BOUND TO THE ALPHA BILLIONAIRE

Sierra Lane's POV

You can tell a city by the way it breathes.

New York didn't exhale. It hissed through vents, exhaust pipes, cabs, and people too tired to care they were ghosts in overpriced coats. I fit right in, clutching my knockoff tote, sipping dollar coffee, and tailing a ghost in a thousand-dollar suit.

Dominic Thorne.

A billionaire, untouchable, and if the rumors were even half true, one hell of a devil in designer wool.

I hadn't planned on stalking him. I had planned on surviving another unpaid freelance piece and maybe scoring a sandwich that didn't taste like printer paper. But then came the call. An anonymous tip, voicemail only: "Follow Thorne, start tonight and bring your camera."

My instincts said scam. My hunger said do it. And my pride? That had been pawned for rent three weeks ago.

So there I was, thirty-seven percent phone battery and a twenty-dollar lens strapped to a hand-me-down DSLR, crouching on a freezing rooftop across from a crumbling cathedral where Dominic Thorne wall street's silver bullet had just disappeared with two men in dark coats and a suitcase leaking red.

Not metaphorically, actual red, blood-red.

Nobody does midnight meetings in abandoned churches unless you're Catholic or criminal. Or both.

My fingers were stiff as I raised the lens and adjusted the zoom. Inside, the old stained glass barely held back the flickering lights from within. Candles? Torches? It didn't matter. I had him, proof that Dominic wasn't just playing dirty in business, he was neck-deep in something twisted. I had get the shot, write the exposé, and claw my way out of the gutter.

Except that's when things went to hell.

There was a sound, low and wrong. Like a growl filtered through static. The men were shouting now, gesturing wildly. Dominic's back was to me, shoulders squared, like a general before war.

Then he turned and changed.

Not metaphorically, not metaphorically at all.

His skin rippled, tearing itself apart. Bone snapped forward. Muscles swelled like they remembered something primal. What stood under the moonlight wasn't a man anymore. It was a beast, massive, black-furred, and fangs gleaming in candlelight. A wolf, if wolves looked like nightmares that could balance spreadsheets and snap spines with equal ease.

I didn't scream. I couldn't. My lungs had seized. My camera clicked.

Once. Twice.

The lens fogged. My hands shook. I had seen death before, murders, protests gone sideways, but this wasn't that. This wasn't just danger.

This was extinction bait.

And I had it on film.

The beast leapt fast as thought onto one of the men. The other ran, but not far. A second shape exploded from the darkness, tearing into him. Two wolves. Blood sprayed like paint across holy stone.

My legs forgot how to work.

I turned, tripped over my own boot, scrambled backward to the rooftop's edge. My camera swung like a pendulum from my neck, still blinking red. Recording.

"Stop shaking," I muttered. "Get up. Get out."

But then I heard it. A click.

No. A whisper.

From behind.

"I hate being followed," a voice said, deep and low and smooth like good whiskey over black ice.

I spun.

He was standing there, Dominic. Human again. No blood, no cuts, no broken bones. Just pressed charcoal wool, calm eyes, and an expression that could freeze lava.

"Cute camera," he said, stepping closer. "Do you know what happens to people who dig too deep, Miss Lane?"

My heart jackhammered. I backed away, only to hit the ledge. One more step and it was a six-story plunge into traffic and regret.

"I didn't mean-" I started.

He held up a hand. Not threatening, just patient.

"You have a choice now," he said. "One month. You come with me. Learn what this is. Everything. And in return, you keep your silence."

I blinked. "That's not a choice. That's blackmail."

"It's survival," he said, stepping in. His eyes, God, his eyes, weren't human. Gold, deep, and hungry. "Because if you leave now, others will come. Not as polite. Not as merciful."

I swallowed. "And if I say yes?"

"You stay alive. And maybe you understand enough not to hate me for what I am."

I looked past him. The cathedral, the blood and the bodies.

This wasn't a story anymore. It was a reckoning.

I nodded once. "Fine. One month, but I get full access."

He smiled, not kind, not cruel, just knowing.

"I wouldn't offer anything less."

