Marked by the King Alpha

Chapter 3

The sensation struck Emory so violently that she nearly dropped the champagne flute she held between her fingers.

It was not a physical touch, nor a sound, nor anything as simple as a shift in the atmosphere. It was Bree’s voice—her wolf’s voice—flooding her mind with a force that made her pulse stutter.

‘Emory… a wolf is here. I can sense him.’

The certainty in that whispered warning froze the blood inside her veins.

Her head snapped to the left, then to the right, her breath faltering as she searched the room with widening eyes. The glittering ballroom blurred into an indistinct whirl of chandeliers, silk, and champagne, but none of it mattered.

She looked for something unfamiliar, someone who did not belong among the human faces surrounding her.

And then their eyes met.

Silver collided with amber.

The world narrowed to that single, impossible connection.

He stood half-concealed beside a marble pillar, tall and perfectly still, the shadows clinging to him as though the darkness itself recognized him as its own.

The moment their gazes locked, she felt her breath catch sharply and her skin turn cold. Something in the expression on his face shifted—recognition, shock, instinct—an emotion she could not decipher but understood well enough to fear.

Her body went pale in an instant.

Her wolf whimpered inside her chest, trembling in a way that made her heart ache.

‘Oh Goddess… he sees us.’

Her fingers tightened around the glass. Her pulse hammered violently. Every breath she took felt thin, fragile, and threaded with panic.

Quietly, barely moving her lips, she whispered, “No… please, not here… not again…”

The terror was not momentary or logical. It was old, ingrained, carved from memories lined with blood and betrayal. She knew the look in his eyes. She had witnessed it in the warriors who dragged her father away, in the guards who accused her of murder, in the wolves who escorted her toward execution. She had faced that gaze beneath moonlight and iron bars.

She never imagined she would see it again in a Paris ballroom illuminated by chandeliers.

Before he could lift a hand, before he could call her name, before he could even inhale again, Emory turned sharply.

She ran.

She did not glide away with composure. She did not excuse herself with the grace expected of a celebrity. She fled with the instinctive desperation of a wolf in absolute terror.

Gasps erupted around her. A waiter stumbled aside, clutching a tray to his chest. Guests turned in confusion, watching the celebrated actress sprint across the marble floor as though chased by something invisible.

Her heels struck the ground with frantic rhythm, echoing across the hall like fleeing heartbeat.

She pushed through a set of golden doors and vanished into a quieter hallway, dim and narrow, lined with service entrances. Her chest rose and fell rapidly. She felt as though her lungs might collapse under the weight of her panic.

For a moment, there was silence.

For a moment, she dared to hope she had outrun him.

But then the air behind her shifted, charged with an unmistakable presence. Footsteps followed—not rushed, not frantic, but controlled with an unnerving confidence. Each step carried the weight of someone who had no doubt he would reach her.

‘He is following us, Emory,’ Bree cried, trembling so hard she could barely form the words. ‘He is following, and he is not human.’

“Damn it…” Emory whispered, her voice trembling as she bolted deeper into the service corridor.

She dodged a startled attendant who pressed himself against the wall to avoid her. She shoved open another door and nearly stumbled down a stairwell. Her hand clutched the railing just in time, pain shooting through her palm as she steadied herself.

Behind her, his footsteps continued.

It was deliberate, measured and relentless.

Her breath hitched violently. Her heart raced so quickly she feared she might faint. Every instinct inside her screamed at the same time: run, hide, escape, flee.

She hurried down the stairs, her frantic footsteps echoing in the enclosed space.

The stairwell was colder than the hallway, the air sharper, the faint scent of stone and old paint mingling with her fear. Her wolf pressed against her ribs, almost sobbing.

At the landing, she turned, desperate for a path out, and glanced back up the stairs.

He was there.

The man stood half a flight above her, one hand gripping the railing, his posture steady and impossibly composed. His eyes remained locked on her, unwavering, illuminated with the smoky amber light of a wolf barely restrained.

Her dress shimmered with every tremble racing through her body. Her breathing had devolved into ragged, staggered gasps. She felt like prey cornered by a predator who knew her every move before she made it.

She believed—without question—that he had come to kill her.

“Stop running,” he called down the stairwell, his voice low and composed, intentionally softened so as not to terrify her further. He knew she could hear him. He knew the wolf within her would interpret the tone as a command.

