Kissed By The Alpha's Enemy

POV: Riven Cade The stink of burning rubber. Charred tires and wet garbage mix into something foul enough to claw up my throat, but I press my sleeve against my nose and keep moving. I've learned not to stop for anything out here. Not the screaming. Not the sirens. Not the smell of blood baked into cracked pavement. The Outskirts don't care if you're tired or scared or bleeding. They eat hesitation. They feast on the soft. And I can't afford softness tonight. My boots slap through oil-slicked water as I cut through the alley behind Razor's Chop Shop, neon signs flickering overhead like dying fireflies. The bag across my chest is heavier than it should be—not from weight, but from the price of carrying it. The client's location was three blocks east, near District Nine's fence line. Private drop. No faces. No questions. But the fence lights are out. I clock it as I slide past a rusted container. The power grid's flickering like a dying lung. Wires hang loose, spitting sparks. A patrol drone lies shattered ahead, smoking. "s**t," I mutter. This route was already sketchy. Now it's suicide. I pivot into shadows, boots crunching glass, mind grinding options. Rerouting through 9th might add time but keep me in crowds. Less likely to get tagged. Except 9th has its own problems—Red Fangs marking territory, planning another push. My stomach twists. Not just fear. There's something else tonight. A buzz in my bones. A prickle at my neck like I'm being watched. The air tastes wrong. I duck into an abandoned arcade to check my burner. The screen's cracked but works. The client's message pings red: —Delivery canceled. Do not approach drop. Compromised. "Compromised." No explanation. No payout. No backup. My pulse spikes. I'm already out here. Already carrying. Already exposed. Movement. Something shifts at the edge of my vision. I whirl, fingers reaching for my knife—but it's too late. They're already there. Three of them. Masked. One has a pipe. Another a rusted blade. The third doesn't need a weapon—his fists are scarred like he's been punching walls for fun. "Nice night for a courier run," Pipe says, voice muffled. I don't answer. Don't flinch. Show nothing but disinterest. "Lost, maybe?" Rusted Blade steps forward, eyeing my bag. "That package isn't yours." "It is now," I say, shifting my weight. "Cocky little rat." "You know what they say about rats," I smile without humor, "we bite when cornered." Fists steps close. Too close. I hold ground. My knife still sheathed, fingers twitching toward it. Slow. Measured. I don't want this fight, but I'll spill blood if needed. "Thing is," Fists says, "we don't like rats on our turf. Especially ones running errands for them." Them. "You think I'm working with the Sanctum?" I scoff, buying seconds. "Lie again," Pipe lifts his weapon, "and we carve your face into pavement." I don't get the chance. The blade slides straight into my side. It doesn't register at first. The stabbing happens too fast. My brain takes a full second to catch up, like it doesn't want to believe the wet, splitting heat blossoming in my gut is real. Then the pain roars in. White-hot. Consuming. Turning breath into ash, bones into live wire. I stagger, hand clamping over the wound. The blade's gone. Left me leaking, ruined. But something inside me shifts. Not from the wound. Not from the pain. Deeper. Older. Like something buried for years just woke up. I stumble back against a dumpster, nails scraping metal as I slide down. My hand trembles over torn fabric, already soaked. My legs aren't working. My head swims. It feels like my skin's too tight. "What the hell..." Pipe's voice cuts through, uncertain. I lift my gaze—it takes effort, like dragging a mountain with my eyes. The alley smears. Everything's brighter. Sharper. Too loud. I hear rats behind walls. Someone crying blocks away. My bones snap. Not metaphor. My bones snap. I bite down on a scream. Doesn't help. The sound rips out raw and half-feral, echoing off concrete like it doesn't belong to anything human. "What the f**k is happening to her?" Rusted Blade backs away. Claws tear through my fingers. Long. Black. Curved. They click against metal as my hands spasm. My eyes must be glowing—I see the reflection in a puddle. Silver. Like coins under moonlight. "She's one of them," Fists breathes. They're frozen. So am I. I'm breaking apart. Coming undone. Ribs burning like they're realigning. Muscles twisting, growing stronger in places, thinner in others. Not turning into a wolf completely—my body doesn't know what it's doing. Halfway. Stuck. Wrong. I scream again. Not just from pain—though it's hell—but from fear. The horror of not recognizing myself. "She's turning—get away from her!" They run. I'm shaking, bleeding, half-shifted into something I don't understand, every cell thrumming with the need to flee or rip something apart. My hand hits ground. Claws scrape asphalt. Blood trickles hot and slick. I can't think. I move. I bolt from the alley, lungs heaving, body spasming. The world is noise and color and too much. My limbs barely work. The pain isn't fading—it's changing into hunger that isn't mine. I crash into someone. He doesn't stumble. I bounce off like hitting a wall. My eyes snap up. The figure doesn't flinch. Doesn't speak. Tall. Masked. Black armor that looks custom, clean, deadly. His presence hits like pressure in my chest. Alpha. The thought isn't mine. It's instinct. Primal. Ancient. Something in me wants to kneel. I don't. I snarl, staggering back. Ready to run— —but another shape emerges behind me. Female. Smaller. Armed. I hear the click of a pressurized needle. "Don't—" I twist, but the needle slams into my neck. A cold sting. Ice flooding my veins. I lash out. My claws rake across someone's face—blood splashes hot—but it's too late. The drug's moving fast. Designed to stop something like me. They knew what I was. "Subject viable," a voice says—female, precise. Like I'm just a job. "Initiate containment." The words slide through fog. My limbs go heavy. I drop to my knees, vision tunneling. Cade strain. Someone says it. Cade. My last name. Not coincidence. Everything screams to fight, but my body's quitting. The sedative hijacks my system. Numbs the animal. My fingers twitch once. Twice. Stop. The others close in. Too many. Too strong. My body folds under them like paper. "Mutation triggered before threshold. That's not standard." "She bled too deep. It activated early. Unstable." Bleed. A memory clicks. Sharp, sudden. A woman's voice. Distant. Never bleed, Riven. If you do... you won't come back the same. A hand cups my cheek, somewhere in the past. Warm. Kind. You're not like other girls. You can't afford to get hurt. It was a warning. My knees hit ground. Blood pools beneath me. Someone clamps a cuff around my wrist. A metal collar buzzes around my throat. Control tech. A pair of polished black boots step into view. "We got her. Let's move." Before my eyes shut, I see a mark on the boot's heel. A sigil. It matches the one etched in my dreams since childhood. I hit pavement hard—cheek first, knees cracking. I taste iron and asphalt. Can't move. Everything's distant. The slap of boots. Rubber gloves. A door opening. They drag me toward it, limp and bleeding. Flashes of red lights inside a transport. Low ceiling. Restraints hanging. Not an ambulance. A cage. They haul me up. My claws still half-formed, twitching. Vision blurring. The van smells of blood and bleach. Too clean. Too prepared. Like they've done this before. The door slams with finality. Darkness rolls over me. My consciousness fades. But— Not completely. My eyes crack open. Across from me, under flickering red lights, sits a man. Massive. Silent. Watching me. Not like a soldier or scientist. Like something else entirely. His eyes catch light—amber and glowing. Not human. Not friendly. Predatory. I want to speak. Ask. Scream. But my throat gives out. The last thing I see is his deliberate blink. His mouth curls— Not into a smile. Into something older. Hungrier. Mine. And then the world goes black.