Rejected Omega, Secret Bride of the Billionaire Lycan

Elenor POV

The neon sign of the Tribeca bar flickered, casting a sickly red glow over the sticky wooden counter. I stared at the amber liquid in my glass, the cheap whiskey burning my throat, but it did nothing to numb the phantom pain tearing at my chest.

Three hours. It had been three hours since my entire world shattered under the crystal chandeliers of the Thornton Pack's Annual Unity Gala.

I was supposed to be Caleb's secret weapon, the brilliant assistant who managed his Pack's affairs behind the scenes. But when the Alpha of the Silvermoon Pack paraded his beautiful, pure-blooded daughter in front of him, Caleb hadn't just cast me aside. He had slaughtered my dignity.

I closed my eyes, but I could still hear his cruel, dismissive voice echoing over the clinking of champagne glasses.

*"Her? She's just a wolfless charity case my Pack took in. Barely an Omega. Don't take her seriously."*

*Wolfless.* The word was a silver-dipped dagger, twisting into my deepest wound. In the werewolf world, being wolfless meant you were defective. A burden. I had spent years enduring the Pack's whispers, letting Caleb control me just to prove my worth. And in one breath, he had reduced my existence to a pathetic joke just to make himself look available.

"Hey, sweetheart. A pretty thing like you shouldn't be drinking alone."

A heavy, sweaty hand clamped down on my thigh. I flinched, my eyes snapping open. Two human men had boxed me in. The one touching me reeked of stale beer and unwashed clothes.

"Let go of me," I muttered, trying to shove his hand away. But without a wolf to grant me strength, my push was embarrassingly weak.

"Come on, don't be a bitch," the second man sneered, leaning in closer.

Panic flared in my chest. I tried to slide off the barstool, but they pressed closer, trapping me. I was too exhausted, too broken to fight.

Then, the temperature in the bar plummeted.

It wasn't a draft. It was a suffocating, terrifying weight that instantly crushed the oxygen out of the room. A scent washed over me-a violent, intoxicating blend of sharp cedarwood, a raging rainstorm, and rich Cuban tobacco. It was an Alpha's aura, but heavier and darker than anything I had ever felt in the Thornton Pack.

The human man's hand was suddenly ripped from my thigh. He didn't even have time to scream before he was thrown backward, crashing into a table of empty bottles. His friend took one look at the towering figure standing behind me and bolted out the door, driven by pure, primal terror.

I slowly turned my head.

He stood there like a mountain of lethal grace. He was dressed in a bespoke black suit that stretched over broad, muscular shoulders. But it was his eyes that made my breath hitch-deep, charcoal-gray pools swirling with a possessive fury that seemed entirely directed at me.

I didn't know him. I had never seen him before. Yet, the moment his gaze locked onto mine, a strange, violent shiver wrecked through my spine.

He didn't spare a single glance at the groaning man on the floor. He just stared down at me, his jaw clenched so tight a muscle ticked in his cheek.

"You're coming with me."

His voice was a low, gravelly rumble. It wasn't a request. It was an absolute, undeniable command.

Every instinct I had screamed at me to run. He was dangerous. A predator. But as he reached out and his large, calloused hand wrapped around my wrist, a jolt of pure electricity shot up my arm. The spark was so intense it made my knees buckle.

I was wolfless. I shouldn't be feeling this.

But the whiskey, the heartbreak, and the sheer, overwhelming dominance radiating from him stripped away my last ounce of resistance. I let him pull me away from the sticky bar, out into the cool autumn night of New York.

A black, armored Maybach idled at the curb like a waiting beast. He opened the heavy door and guided me inside, sliding into the back seat right next to me.

The door shut with a solid thud, sealing us in. The spacious interior was completely saturated with his cedar and rainstorm scent. I pressed myself against the cold leather of the door, my head spinning wildly as the car pulled away from the curb, carrying me away from Caleb, away from my past, and into the terrifying unknown.

Elenor POV

The memory of the armored Maybach faded into a dark, whiskey-soaked blur. I woke up to blinding New York sunlight piercing through massive floor-to-ceiling windows.

I bolted upright, my head throbbing with a vicious hangover. The bed beneath me was massive, draped in high-thread-count black Egyptian cotton. I looked down and realized I was drowning in a crisp, white men's button-down shirt. Panic seized my throat. I scanned the freezing black hardwood floors and saw my silk dress from the gala lying near a leather armchair, its side seam violently ripped.

Oh, Goddess. What did I do?

The frosted glass door of the en-suite bathroom slid open. He stepped out, a white towel slung dangerously low on his narrow hips. The sheer force of his Alpha aura-a suffocating, heavy blend of sharp cedarwood, a raging rainstorm, and rich Cuban tobacco-instantly crushed the oxygen out of the room. My skin prickled with the phantom electricity of his touch from last night.

I scrambled off the bed, my bare feet hitting the cold floor. "I... I am so sorry," I stammered, my voice trembling as I instinctively backed away. "Last night. The alcohol, the stress... it was a massive mistake. I shouldn't have let things get out of hand."

He didn't say a word. His charcoal-gray eyes darkened to pitch black. I couldn't hear the inner wolf tearing at his mind, but the predatory stillness radiating from him made my breath hitch. He closed the distance between us with slow, lethal grace. I retreated, step by step, until my spine hit the freezing edge of the massive black marble island in the center of the room. Trapped.

