Rejected by the Alpha: My Fated Revenge

The Veil of Secrets

The next morning, Ashwood woke beneath a sky the color of old bruises. Weak sunlight fought through thick clouds, spilling pale, tired light over rain-slick streets that still steamed from last night’s storm. Ivy’s third-floor studio sat in the heart of downtown, inside a century-old brick building that groaned every time the wind pushed against it. The moment she opened her eyes, the scent hit her—stale coffee, wet concrete, and the ghost of pine and blood that clung to her skin no matter how many times she’d scrubbed in the shower.

Her tiny apartment looked like the inside of her mind: chaos made visible. Walls plastered with yellowed newspaper clippings, red string connecting photos, sticky notes bleeding ink from the humidity. The bed was a war zone—sheets twisted like someone had thrashed in nightmares all night. On the pillow lay freshly printed photos from her backup phone: blurry shots of midnight-black fur, razor claws, and those burning golden eyes. Even pixelated, they made her stomach flip.

Ivy hadn’t slept. Her bloodshot green eyes glowed fever-bright against her pale skin. She sat hunched over her laptop in yesterday’s jeans and an oversized sweater, hair knotted messily on top of her head. The cold coffee in her mug tasted like ash, but she drank it anyway. Every time she zoomed in on Lucian Blackwood’s face—sharp jaw, cruel mouth, storm-gray eyes in the company headshot—her pulse stuttered. Human in the photo. Monster in her memory.

She dug deeper. Fingers flying across keys sticky with yesterday’s rain.

Blackwood Lumberyard → Blackwood family → Blackthorn Forestry.

The deeper she went, the colder the room felt, even though the radiator clanked and hissed like it was dying. Public records painted the Blackwoods as old money rooted in these forests since the 1800s. Generation after generation of “tragic accidents.” Loggers torn apart. Hunters vanishing on full-moon nights. An uncle “mauled by bears.” A cousin whose body was never found.

Then she found him.

Lucian Blackwood. Thirty-eight. Unmarried. CEO. The official photo showed a man carved from shadow and stone—black hair, high cheekbones, eyes like winter steel. No social media. No friends in photos. Just endless shots of ancient cedars and mist-choked forests. Anonymous forum threads whispered the same warnings:

They’re cursed.

Stay out of Blackwood land after dark.

Heard the wolves there walk on two legs.

Eighteen years ago, a small article mentioned Blackwood logging crews working less than a mile from her mother’s cottage the night she was slaughtered.

Ivy’s hands shook so hard she nearly dropped the mug.

This wasn’t coincidence. This was blood calling to blood.

She did the reckless thing. The only thing that made sense in her unraveling world.

She called Blackthorn Forestry and lied smoothly: “Evelyn Harper, Green Alliance. I’d like to discuss sustainable partnership opportunities.”

The receptionist hesitated—then, to her shock, patched her through.

“Mr. Blackwood will see you today. 2:00 p.m. Don’t be late.”

He knew. He had to know.

She showered in water so hot it burned, dressed in a fitted gray blouse and black trousers that made her look sharper than she felt, and twisted her hair into a severe bun. In the cracked mirror, her eyes looked huge, hunted, electric.

The drive to Blackthorn headquarters took her deeper into the rainforest. The road narrowed, swallowed by towering hemlocks and western red cedars whose branches interlocked overhead like praying fingers. Mist drifted between trunks thick as houses. Every mile, the city felt farther away, until civilization was just a rumor.

The building appeared suddenly—a masterpiece of glass and reclaimed timber that blended into the forest so perfectly it felt alive. A massive carved wolf’s head snarled above the entrance, eyes set with polished obsidian. The air outside was thick with resin, wet moss, and something darker—predatory. It sank into her lungs and made her wolf-sharp aware.

Inside, everything smelled of cedar and money. The lobby was all high ceilings and living walls of ferns. The receptionist’s smile didn’t reach her eyes. “Miss Harper? He’s expecting you.”

The private elevator climbed smoothly, silently. When the doors slid open on the top floor, the scent hit her first—pine, storm, raw masculinity. It flooded her senses so hard her knees nearly buckled.

Lucian Blackwood stood at the floor-to-ceiling window, back to her, hands clasped behind him. The rainforest stretched endlessly below, shrouded in silver mist. He wore a black suit that looked poured onto his broad shoulders, every line screaming lethal elegance. Rainlight silhouetted him like a dark god.

He turned slowly.

Their eyes locked—and the world narrowed to a single, unbearable point of gravity.

His gaze was gray smoke over steel, but beneath it, gold flickered like lightning under clouds. His nostrils flared, just once. That scent—jasmine, terror, and something that belonged only to him—slammed into him like a drug. His jaw flexed. Fingers curled at his sides as if fighting the urge to reach for her.

Mine.

The word roared through his blood so violently he nearly staggered.

Ivy felt it too—an honest-to-God pull in her chest, like an invisible rope yanking her toward him. Fear and want twisted so tight she couldn’t breathe.

“Miss Harper,” he said, voice low and velvet-rough, extending a hand.

The moment their skin touched, electricity snapped between them. Heat shot up her arm and detonated low in her belly. His grip tightened for a fraction of a second—possessive—before he forced himself to let go.

“Please. Sit.”

She sat. The leather chair was still warm from his body. The office was a predator’s den: dark wood, antique maps of wolf territories, a massive taxidermy wolf head above the fireplace with eyes that followed her. Rain began to lash the windows again, drumming like a heartbeat.

Lucian leaned against his desk, arms crossed, studying her like she was prey he hadn’t decided to kill or keep.

“Green Alliance,” he said, tasting the lie. “You want to talk sustainable timber?”

Ivy forced her voice steady. “Among other things. I’ve heard… interesting rumors about wildlife activity on your land. Dangerous wolves. Attacks that never quite make the news.”

His eyes narrowed, gold bleeding fully into the gray now. The temperature in the room seemed to drop ten degrees.

“Curious choice of topic for an environmental rep.”

“I’m a journalist first,” she said, meeting his stare. “Truth matters more than job titles.”

A muscle ticked in his jaw. The air thickened, charged, animal. He pushed off the desk and prowled closer—slow, deliberate. Towering over her. Close enough she could feel the heat rolling off him.

“You’re playing a very dangerous game, Evelyn.”

The way he said her name—low, intimate, warning—sent shivers racing across her skin.

“I’ve been playing it for eighteen years,” she whispered.

His pupils blew wide. For one heartbeat, the mask cracked. Raw hunger. Conflict. Need.

Then the walls slammed back up.

“Some truths,” he said, voice like gravel dragged over silk, “will get you killed.”

He stepped back, putting the desk between them again—like it was the only thing keeping him from dragging her across it.

“Leave Ashwood, Miss Harper. While you still can.”

But his eyes—those wild, tormented eyes—begged her to stay.

And the mate bond, newly awakened and raging between them, laughed at the idea of letting her go.