Marked by the King Alpha

Chapter 2

The moment the car halted, flashes ignited against the tinted windows like sudden bursts of lightning from paparazzi. Dozens of them. No, possibly hundreds.

Their shouts seeped through the doors before the chauffeur even stepped out to open mine. I inhaled slowly, smoothing my dress with practiced fingers, anchoring myself in the persona I had crafted—brilliant, effortless, untouchable. The one the world adored.

When the door opened the chaos hit instantly.

Cameras flashed.

People screamed my name.

Reporters leaned so far forward they nearly toppled over the barricades.

I stepped out of the car and summoned a smile that felt almost natural after years of perfecting it. My hand lifted, graceful and effortless, as if the sight of blinding lights and invasive questions did not make my wolf want to bare her teeth.

Lucien stood near the entrance with his arms thrown wide in theatrical delight.

“Emory, darling!” he called, as though he had not forced me to rehearse every detail of tonight’s appearance twice before we even left the penthouse.

Drama, I thought with a smile that never reached my eyes. Always the drama.

But I walked to him, allowed the hug, allowed the cameras to eat up the performance. My heels clicked softly against the red carpet, the rhythm steady, not revealing even an ounce of the dread curled in my stomach.

Inside, the noise dulled. Not quiet—never quiet—but muted, softened by luxury.

Lucien had booked Le Ciel d’Or, an impossibly lavish private venue overlooking the Eiffel Tower. It was a place reserved for royalty, visiting presidents, and celebrities with more money than reasoning.

Crystal chandeliers dripped from the ceiling like frozen constellations. They refracted light so brilliantly it almost stung my eyes. Golden reflections danced across polished marble floors, turning the entire room into a shimmering dream.

Hundreds of guests mingled in elegant clusters, their gowns rustling like whispers as they moved. Laughter rippled through the space, rising and falling in waves beneath the gentle hum of conversation. The orchestra played warm, glittering melodies that flowed across the hall like liquid silver.

Human voices.

Human smiles.

Human scents.

But not a single one of them belonged to anyone I loved.

Not family. Not real friends. Not anyone who knew the truth beneath my skin.

People surrounded me—hundreds of them—yet loneliness tightened around my ribs like invisible vines.

With so many eyes on me, why did I still feel so unbearably alone?

I lifted my chin, inhaling deeply as I stepped farther into the room. The chandeliers glowed above me like stars suspended in crystal cages. The Eiffel Tower shimmered through the floor-to-ceiling windows behind the orchestra, Paris glowing like a second sky.

All of it should have felt magical.

Instead, it felt like being watched through glass.

‘Weird’ Bree my wolf comment.

I straightened my spine and painted on the smile the world expected—the radiant curve of lips that belonged to Emory Donahue, the woman who never trembled, never faltered, never let fear slip through her mask.

“Emory! Happy birthday!”

“You look breathtaking tonight!”

“We absolutely adore the trailer for your new film!”

Compliments washed over me like warm water, pleasant yet empty.

I responded with perfection.

I hugged strangers with polished grace.

I laughed softly, the sound musical and practiced.

I posed for photos as though my heart wasn’t a fragile creature curled up in my chest, still trembling from the memory of earlier—of the hallway, of the shadow, of the strange sensation that had rolled down my spine like cold smoke.

Champagne flowed generously, and I accepted a glass, letting the bubbles sting the back of my throat. Someone pulled me onto the dance floor, and I allowed it, let myself spin beneath the glittering lights as if the endless turning could somehow blur my loneliness into something bearable.

For a moment—brief, fragile, fleeting—the illusion worked.

There were moments when the chandeliers blurred into stars and the orchestra swelled, and I could almost pretend that I belonged here. That I had family in the crowd, laughing with me. That I had friends whose warmth reached deeper than the surface of my skin.

Moments where the glittering hall made me feel almost human.

Moments where I could nearly forget the shadow of the wolf world stalking me, the grief I carried like a ghost, the terror that slept beneath my ribs.

But illusions are fragile things.

Every time the crowd shifted, every time laughter softened around me, every time my wolf stirred uneasily in my chest, reality pressed its cold palm against my spine.

Because none of this was real.

Not to me.

These people adored the version of me they had created in their minds—a fantasy with perfect hair and curated emotions. A celebrity whose smiles were crafted for consumption.

They did not know the girl beneath the gold.

That I am an orphaned child who watched her father die to protect Luna. A young wolf who knelt beside her dying mate, the fugitive chased from her world with a false accusation and the creature who trembled in stairwells, waiting for a scent that meant death.

No amount of glamour could smother that truth.

I moved through the room like a ghost wearing diamonds, smiling on command while something inside me remained untouched by the warmth around me.

And the entire time, a pressure built at the base of my spine. It’s not pain, nor fear but Something stranger.