Then he stepped back, nodded to the shadows, and a sleek black car pulled up as if it summoned. I followed him, still shaking, into a world I had no business surviving in.

Not yet.

Not without answers.

Not without armor.

But I had something better than armor.

Curiosity.

And secrets don't survive long under that kind of heat.

The car ride was silent. His estate didn't look like something a human would live in, it looked like a war bunker wearing a tuxedo. Stone walls, Iron gates, windows that watched you back.

Inside was colder than out.

I was led to a room that could've belonged to royalty or prisoners, depending on the angle.

Dominic watched me walk inside but didn't follow.

"One month," he said again. "Ask what you need, record what you want, but understand something, Miss Lane."

He leaned in. Close enough that I could feel the heat beneath that flawless facade.

"You are not in control. Not here."

He turned and walked away.

The door shut.

Locked.

Of course.

I dropped onto the edge of the velvet couch, my heart still doing Olympic-level flips.

One month in his world.

And he had no idea who he just invited in.

I opened my camera, reviewed the footage.

Gone.

Deleted.

Wiped clean.

But one frame remained, blurry, broken but real.

A yellow eye, a mouth full of teeth, and a man in the background watching it all happen, calm, deliberate, and smiling.

That man wasn't Dominic.

I didn't know him.

Yet.

But something about that face made my skin crawl.

I zoomed in.

Printed the frame.

Taped it to the back of my notebook.

And wrote one word under it.

"Why?"

Sierra Lane's POV

I didn't sleep.

Not because the room was cold or the bed too soft. Not even because of the wolves outside my window, howling like the moon owed them something. I didn't sleep because that note kept staring at me like it had teeth.

You were never supposed to see.

Six words, no signature, no explanation, but whoever left it had keys to a fortress guarded by killers and monsters in silk suits. That meant either Dominic knew and was playing some kind of twisted psychological game, or I wasn't just trespassing in his world, I had already stepped into someone else's trap.

I folded the note into my journal and stood. First rule of journalism: don't panic. Second rule: when the room starts smelling like secrets, go digging.

The mansion was silent, but not asleep. The kind of silence that hums like power lines buzzing with watching eyes and cameras behind vintage mirrors. I slipped into the hallway, barefoot, gripping my penlight and my phone like weapons.

The estate was a maze of polished wood, velvet walls, and oil paintings of dead-eyed men with family names that probably owned half the country. I counted doors, passed statues, avoided mirrors and something told me they didn't just reflect.

I reached a double door carved with symbols I didn't recognize. Moon phases, maybe. A wolf's eye. And something that looked a hell of a lot like my birthmark, a crescent with a jagged line through it.

The door wasn't locked.

Inside was a library that didn't belong in the twenty-first century. Dark walnut shelves soared to a ceiling dusted in gold stars. The place smelled like old books, older secrets, and power that didn't come from money.

I crossed to the far side and spotted a reading desk. A notebook sat open. Not mine. Not Dominic's handwriting either. I had memorized his sharp, controlled script from years of leaked corporate memos. This was softer, feminine, and familiar.

I picked it up.

Page one: "If you're reading this, you're not safe."

It was my mother's handwriting.

My pulse punched through my neck.

I flipped pages faster. Dates, names, and symbols. There were sketches of wolves, lunar alignments, blood sigils, and something that looked like a ritual involving salt, fire, and the phrase "cut from the moon."

She had known about them, and about him.

The journal stopped mid-sentence.

"As long as she doesn't remember-"

Blank.

I whispered, "What the hell were you hiding from me, Mom?"

"You're not supposed to be in here."

The voice shot through the dark like a bullet.

I turned fast, clutching the journal to my chest.

A woman stepped into the moonlight filtering through the window. Late twenties, elegant, dangerous in a red robe that looked ceremonial and obscene at the same time.

She had Dominic's eyes.

"You're Sierra Lane," she said. "The human he is keeping."

"And you are?"

"Cassandra Vale," she answered. "I was supposed to be his wife."

Of course.

She walked in slow circles around me, her tone silk-smooth but coiled like a whip.

"That book doesn't belong to you."

