Rejected by the Alpha Heir, Claimed by the Lycan Regent

Eleanor Kensington POV:

The rising heat and the sound of heavy, humid breathing shut out all traces of the wind and snow outside, while the air grew thick with the bittersweet scent of crushed heather, mingled with the bracing, assertive aroma of winter cedar.

"Wake up, little merchant," a low, metallic voice rumbled from the shadows across the room.

My consciousness gradually returned, and a hazy, pink-hued memory slowly surfaced: a man's broad, sturdy hands were tracing the curves of my slender, supple waist; his calloused palms and fingers would occasionally tease the soft flesh of my midriff, sending uncontrollable shivers across my smooth, fair skin-sensations I found

utterly delightful.

I jolted upright on the velvet mattress, my vision swimming as the lingering haze of narcotics clawed at my senses.

I turned my head toward the tall copper mirror standing near the hearth.

The reflection showed my flushed skin, my tangled golden-brown hair, and the undeniable marks of a violent mating heat.

"Looking for your dress?" the voice came again, smooth as polished silver and cold as a winter blade.

I froze, turning my eyes toward the high-backed velvet armchair by the dying hearth.

Victor Sterling, the Lycan Regent of the entire realm, sat there with his long legs crossed, casually fastening the pure silver cufflink of his black silk shirt.

In this kingdom, he was the supreme commander of the royal knight orders, an immortal pureblood whose word outranked even the regional pack lords.

His dark golden wolf eyes locked onto mine through the dim morning light, tracking my pulse like a beast sizing up cornered prey.

The suffocating dominance radiating from his body made the hair on my arms stand up.

The memories of my previous life crashed over me in a violent torrent.

Today was the annual banquet of Falcon Castle.

My husband, Tristan Beaumont, the arrogant heir of this crumbling estate, had spiked my spiced wine with a lethal dose of heat-inducing aphrodisiac.

He had lured the visiting Regent into this very chamber, knowing the drug would trigger a mutual rut, all so he could break down the door at dawn with the city council and catch us in bed.

His goal was simple: use my ruined honor to extort my family's massive trade caravans and force the Regent to sign his hereditary Alpha decree.

In my past life, they slandered me, ruined my reputation, plundered my family's assets, and I was killed in a stone cell by my mother-in-law with a cup of poison.

The big set-up was about to begin, and I had only a short time to get myself ready.

I closed my eyes for a single second, forcing down the tremor in my stomach.

I was no longer the naive Omega merchant daughter who had wept into the sheets, begging for mercy while my husband stripped me of my birthright.

The room reeked of our mating, a raw blend of Alpha and Omega scents that no wolf in the castle could miss.

"Your dress was shredded to ribbons during our rather energetic accident," Victor said, his tone dripping with dry amusement as he spun a broken mother-of-pearl button between his scarred fingers.

I gripped the heavy silk morning robe tangled at the foot of the bed and wrapped it tightly around my bruised body.

"Did you enjoy the trap, Your Grace?" I asked, my voice flat and steady despite the trembling in my knees. "Or does the supreme Lycan Regent usually allow a backwater castle like this to drug his wine?"

Victor let out a soft, dangerous chuckle.

He rose to his feet.

His towering frame blocked the faint dawn light, casting a massive shadow across the bed.

Before I could shift away, his calloused fingers closed around my jaw, forcing my face up.

"Watch your tongue, Eleanor," he murmured, his thumb pressing firmly against the pulse point beneath my ear. "If my inner beast hadn't been fighting off silver-laced venom, do you honestly believe these castle rats could have put you in my bed?"

His golden eyes flashed with a primal, predatory storm.

I stared straight into his gaze, refusing to flinch even as the grip on my jaw tightened.

"Then let go of me, Your Grace," I whispered, the words slicing through the heavy air. "Because in less than five minutes, my loving husband will be standing on the other side of that door with half the castle guard."

Victor narrowed his eyes, his brow arching in mild surprise at my lack of tears.

He released my chin and stepped back, his hands resting easily at his sides.

The moment his fingers left my skin, I swung my bare legs over the edge of the mattress.

The icy oak floorboards sent a shock of reality straight up my spine.

I walked straight toward the vanity in the corner, my knuckles turning white as I clenched my fists.

Tristan.

Beatrice.

You thought today would be the start of your glorious rise.

You have no idea that you just opened the gates of your own ruin.

Eleanor Kensington POV:

"Take the servants' stairs," Victor said quietly. "You can still get out before they arrive."

I glanced at him, then at the rumpled bed behind us. The silk sheets were stained with blood and sweat, the lingering evidence of what had happened in this room. The drug still simmered through my veins, and the marks on my skin were impossible to miss.

Running would buy me a little time, but it would also leave Tristan free to tell whatever story he pleased.

I had no intention of letting him write my story for me.

