The Begging Alpha

Severance

(Bradley)

The day of Severance…Friday.

Bradley was standing under the shower, the hot water a useless assault against his skin. He needed to be at the temple in two hours. He didn't even want to be up. He didn't even feel like anything was worth living right now. Dylan had made sure there was no alcohol in the house. He was pissed at Dylan for that. He craved the numbness, the sweet, temporary oblivion that a bottle of whiskey could provide. Anything to silence the relentless echo of Freya’s words in his head: The Severance is not being stopped.

He ran his hands through his hair, washed it, then finished off with his normal body wash—the same kind that Freya had once said she loved the smell of. The scent filled the steamy enclosure, a cruel mockery of the comfort he so desperately sought. It was the scent of home, of a life he had systematically dismantled. He stepped out, wrapped a towel around himself, and blow-dried his hair, combing it out sleek before tying it back into a high ponytail that fell down to the top of his back. The ritual was familiar, but today it felt like he was preparing a body for burial. His own.

He looked at his reflection in the mirror and felt shame. The man staring back was a stranger wearing his face. The expensive suit he would put on later was just a costume for a CEO who couldn't keep the most important person in his life. What good was he as the Alpha of Red Eye Gaming? What good was he as a man? He had built an empire, yet he couldn't build a bridge to the one person who mattered. The thought was a physical blow, stealing the air from his lungs.

His phone's alarm going off snapped him out of his spiral. 1 hour left. f**k.

He dressed quickly, his movements mechanical. White shirt, black blazer, black dress pants, his black shoes, black socks to match. He was dressing as if attending a funeral—in a way, he was. The death of his bond with Freya. The final, formal acknowledgment of his failure. Each piece of clothing was another layer of armor, another weight pressing down on his chest.

He glanced down at his phone. 45 minutes left. Good. He walked out of his room, and Dylan was there already, holding a thermos of coffee. He didn't say a word, just handed it to Bradley as they walked to his car and climbed in. The engine turned over, a low, guttural sound that matched the emptiness in Bradley’s gut, and they were off.

"I'm glad you're here," Bradley said, his voice rough. "I don't think I'll be in a good state of mind after this for a day or so."

"We've been friends since we were pups. You think I'm letting you do this alone?" Dylan's gaze was steady on the road. "Brittany and I can handle everything... so I'll be dropping you off back home. We'll handle business for Red Eye... I'm your Beta and she is your Gamma after all."

Bradley's head snapped to Dylan. "I forgot that."

"In the old days, she'd be a warrior. In this modern age, she is a highly intelligent deal broker. She is part of the reason we have the partners we do."

"No need to remind me, Dylan," Bradley sighed, taking another sip of coffee. Even though it was still hot, it didn't warm the coldness he felt building in his chest. It was like drinking ash. He looked at the passing buildings, although they seemed to blur together into a meaningless smear of gray and glass until the car lurched to a halt.

He finally looked forward and sighed. "The Temple." The word was a stone on his tongue, almost as if it was a curse or a blessing, but his voice couldn't decide which.

"Let's go. You're…due…in 30 minutes. Best to be early."

"Early. For a funeral." Bradley sighed and stepped out after Dylan chuckled softly.

"This is why I'm waiting for my Fated Mate—" Dylan began, but a growl from Bradley cut him off. It was a low, visceral sound, ripped from the depths of his wounded wolf. The sheer ferocity of it made Dylan take a step back, his hands going up in a gesture of surrender.

"Noted. I'll keep quiet."

They walked the remaining distance in silence. The Temple of Severance wasn't like the other grand, ostentatious buildings that housed the seats of werewolf power. It was older, made of pale, weathered stone, and stood nestled in a quiet grove of ancient oaks. It was a place of endings, of quiet dignity, of profound loss. The air itself felt different here—thick with the residue of countless broken bonds, a sacred sorrow that seeped into your bones.

As they approached the tall, carved doors, two elders in simple, dark robes greeted them with solemn nods. Their eyes held a deep, ancient sadness, as if they could feel the fracture in Bradley’s soul from a distance. They were witnesses, not judges. Their role was to hold the space for the pain, to honor the gravity of what was about to occur.

The inside of the temple was cool and dim. Light filtered through high, narrow stained-glass windows, casting colorful, fractured patterns on the stone floor. The air smelled of old wood, beeswax, and something else—something like ozone, the sharp, clean scent of spiritual energy being unwound. The only sound was the soft echo of their footsteps and the distant, rhythmic dripping of water somewhere in the shadows.

At the center of the circular chamber stood the Severance Altar. It was a simple block of the same pale stone as the temple, but it hummed with a low, resonant energy. Etched into its surface were intricate, interwoven patterns—the sacred geometry of the mate bond. To Bradley’s eyes, they looked like a beautiful, intricate knot, and he was here today to take a blade to it.

A single robed officiant stood by the altar, his face obscured by a deep cowl. He didn't speak. He simply gestured for Bradley to approach.