Who is he?

Her entire body rejected the idea. She shook her head violently and backed away toward the wall.

“Do not come closer,” she whispered, her voice cracking painfully. “Please… please stop… I am innocent… I swear that I am innocent…”

Her words hit him like the force of a physical blow.

For a moment, shock flickered across his expression—pure, raw, unguarded.

He stepped forward, slowly, cautiously, as though approaching a wounded creature whose fear pierced him more deeply than any weapon could.

Emory flinched with such force that her heel scraped loudly against the concrete. She saw him paused as he lifted his hand—deliberately gentle, palm open, fingers relaxed—and spoke her name again with a tenderness that startled even him.

“Miss Donahue… Emory…” The syllables dripped from his lips as though her name were something sacred, something he had never expected to feel drawn toward.

Then, so quietly that the walls seemed to absorb the sound, he murmured, “Little one… stop.”

He descended the final steps with measured grace, stopping at the landing beside her. His silhouette towered against the faint light, every line of his body radiating power that could not be disguised.

His aura seeped into the stairwell—ancient, dominant, unmistakably that of an Alpha of the highest order.

Emory’s breath faltered. She trembled so violently she feared her knees might give way.

‘An Alpha. Oh Goddess… why is an Alpha here? Why tonight? Why me?’

Her back pressed against the wall as if she could merge into the stone and disappear. Her hands shook uncontrollably, her fingers curled against her chest.

He approached her slowly, watching every tremor in her body. His gaze softened as he read the terror in her eyes—terror he did not understand but felt compelled to soothe.

Her pleas broke something inside him.

“How long have you been afraid like this?” She could hear him asking quietly, almost to himself, his voice thick with an emotion he could not yet name.

Emory did not answer. She could not. Her fear drowned everything—reason, instinct, logic. The only thing she knew was that she needed distance, and he kept eliminating it.

When he took another step, her wolf whimpered in recognition and dread.

“Stop running,” he repeated softly, his voice deep and velvety, wrapping around her like a command cloaked in tenderness.

But her body did not hear the gentleness because she felt only danger. Her memories felt only the death of the history she had spent years trying to outrun.

In that moment, something moved beneath his skin—his wolf, powerful and ancient, rising with instinctive certainty.

A deep growl rumbled from his chest.

The sound vibrated through the stairwell walls and rolled through Emory’s bones, awakening something primal and fragile inside her. Her breath shattered into a gasp as the world shifted under her feet.

He reached for her wrist—not harshly, not painfully, but with firm, unyielding intent—and drew her gently yet decisively into the darker corner of the landing. His touch was warm, strong, and terrifyingly certain.

Her back pressed against the wall again while his body hovered close—not touching fully, but near enough that she could feel the heat of him. Her breath trembled violently as her fingers curled helplessly at her sides.

Everything in her—wolf and human—reacted with overwhelming, instinctive fear.

Zachary’s expression changed yet again. Not frustration. Not confusion. Something deeper, sharper—pain at the sight of her terror. A raw ache that flickered across his features as if her fear branded him.

He lowered his voice, speaking with slow, deliberate gentleness.

“Little one, I am not here to harm you.”

His words vibrated through the space between them, sinking into her skin like warmth she did not trust.

She could not believe him because she did not know him.

She understood only the danger he represented—the danger she had lived with her entire life.

Her fear spilled through her gaze, uncontained and raw.

And in that shattering moment, instinct overpowered him.

Not anger or dominance but recognition. A recognition ancient enough to blind him, fierce enough to silence reason and a recognition that surged from his wolf with such intensity that he could no longer restrain the force pulling him toward her.

He leaned forward, breath harsh and uneven, eyes burning with molten amber.

Without giving logic a chance to intervene— without allowing himself to retreat— without fully understanding the force commanding him—He closed the final inch of space between them and captured her mouth with his own.

The kiss was not gentle.

It was not polite.

It was not measured or careful.

But it carried the raw, urgent desperation of a wolf who had spent years believing his heart could no longer feel anything at all.

Her gasp spilled against his lips while her fingers trembled helplessly against his chest.

She could feel like the stairwell spun around them, dissolving into instinct and breath and the echo of a bond awakening.

Reason vanished while fear trembled with instinct roared.

And fate—silent, merciless, inevitable—finally claimed its due.

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