I crossed to the fireplace and seized the stained sheets. One by one, I fed the silk into the flames, watching the fabric curl, blacken, and disintegrate. The fire consumed the physical evidence, leaving only wisps of smoke and the faint, bitter smell of scorched silk.

The marks on my skin were another matter. They would take time to fade, and no amount of burning could erase them before the others arrived.

I lowered my gaze to the red traces along my body, my expression hardening as a plan took shape.

If Tristan intended to use those marks as proof that I had willingly participated in whatever scheme he had arranged, I needed a way to undermine his story. Hiding the marks wouldn't be enough. I needed a visible explanation for the sudden change in my skin-and I needed it before the others arrived.

My gaze swept across the chamber and stopped at the vase beside the washstand.

Fire-leaf.

I recognized the plant. Once dried and ingested, Fire-leaf could trigger a distinctive reaction in werewolves: angry red patches that spread across the skin, obscuring other marks beneath them. If the reaction appeared in time, anyone examining me would have to consider another explanation for the redness.

A cold calculation settled in my mind. I didn't need to convince everyone of my innocence on the spot. I only needed to make Tristan's version of events less certain-and give myself room to challenge it.

Victor noticed my expression. "Eleanor?"

I didn't answer. I crossed to the vase and tore off several leaves, then carried them to the fireplace.

I held them near the heat, turning them until the moisture evaporated and the leaves shriveled into brittle, darkened fragments. There was no time to waste. I crushed them into a small ceramic dish and swallowed them, forcing down the bitter taste.

Victor went still.

For a moment, he simply stared at me, as though he couldn't decide whether to stop me or acknowledge what I had chosen to do.

"Do you understand what you've just taken?" His voice had lost its usual composure.

"Every bit of it."

"You know what Fire-leaf does when it's dried."

"I do."

His gaze dropped to the empty dish, then returned to my face. Shock flashed across his features, followed by something harder to conceal: admiration. He understood that I wasn't acting out of panic. I had recognized the plant and the reaction it could cause, then deliberately accepted the risk because it gave me a chance to make the evidence against me less conclusive.

"You'd risk poisoning yourself just to give yourself a chance to clear your name?" he asked.

"I'd rather choose the risk myself than let Tristan decide my fate."

For several seconds, Victor said nothing. Then the tension in his expression shifted. The concern remained, but it was no longer the only thing in his eyes.

He seemed to recognize that I wasn't a sheltered merchant's daughter waiting for someone stronger to rescue me. I was willing to make a ruthless choice when the situation demanded it. The realization earned me a measure of respect-and a flicker of interest he made no effort to explain.

I had no time to dwell on his reaction. The plant's effects would take a little time to appear, and I needed to finish preparing the room before anyone came through the door.

I turned back to the washstand and searched the surrounding floor, checking the narrow spaces between the furniture and the wall. Something metallic caught the light near the basin.

Three silver buttons.

I crouched and picked them up. Each bore the royal twin-wolf crest, the insignia used on Victor's uniform.

My fingers tightened around the buttons.

"Victor." I held them out to him. "These belong to your uniform."

He looked down at the silver in my palm, and the last trace of softness vanished from his face.

"Where did you find them?"

"Beside the washbasin. Someone may have missed them when they left."

He took the buttons and examined the crests. "If these are found here, they'll be used against me."

"Then don't let anyone find them." I met his gaze. "Hide them somewhere no one will think to search. And don't let them distract you from what Tristan is really after."

Victor's eyes narrowed slightly. "You think this is about more than what happened in this room."

"I know it is."

He had inherited the hereditary Alpha decree, and Tristan wanted it. My family's charter was another prize Tristan had been maneuvering to obtain. If he could discredit me and put Victor on the defensive at the same time, he could use the scandal to advance both objectives.

Fire-leaf gave me a way to challenge the simplest interpretation of the marks on my skin. If the characteristic rash appeared, I could point to the sudden change in my skin as a reason to question the accusation. It wouldn't prove Tristan had framed me, but it would make it harder for him to pass those marks off as unquestionable evidence of my willing participation.

I rose and surveyed the bed. The scorched sheets were gone, but the bedding beneath them remained rumpled. I straightened the covers as much as I could, smoothing the fabric until the bed looked almost undisturbed. Then I adjusted the curtains and returned the vase to its original place.

The ceramic dish, now empty, remained near the fireplace. I left it where it was.

A faint prickling began beneath my skin. I glanced down as fresh red patches started to emerge, spreading beyond the original marks. The reaction was taking hold. I gripped the edge of the washstand until the brief wave of dizziness passed, then forced myself upright.

Victor's jaw tightened. "You don't have to prove your strength by enduring this alone."

"I know." I drew a slow breath. "But I do have to make sure they can't twist what happened into whatever story suits them."

His eyes lingered on me. Whatever he saw there seemed to settle something in his mind. He gave a small, almost imperceptible nod.

Outside, the first chime rang through the corridor.

Then a second.

