixed what others ruined.

She didn't cry even when the migraine pressed so hard against her skull that her vision blurred.

I curled onto my bed and stared at the ceiling.

What if I'm not just tired? What if I'm changing?

What if all this - the migraines, the dreams, the pain in my blood - was a warning?

I blinked at the ceiling.

The moonlight had shifted through the window. It patched my sketch pad in silver.

Mira

The morning fog clung to the streets like regret-heavy, bitter, and unwelcome. I stood at the bus stop with my hands shoved deep in my coat pockets, watching a crow peck at a crumpled burger wrapper on the ground.

It felt like a metaphor for my life.

Sia had used the hot water again. My hair was a tangled cloud of half-frozen curls, clinging to my damn neck like vines.

The worst part? Today was a school event. A cross-pack leadership gala hosted by Crescent Hill-which meant two things: every elite family from nearby packs would be attending, and I would be nowhere near the guest list.

But I had been "invited" in a different way.

"Mira." Professor Lane had said just yesterday, tapping his pen like he enjoyed the sound, "We need help with staffing the event. You've always been... useful. You'll serve drinks and clear plates. Clean up after."

Translation: you'll be invincible. again.

I didn't argue; I never did. What was the point?

By noon the gym had been transformed into a ballroom.

Long velvet drapes swallowed the wall. Chandeliers I didn't even know the school owned hung like captured stars. The floor gleamed under the lights, polished so hard I could see my reflection in it-a ghost in black waiter's clothes.

"Mira, over here!" Khala's voice cut through the bustle like a drill sergeant in stilettos.

She was already snapping her fingers before I reached her. "Table six needs to be shifted two inches left. That runner is wrinkled. And the wine flutes-God, Mira-no fingerprints.

I wrote down my response and nodded, adjusting the runner like my degree depends on it.

By seven o'clock, the main hall was glowing.

The guests began to arrive.

Elegant women draped in silk and moonstones. Men with chiselled jaws and golden pocket watches.

Laughter and low conversation floated around me like perfume I wasn't allowed to wear.

"Draven's arriving at eight sharp," Khala muttered. "He hates lateness. He hates clutter. He hates being spoken to unless necessary."

I didn't ask how she knew all that.

Everyone in Crescent had heard of Evan Draven.

Here is the most powerful private pack in the eastern provinces. Reclusive. Charismatic. Dangerous.

A walking myth wrapped in money and a tailored suit.

We weren't allowed to talk to him.

We were allowed to breathe.

I hovered near Table One, checking placements, when a cold voice behind me said, "That's crooked."

I turned.

Sophie.

She stood with a drink in her hand and fake concern on her face. "Not that anyone expects you to understand symmetry."

I adjusted the knife slightly without looking at her. "It's symmetrical now."

"Ohh, look at that," she smiled slightly. "Our little, little orphan girl can measure. Anyway, you're good with part-time jobs, so obviously."

Before I could respond, Khala appeared, expression tight, "Mira. VIPs just pulled up. Head to the back mezzanine."

Meaning get out of sight.

I obeyed without arguing.

I tugged behind frosted and gold panelling. I leaned against the railing, watching the guest.

I didn't know how, exactly. Just that it did.

Like the air had thinned. Like the walls stood straighter. Like every sound quieted, if only for a second.

He entered.

I didn't see his face at first-only the way the crowd shifted to make way for him. Like a ripple moving through a still lake. Eyes lowered. Spines stiffened.

And then, he stepped into my line of sight.

Tall. Broad. Raven - black hair swept back like a storm barely held together. A jawline sharp enough to slice through silence. He wore a dark suit, but it wasn't the tailoring that made people tremble.

It was him. Presence. The weight of power.

His eyes scanned the room like a blade. And for a terrifying second-I swear he looked directly at me.

His eyes stopped-on me.

No. Not me.

My hair.

I had been bending to collect empty flutes from a tray when it happened. I stood slowly, and I could feel it - his gaze, heavy and unblinking, like he was trying to see through me.

heart thudding. Don't look. Don't draw attention. Don't breathe wrong.

But it was too late.

Something had shifted.

I froze; everything inside me screamed.