He stopped mere inches from me. Slowly, he tilted his head to the side.

There, at the base of his thick, muscular neck, right on the collarbone, was a deep, red bite mark. A claiming mark. *My* bite mark. A fragmented memory hit me like a freight train-the overwhelming scent, the sheer panic, my teeth sinking into his burning skin in a desperate, drunken frenzy.

"A mistake?" His voice was a dangerous, gravelly whisper that vibrated straight through my chest.

"I... I can fix it," I babbled, my wolfless instincts screaming in absolute terror. "I can go to a pharmacy. Buy some heavy-duty concealer. No one has to know-"

A short, ruthless scoff cut me off. It was colder than any growl. He looked down at me as if my human solution to a deeply primal werewolf bond was the most insulting, pathetic thing he had ever heard. Without another word, he turned his broad back to me, walked to the other side of the island, and poured himself a cup of black coffee.

I stood frozen, my heart hammering against my ribs.

He picked up a folded newspaper from the counter and tossed it across the marble. It slid, stopping right in front of my trembling hands.

*The Wall Street Journal.*

The front page headline screamed: *BLACKWOOD ENTERPRISES SET FOR RECORD-BREAKING ACQUISITION.* Below the bold text was a high-definition photo of the man standing in front of me, looking every bit the ruthless corporate titan.

Damien Blackwood.

The blood drained from my face, leaving me dizzy and nauseous. In the human world, he was Wall Street's most cold-blooded predator. But in our world... *Blackwood* was a name whispered only in absolute terror. He wasn't just an Alpha. He was a Lycan. The apex predator of the werewolf hierarchy, a myth of unimaginable power and cruelty.

My petty drama with Caleb Thornton suddenly felt like a child's game. I, a defective, wolfless outcast, had just drunkenly bitten and insulted a Lycan King.

Damien took a slow sip of his coffee, his eyes locking onto mine with a chilling, calculated emptiness. He set the mug down, reached into the pocket of his discarded suit trousers on the chair, and pulled out his phone.

Elenor POV

Damien's thumb swiped across his phone screen. A second later, the massive flat-screen TV mounted on the far wall flared to life.

The muted financial news channel illuminated the penthouse. The ticker at the bottom of the screen flashed the same breaking news I had just read in the paper: *Blackwood Enterprises Acquisition.*

"A multi-billion dollar merger," Damien said, his voice devoid of any warmth. He didn't look at the screen; his piercing charcoal eyes remained locked on me. "In the human world, it's business. But in our world, a move this aggressive puts a target on my back. Any hint of scandal, any whisper of instability, will be interpreted by rival Packs as a sign of weakness."

He took a slow, deliberate step toward me. "And weakness, Elenor, invites territorial war. It invites blood."

My breath hitched. He knew my name. Of course he did. He was a Lycan King; he probably knew everything about my pathetic existence by the time the sun came up.

He turned his phone around, shoving the screen into my line of sight.

They were grainy, paparazzi-style photos. The first was a shot outside the Tribeca bar. The neon lights illuminated my silhouette as I practically threw myself into his chest, my face partially hidden by his broad shoulders, but his sharp, unmistakable jawline was perfectly clear. He swiped to the next image. It was the two of us getting into his black Maybach. The dim interior light caught my tear-stained, intoxicated face looking up at him.

"And then," Damien murmured, his voice dropping an octave as he pointed a long, calloused finger at the angry red bite mark on his collarbone. "There is this. The ultimate proof of my... loss of control. If the Pack Elders see that I allowed a drunken, wolfless stray from a rival territory to mark me, they will question my judgment. My enemies will strike."

The sheer weight of his words crushed the air from my lungs. I had spent my entire life trying to be invisible, trying not to be a burden to anyone, especially my little brother, Jamison. Now, I was the catalyst for a potential war involving the most ruthless Pack in North America.

"I..." My voice broke. The guilt and terror were a physical weight, drowning out any rational thought of running away. "I didn't mean to. I swear. How do I fix this? Tell me what to do. I don't have any money, I have absolutely nothing, but I'll do whatever it takes-"

A flicker of something dark and deeply satisfied flashed through his eyes, so fast I thought I imagined it.

"I don't need your money," he stated flatly.

He turned away, striding over to a heavy oak desk in the corner of the room. He opened a drawer, pulled out a thick stack of papers, and walked back. With a sharp flick of his wrist, he slammed the document onto the black marble island right in front of me.

The bold, black letters at the top of the page blurred my vision: MATE-BINDING & PRENUPTIAL AGREEMENT - STATE OF NEW YORK.

Before I could even process the words, Damien closed the distance. He leaned his massive frame forward, caging me between his hard body and the freezing edge of the marble counter. The sheer force of his Alpha aura-that intoxicating, suffocating blend of sharp cedarwood, a raging rainstorm, and rich Cuban tobacco-wrapped around my throat.

I was entirely trapped in his orbit.

"You will marry me," Damien commanded, his tone as clinical and absolute as if he were finalizing a corporate buyout. "We will turn this incident into a planned union. It's the only way."

I stared up at him, my jaw slack, my mind completely short-circuiting. The transition from a drunken mistake to a forced Pack marriage was so violently abrupt that the room started to spin. I was caught in a cage built by a Lycan King, and the lock had just clicked shut.