"It belonged to my mother," I said, spine stiff. "She disappeared when I was ten. This is the first trace I've found in years."

She smirked. "And somehow it ended up in Dominic's private archive? Tell me, how does a broke journalist wander into an Alpha's warpath and survive?"

I didn't answer. She didn't need one.

She already knew.

"You think you're here by accident," she said. "You think you uncovered something. But you're a piece, Sierra, a pawn. And pawns don't win. They bleed."

Before I could speak, the door creaked open.

Dominic walked in like he owned gravity.

"Cassandra," he said, voice low. "Leave us."

She turned to him with a look I couldn't read, part betrayal, part something older.

"She found the journal."

"I know," he said.

"She is dangerous."

"I know that too."

He stepped closer to me and extended his hand. "Come with me."

I didn't take it. I followed, but on my terms. Always on my terms.

He took me through a back corridor, down stone steps into a chamber carved from the earth. Torches lined the walls. No electricity, just flame and silence.

"This is where your mother stayed," he said.

I stopped walking.

"What?"

"Years ago. Before she vanished."

I stared at him. "Why didn't you tell me?"

"Because I didn't know it was her. Not until I saw that journal."

I looked around the room. The bed was bare. The walls were etched with symbols. On the far end, a cracked mirror reflected half a face-mine.

"She was one of them," I whispered.

Dominic nodded. "Not a wolf, but not human either. She was part of the old bloodlines, moon priestesses. Most were hunted out. Your mother hid herself well."

"And me?"

"You're something new," he said. "You don't smell fully human. But you're not wolf either. You're... potential."

I hated how he said it. Like I was a chemical waiting to explode.

"Is that why I'm here?" I asked. "Because of what I might be?"

"You're here because you saw me shift," he said. "But what you are... that's bigger than both of us."

I turned to him. "And what about you, Dominic? What are you?"

He didn't answer with words.

He stepped closer, too close, and I felt it, the thing no one warns you about in bedtime stories. Not fear. Not danger.

Connection.

Primal, inevitable, like my bones remembered him before I was born.

"It's not fate," I said. "I don't believe in that."

"Neither do I," he said. "Which makes this worse."

His hand brushed my jaw. Not soft, not rough, just there.

"You can leave," he whispered. "Right now. Walk away. But if you stay, there's no halfway."

I wanted to tell him off, punch him, kiss him. All at once.

Instead, I asked the only question that mattered.

"What happened to my mother?"

His eyes flickered. For the first time, he looked away.

"She died protecting something."

I nodded. "Then I want to know what it was."

He stepped aside. "Then stay, learn, and survive."

Later that night, I sat alone with the journal again. I flipped to the last page and pressed my fingers against the dried ink.

It shimmered.

No-glowed.

A single word burned into the parchment.

Crux.

I didn't know what it meant.

But the door to my room blew open.

And standing there, not Dominic, not Cassandra, but a man I had never seen before.

Tall, white-blonde hair, his eyes like knives.

He smiled.

"You're late, priestess."

Sierra Lane's POV

I didn't move, I couldn't.

The man standing in the doorway didn't belong to the marble silence of Dominic's estate. He looked like something that had survived war, bled for power, and come out on the other side more myth than man. Tall. Wire-cut features. Hair like ash before the fire. And those eyes, silver with a touch of madness.

"You're late," he said again. "Priestess."

I stayed seated, one hand still on the journal like it could shield me. "You've got the wrong girl."

He smirked, stepped into the room, and kicked the door shut behind him without breaking eye contact.

"I don't make mistakes," he said. "Your mother did. Cost her, her life. So unless you want to follow in her grave-warmed footsteps, I suggest you open the bag."

My stomach sank. "What's your name?"

"Call me Elias. I'm not here to hurt you, Sierra. I'm here to tell you the truth. All of it."

Elias dropped the satchel at my feet. Leather, and old. The kind of bag people bury things in when they want them found by the right hands and no one else. I hesitated, then opened it.

Inside were photos, documents, burned pages half-charred but legible. Symbols matching my mother's journal, maps, bloodlines.

And a photo.

Black and white. My mother, younger, smiling at a man with those same silver eyes. Elias.