I counted each one, keeping my breathing steady as the red patches spread across my skin, making the original marks harder to distinguish. The footsteps beyond the door grew louder, accompanied by low voices and the unmistakable rustle of people gathering to witness a scandal.

Six chimes.

They were almost here.

The footsteps stopped outside.

I straightened my shoulders, hiding the tremor that threatened to betray me. My skin prickled beneath the spreading rash, and I knew the next few minutes could decide far more than my reputation.

If this reaction bought me even a moment's doubt in their minds, it would be worth the risk. Tristan had come expecting to use those marks to condemn me. Now, when he looked at my skin, he would have to reckon with something he hadn't planned for.

The handle began to turn.

The monsters who had destroyed my first life were marching right into my parlor.

Eleanor Kensington POV:

The rhythm of the approaching footsteps was rushed, accompanied by the distinct clanking of steel scabbards hitting plate armor.

There were at least a dozen men, led by someone who wanted everyone in the corridor to hear their arrival.

Even with the bed remade, the air in the chamber remained heavy with the sweet, sickening smell of crushed heather and male musk.

Any elder with a functioning wolf would smell the heat the second they crossed the threshold.

"The air is too thick," I muttered, my fingernails digging into my palms.

I didn't wait for Victor to answer.

I rushed toward the three arched floor-to-ceiling windows facing the northern precipice.

I grabbed the heavy crimson velvet drapes and ripped them aside, letting the pale morning light flood the room.

I lifted the heavy brass latches and shoved all three wooden frames outward with everything I had.

A freezing gale from the northern peaks howled into the room like an unleashed beast.

Freezing mountain air, sharp with pine needles and frost, tore through the bedchamber.

The wind scattered the loose parchment on the desk and sent the curtains snapping violently against the stone walls.

The biting frost swept through every corner, stripping the warm, heavy scent of rut from the stone walls and carrying it out into the empty sky.

I stood directly in the draft, the silk robe whipping around my legs, the bitter cold numbing my feverish skin and clearing the last traces of the drug from my mind.

Victor remained near the hearth, his heavy black officer's cloak fluttering in the freezing draft.

He watched me with an intensity that felt heavier than the mountain wind.

"Freezing out the scent," he remarked, tilting his head slightly. "Smart. But reckless."

"Kindness to snakes only guarantees a bite," I replied, pulling my dark woolen traveling cloak from the hook by the window and fastening the bronze clasp at my throat.

Right outside, the boots came to an abrupt halt.

The sharp, nasal voice of my mother-in-law, Beatrice Beaumont, leaked through the thick oak panels.

"Surround the doors! Captain, make sure every archway is blocked! Don't let a single rat slip through!"

Then came Tristan's voice, thick with fake concern and poorly hidden greed.

"Mother, if we truly find them... how do we handle the Regent's guard?"

"You fool!" Beatrice hissed. "This is our leverage! Once we catch them in the act, the Regent will have no choice but to sign your Alpha succession decree to bury the scandal, and that merchant bitch will hand over every coin she owns just to avoid the gallows!"

Victor glanced sideways at the tightly closed door, a barely perceptible smile touching the corners of his mouth; a look of playful amusement flickered in his eyes, as if to say, "Alright, now let's see you perform."

I couldn't help but frown, wondering how he would conceal his presence, He nodded at me, and with a look of surprise on my face, he reached for the edge of the open window and, in an incredible pose and with incredible strength, clung to the outside wall.

I leaned out of the window to look at him, and he released his grip, leaped lightly onto the wall, and then jumped through the window of the next room.

The wind and snow continued to blow into the room.Standing by the window, I let out a low, silent breath.

Every word they spoke was identical to what they had whispered outside my door in my past life.

I stepped away from the window, sat down gracefully on the velvet settee near the dying fire, and picked up a cup of cold, bitter tea from yesterday's tray.

"Break it down!" Beatrice's screech pierced the wood. "Shatter the lock!"

A thunderous crash echoed through the chamber as an iron-tipped battering ram slammed into the center of the double doors.

The heavy iron hinges groaned, then snapped with a violent crack.

The heavy oak doors burst inward, slamming against the stone walls.

Tristan charged into the room first, his hand gripping the pommel of his broadsword, his face twisted in triumphant frenzy.

Right behind him was Beatrice, adorned in her dark mourning velvet and an obsidian headpiece, flanked by four senior pack elders and eight armored castle guards holding drawn blades and burning torches.

"Halt right there, you treacherous-" Tristan's roar died instantly in his throat.

The sight that met their eyes was not a den of shameful indulgence.

There were no tangled sheets, no discarded dresses, and no naked bodies scrambling for cover.

There was only the howling gale blowing through three wide-open windows, an immaculate bed covered in plain wool, and me, sitting quietly by the hearth with a teacup balanced in my fingers.

Tristan's frantic gaze darted across the empty room, his eyes bulging as he searched the corners for a hidden lover.

Beatrice's triumphant sneer froze solid, her jaw dropping open in utter disbelief.