My skin pricked. My hands trembled against the marble rail. My head was already tender from the day's migraine-split with pressure.

And then ...

He looked away.

"Mira!" A voice snapped. "What are you doing?"

I turned, dazed.

Langston has appeared behind me, red-faced. "You're not cleared for the mezzanine. Go down and help with the wine station. Now."

I nodded numbly and slipped past him.

Back at the service bar, I fumbled with a tray of glasses. My breath came too fast, heart racing. The migraine flared so hard behind my left eye like lightning threatening to split my skull.

"Mira?" Someone whispered.

I turned too fast and nearly dropped that tray.

"Khala's brows pinched. "You look pale. Go stand outside for five minutes and don't pass out near the CEO."

I nodded and stumbled through the side door into the cool night.

The wind hit my face like a slap.

And then-

I smiled.

Earth. Pine. Smoke. Salt.

I turned toward the scent.

He stood at the far end of the terrace.

Alone.

Hands in his pocket. Eyes on the stars.

He didn't look at me, but my legs moved anyway.

Two steps forward.

I stepped closer, the stone under my heels muffling my approach.

He didn't turn but I felt him notice me- the way his shoulders straightened.

Another step, the scent of him grew stronger.

"You followed me," he said, voice low, without looking away from the sky.

"I was just... maybe," I muttered.

He finally turned, his gaze caught mine.

"You shouldn't be out here." He said, his voice low but deep.

"Why not?" I asked.

"Because I'm here."

"And what does that have to do with me?"

"I mean," he said taking a step foward to me "You might not go back inside the same person you were when you came out."

"Really?" I said.

And that earned me a faint, dangerous curve of his mouth. "You're braver than you look."

"I'm not brave, I said quietly."

"Curiosity gets you into trouble."

"And you're trouble?"

"Absolutely."

I stepped an arm length away, my breath catching when his hand rose to brush a hair from my cheek. His knuckles lingered again my cheek tracing down to the corner of my jaw.

The terrace was quiet except for the wind and the soft cling of glasses from inside.

His fingers slid lower resting lightly at the base of my throat.

"You're cold," he murmured. One hand in my throat and the other came to my hip, fingers curling into the fabrics of my dress, and he pulled me closer.

Should have stopped him. But something in my chest tightened and Instead of stepping away, I just stayed, helpless. My body surrendered to him.

He bent his head, his breath brushing my cheek before his lips found the line of my jaw.

It was nothing like I imagined.

I'd never been this close to someone so deliberate, so certain of the effect they were having on me. My mind flickered- uninvited to the moments Sia's voice carried through my wall. The gaspes the broken moan, the shameless way she let pleasure spill into the air like it was the only language she spoke.

I wondered what it would be like to sound like that.

"You're not saying no?" He asked.

I didn't answer.

His kiss deepened, his hand sliding from my waist to the curve of my hip, then lower, cupping me through.

A soft sound escaped me- half gaspe, half moan. His thumb brushed slow deliberate circles over me, and it sent a pulse of heat between my legs.

I should have cared that Khala might come out any second looking for me, that anyone could step outside. But I didn't, all I cared about was that each moment of his hand made me breathe hitch higher, the sound spilling into the air before I could stop it.

He simply gathered the fabrics in his hand, his knuckles brushing my tighs as he pulled it upward. I let him.

When the silk bunched at my ribs, he broke the kiss, eyes fixed on mine, as his fingers found the clasp at my shoulder. On thug and the strap fell loose and then the other.

The dress slipped away like water pulling at my feet.

The cold night air pricked over my bare skin. His gaze tracing every line and curve as if memorizing me. He stepped close, one hand rising to cup my jaw, tilting my face so I couldn't look anywhere but at him.

"Turn around," he said

I did, the stone railing cool against my hip. His palm skimmed down my back, lingering just long enough to make my breath catch.

I waited for it- for his hand to roam lower, for that first bold touch that would shatter the the tension and send me into the sound I'd dreamed of making.

Instead, he stilled,

I turned, startled to see him already a step back.

Then-

His head turned slowly.

He blinked.

Turned away. And just like that he walked away, leaving me half covered, my heart racing.

I walked back into the hall without a word.