I looked up. "You knew her."

"Loved her," he said. "And I failed her."

The words didn't come like confession. They came like ash in his throat. He sat opposite me, not close, not looming. Just watching. Like a man who had seen too much and didn't believe in comfort anymore.

"She was supposed to disappear," Elias said. "But not like that. She was hiding you. From him."

I didn't need to ask who him was.

"Dominic," I whispered.

Elias shook his head. "Not just Dominic, Alaric Thorne, His father. The real Alpha. The one who started the trafficking. The one who wants to use your blood to crown himself king."

My hands clenched. "Why me?"

"Because you're a Crux. A convergence of bloodlines, human, priestess, and something else we still don't fully understand. Your mother wasn't just a priestess. She carried dormant magic so old, even the wolves fear it, and you inherited it."

"No," I said. "I'm not special. I'm just a journalist who got too close."

"Then why didn't Dominic kill you when he had the chance?" Elias leaned forward. "Why did he offer you a deal?"

I hated the answer. Because something in me called to him. Because I wasn't just a threat. I was a key.

"I don't trust you," I said.

"Good," Elias replied. "You shouldn't. But if you want answers about your mother, about why you were marked since birth, you'll follow the trail I left in that satchel. Start with the letter addressed to Ava Lane. Your mother wrote it before she died."

I reached inside again, pulling out the envelope sealed with wax. My fingers trembled as I broke it open and read.

My Sierra,

If you're reading this, I'm already gone. But not lost. I left you pieces enough to survive what's coming. You'll be hunted, you'll be lied to, but your blood is not a curse. It's a promise and promises bind.

He will come for you. He'll wear charm like a mask, power like perfume, but behind his eyes is ruin.

Do not trust the one who walks in two skins.

Trust only the one who gave up his teeth for your mother's heart.

Love always,

Mom.

I folded the letter slowly, my chest hollow.

Two skins... That could only mean Dominic, but Elias had fangs behind his words too.

"I don't need a babysitter," I said.

"Not here to babysit," Elias said. "I'm here to protect what's left of your bloodline."

"You mean control it."

"I mean survive it."

Footsteps echoed down the hallway.

Elias stood, fast like a soldier smelling war. "He's coming."

I grabbed the satchel and shoved it under the bed. "If Dominic sees you-"

"He won't. I don't stay where I'm not welcome."

And just like that, Elias vanished through the terrace door, swallowed by shadow.

The door opened.

Dominic stood in the doorway, his shirt unbuttoned at the collar, sleeves rolled, eyes sharp as razors. "You're up late."

"So are you."

"Couldn't sleep," he said, stepping inside.

"You always walk into people's rooms without knocking?"

"Only when I hear voices and smell bloodlines waking up."

I turned toward the window, pretending to fix the curtain. "What do you want, Dominic?"

He paused. And when he spoke, his voice wasn't steel. It was almost soft.

"I came to warn you. Cassandra isn't your biggest problem."

"Alaric," I said.

His eyes narrowed. "Where did you hear that name?"

"Your walls talk," I said. "And I listen."

He walked toward me. "You think you're clever, but you're not ready. That journal? It's a spark in a room full of gas. If you light it, you burn."

"Maybe I want to know what fire tastes like."

He stopped inches from me. The tension cracked between us, dangerous and magnetic. His hand brushed a lock of hair from my cheek. "You have no idea what you're waking up."

"Neither do you."

I stepped back.

And Dominic, Alpha, billionaire, beast let me.

"Tomorrow," he said. "You meet the Council. Don't ask questions. Don't show fear, and don't mention your mother."

"Why?"

"Because some names still bleed when spoken."

He left.

I collapsed onto the bed, breath shaky, heart louder than it should've been. I reached under the frame, grabbed the satchel, and zipped it shut.

Tomorrow, I would play along. Smile, nod and pretend I didn't know anything.

But tonight, I read.

And what I read turned my blood cold.

One of the photos in the satchel shows a symbol, carved into flesh. The same one as my birthmark, but it's not on me. It's on another child, a girl, my exact face. My exact eyes.

And she is standing next to Alaric Thorne.