Alpha's Hidden Heirs

Chapter 2: The Concrete Jungle

The bus ride to Lagos was twelve hours of pure, unadulterated hell. Every time the vehicle hit a pothole on the battered expressway, my chest flared with a sharp, stabbing reminder of the broken mate bond. In the werewolf world, they say a rejection can kill a weak wolf. Willow was silent, curled into a ball of grey fur in the corner of my mind, refusing to howl, refusing to fight.

I stared out the window as the lush green forests of the Silver-Moon territory transitioned into the chaotic, sprawling grey of the city. Lagos. A place where the air tasted like salt, exhaust fumes, and desperation. It was a "Neutral Zone," a concrete labyrinth where the supernatural hid in plain sight among millions of humans. Here, an Alpha’s command meant nothing if you didn't have the cash to back it up.

When the bus finally screeched to a halt at the Ojota park, I stepped out into a wall of heat and noise.

"Obalende! Oshodi! CMS!" the conductors screamed, hanging off the sides of yellow danfo buses.

I clutched my small tattered bag—which held nothing but a spare tunic and a faded photo of my mother—and tried to blend in. But I was a wolf. My senses were dialed to an eleven. The smell of rotting garbage, the cacophony of car horns, and the sheer density of human heartbeats felt like a physical assault.

"Watch it, bush girl!" a man hissed as he shoved past me.

I stumbled, my legs still shaky from the rejection. I had no pack. No protection. If a rogue wolf or a hungry vampire decided to pick me off in an alleyway, no one would come for my body. I was a "ghost" now.

I spent my first three nights sleeping in a 24-hour church in Ebute Metta, pretending to pray while I hid my face in my hands. By the fourth day, I found work at a "buka"—a small roadside canteen. The owner, a stern woman named Mama Tega, didn't ask questions about my muddy clothes or why I flinched at loud noises. She just handed me an apron and told me to wash the mountains of soot-covered pots.

"Work hard, and you eat. Lazy girls go to the street," she warned.

So, I worked. I scrubbed until my fingernails bled. I served jollof rice to rude businessmen and cleared tables for students. My life became a cycle of grease, steam, and the dull ache in my heart.

But three weeks into my new life, a different kind of ache started.

It began with a morning shift. The smell of frying fish, which usually just made me hungry, suddenly turned my stomach into a knot. I barely made it to the back of the canteen before I was retching into the gutters.

"Elena! You okay?" Mama Tega shouted from the kitchen.

"I’m fine, Ma! Just the heat!" I lied, wiping my mouth with the back of my hand.

But I wasn't fine. My wolf, Willow, finally stirred. She didn't howl; she let out a tiny, soft whimper that sounded like a heartbeat. A cold dread washed over me. I shifted my hand to my lower stomach. It was flat, but I could feel it—a tiny flicker of golden energy. Two of them.

No. No, no, no.

Jaxson’s children. I was carrying the heirs of the man who had spat on my face and kicked me into the dirt. If he found out, he wouldn't want me back—he would take the babies and kill me to "purify" the bloodline. Or worse, Camille would have them disposed of before they ever took their first breath.

I needed more money. Scrubbing pots for ₦15,000 a month wasn't going to save three lives.

That was when I saw the advert pinned to a telephone pole outside the canteen:

"SERVERS NEEDED FOR THE OBSIDIAN TOWER GALA. HIGH PAY. ANONYMITY GUARANTEED."

The Obsidian Tower. The fortress of Silas Blackwood.

Everyone in the Neutral Zone knew the name. Silas was a Lycan who had turned his back on the pack system to build a financial empire that rivaled the old kings. He was cold, he was ruthless, and he hated the Silver-Moon pack.

"Mama Tega, I need tonight off," I said, my voice trembling with a new kind of resolve.

"You lose your pay for the day, girl."

"I don't care," I replied.

I went to a second-hand market and spent my last few Naira on a crisp white shirt and a black skirt. I spent hours braiding my hair, trying to hide the exhaustion in my eyes. I had to look like a professional, not a broken Omega.

That evening, I stood before the Obsidian Tower. It was a monolith of glass and steel that seemed to pierce the very clouds of the Lagos skyline. The air around the building hummed with power—not the wild, forest power of Jaxson’s pack, but something sharper. Something ancient.

I was assigned to the VIP lounge on the 50th floor. The guests were the elite of the supernatural world—vampire lords in tailored suits, witch socialites, and Alpha businessmen. I kept my head down, moving like a shadow, weaving through the crowd with a tray of champagne.

"Don't look at the guests," the floor manager warned us. "Especially not the one at Table One. That’s Mr. Blackwood. He’s in a foul mood tonight."

I nodded, keeping my eyes on the polished marble floor. I moved toward Table One to clear a stack of empty flutes.

And then, it happened.

As I leaned over the table, a scent hit me. It wasn't the cedarwood of Jaxson. It was the scent of a thunderstorm—of ozone, dark chocolate, and old, powerful earth. It was so overwhelming that my knees buckled. My wolf, Willow, who had been catatonic for weeks, suddenly stood up and roared.

MINE.

The tray tilted. I gasped