It feels like something like being… seen.

Not by the cameras. Not by the fans. Not by humans.

But seen by something far older, far darker, far more dangerous.

A gaze that brushed against my skin like heat.

A pull that curled low in my stomach like a tightening thread.

A sensation that made my wolf lift her head slowly—hesitant, confused.

But I ignored it.

Or I tried to.

I danced, twirling beneath chandeliers that sparkled like constellations held captive. Hands touched my waist, my arms, my shoulders—human hands, warm but empty. I let men guide me across the marble floor, their compliments soft and meaningless in my ears.

Yet through all of it, that strange heat persisted.

A presence still there watching me.

A stillness in the air so sharp it carved a path along my spine.

And at one point, while sipping champagne near the edge of the dance floor, I felt something else mingle with the scents of roses, perfume, and alcohol.

Something primal, wild and distinctly wolf.

My breath hitched, but I forced a smile as another group approached, offering birthday wishes and questions about my next album.

I answered effortlessly, but my pulse stumbled.

No wolf had ever found me before. Not in five years. Not once.

Not until tonight.

My fingers tightened around the stem of my champagne glass. The room felt suddenly smaller, the air heavier, the chandeliers brighter, stabbing at my eyes.

My wolf pressed against my ribs, whispering without words.

Something is here.

No, someone is here. He is powerful and dangerous.

Meaning someone who should not be anywhere near me.

The orchestra swelled while guests laughed and glasses clinked. And yet my instincts—the instincts of a creature hiding in a human world—screamed.

Run….

But I know I couldn't.

Not here… Not in front of all these people.

Not when disappearing would only draw more attention.

So I kept smiling as I drank and pretended.

Understanding fully how fragile my illusion truly was.

How easily it could all shatter.

********

Meanwhile, across the ballroom, half-concealed beside a towering marble pillar where shadows clung like ink to the gilded edges of the room, a wolf, Zachary Blackthorne stood impossibly still.

He is the King Alpha. The wolf whose strength could flatten armies and the man whose very name mothers whispered into the ears of unruly pups to quiet them.

He had come to Paris for business—political negotiations, territorial agreements, and delicate disputes only a ruler of his caliber could settle. He had not intended to appear at any human function, nor immerse himself in a crowd filled with glittering strangers, nor step foot into a ballroom overflowing with mortal men who strutted like proud peacocks beneath chandeliers.

Yet he stood there.

Because the moment he entered the building earlier that evening—long before he reached the opulent hall above—something ancient inside him had stirred awake.

A pull. A scent. A presence that brushed against his senses like a ghost’s hand.

A whisper deep within his bones.

He felt it before he saw her, before he knew her name and before he understood why the very air had shifted the instant he crossed the threshold.

And now, anchored in the shadows, Zachary watched Emory Donahue with the unblinking intensity of a predator who had spent far too long believing that nothing within this world—or any other—could ever belong to him again.

His gaze remained locked onto her as if she were the first breath of air he had taken in years.

There was hunger in his eyes, yes—but not the shallow, careless lust with which human men often looked at her. His hunger was deeper, carved from instinct, shaped by destiny, sharpened by the unmistakable recognition that pulsed through him with every breath.

A pull he did not welcome.

A truth he was not ready to acknowledge.

And a claim written into the ancient marrow of his kind.

The crowd swirled between them—laughing, dancing, adorned in silk and sparkling jewels—but none of it touched him. He stood like a creature carved from stone, suspended between worlds, waiting for something he could not yet name.

His jaw clenched while his hands curled into fists at his sides, knuckles whitening as though holding back a force far more dangerous than simple curiosity.

He inhaled slowly, carefully, tasting the air as if deciphering a riddle carved into the atmosphere itself.

And his attention never—not for a heartbeat, not for a blink—shifted away from her.

The King Alpha, feared across supernatural realms, stood mesmerized by a young woman weaving through the ballroom with a practiced smile, unaware of the storm gathering in the dark.

He did not merely notice her but he recognized something in her.

Not her fame. Not the luxurious gown she wore. Not the adoring crowd orbiting her as though she were a star.

Zachary recognized something far deeper.

Something hidden beneath the glamorous facade and the careful human disguise that should have been completely impossible to detect.

He recognized her wolf.

Even though she suppressed it with relentless discipline, no scent should have clung to her skin and her wolf had remained silent and dormant for years.

He still felt her.

A flicker. A whisper. A resonance that could not be replicated or ignored.

And fate—quiet, patient, merciless—leaned into the charged space between them and exhaled, breathing life into a bond neither of them had prepared to face.

This was the moment everything shifted.

Tonight marked the beginning of an unraveling—slow, inevitable, unstoppable.

And neither of them understood yet how devastating the truth would become.

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