The Warlord Alpha Breeder

Mireya's POV By a cruel twist of fate, my own uncle sold me to the one the Moon had chosen for me—my fated mate. From that moment on, my life changed forever. Whispergrove. Our hidden village. Quiet. Peaceful. Tucked between thick woods far from the world that hated us. It was never meant to burn. But it did. And I was there when it happened. One moment, the night was calm. The wind blew soft the trees, and the lanterns glowed gently outside our homes. We were cooking dinner. Sharing stories. Laughing like we always did. Then came the howls. Not from far wolves—but from warriors, hunters and invaders. They came without warning. Fire in their hands. Hate in their eyes. And then everything was smoke and screams. Flames swallowed the homes we built with our own hands. Roofs collapsed like paper. The trees burned red, spitting ash into the sky. I remember grabbing my friend Lian’s arm as we ran. Her hand slipped in mine, slick with sweat and blood. Behind us, someone cried out, then went silent. I tripped once. Fell to my knees. The ground was hot and cracked, the fire so close it singed my skin. We didn’t even get to bury the dead. There were too many. Too fast. And we were too weak. Because we were omegas. The lowborns. The unwanted. The cursed ones. They didn’t kill us, the survivors. Not right away. They rounded us up like animals. Pushed us into wagons, packed so tight we couldn’t breathe. Shackled our wrists and ankles. Some were still bleeding. Some were unconscious. And some… some didn’t make it through the night. But deep down, we knew they wanted us alive—for a reason. We weren’t people anymore. We were property. Our names didn’t matter, only our silence and our obedience. The hood they threw over my head smelled like old blood and wet earth. I couldn’t see the road. I could only hear the wheels turning, the horses grunting, the low laughter of guards around us. And one voice, drunk, loud and bragging. “I heard Blackvale paid triple for this batch,” the man said, slurring every word. “Wants the best. Wants fresh ones. Heard he’s looking for a mate.” The cart went silent. Every omega in the back heard it. That name. Damon Blackvale. Alpha of the Bloodhowl Dominion. A name that made warriors shiver. The butcher of mountain packs. The man whose wolves never left survivors. The warlord who ruled with cold eyes and iron fists. They said his heart was made of ice and ash. And now… we belonged to him. My stomach turned. My mouth went dry. Because even if I escaped the fire… I had walked straight into a nightmare. And—Moon help me— Damon was my fated mate. --- I felt it the moment they dragged the hood off and forced me to kneel before him. It hit me like thunder splitting the sky—this pull, violent and raw, deep in my bones. A bond snapping into place whether I wanted it or not. His scent struck first—cold pine, iron, and something darker. Something that smelled like smoke that never stopped burning. My head spun. Then his eyes found mine. Silver. Piercing. For a moment, the world stopped. And in that single breath… I knew. So did he. The bond recognized itself. His jaw clenched, like he was choking back instinct. His eyes flared. And then—he turned away. “Chain her in the East Wing,” he said. “She smells like ash.” No emotion. No softness. No sign he felt what I felt. Only command. Only disgust. The guards grabbed me again, but I twisted around just in time to see it— The final betrayal. A shadow moved behind Damon. And from it stepped Gregor. My uncle. My blood. The man who raised me. > “Does the merchandise suit you?” he asked, his voice calm, like he hadn’t just condemned me to a life worse than death. Damon didn’t look at me again. “We’ll see,” the Alpha muttered, tossing a small leather pouch through the air. It landed in Gregor’s hand with a clink of gold. Our eyes met. No shame in his. Only the satisfaction of a deal done. He turned away. Maybe forever. --- Something shattered inside me then. A soundless break, like glass cracking under pressure. Not just because my mate had rejected me. But because the man who was supposed to protect me had sold me to him without hesitation. I was his niece. I was Damon’s mate. But neither of them saw me as more than property. I had been claimed. Branded. Bought. I was a mate. But to him—I was filth. And to me? He was my doom. --- East Wing, Bloodhowl Dominion. The guards dragged me through stone corridors slick with moss. It was a fortress. A prison wrapped in granite and power. And I? I was nothing but an omega with ruined clothes. The door slammed shut behind me. Heavy. Iron. Final. The sound echoed in the cell like a gavel—my sentence sealed. My life, no longer mine. I stood there for a moment, still as stone, letting the silence settle. No voices. No footsteps. Just the faint crackle of torches burning along the corridor outside and the tight, suffocating ache in my chest. Then I moved—slowly—my wrists still raw, metal still biting. The room was nothing like the stone prison I expected. It was worse. Too clean. Too quiet. Too cold. One narrow bed, a bucket in the corner, a small wooden table with no chair. No window. Just thick walls and air that smelled faintly of wet stone, blood, and wolves. I sat down on the bed, not because I wanted to, but because my legs wouldn’t hold me up any longer. --- That’s when it hit me. The bond. I could feel it pulsing—him, pulsing—through my veins like poison. Like he was still touching me, even from floors away. And he hadn’t even laid a finger on me. But I’d felt the tremble in his voice when he looked at me. The tension in his body. He knew. He knew what I was, and he still threw gold for me like I was merchandise. --- Footsteps echoed outside. My head jerked up. I stood again. Just in case. But it wasn’t him. A girl entered—barely older than me, maybe younger, with downcast eyes and trembling hands. She said nothing, just walked in with a small bowl of water and a loaf of hard bread. She didn’t look up until she turned to leave. That’s when I saw it. The mark. A burn scar at the base of her neck. The Bloodhowl brand. An omega. She paused by the door and, for a moment, pity flickered across her eyes. “Don’t look at him in the eyes when he visits,” she whispered. “And never cry in front of him. He hates weakness.” Then she left. The door locked again. --- I didn’t touch the bread. I didn’t drink the water. I just sat on the bed, staring at the stone wall, the pain in my wrists forgotten, the real pain curled low in my stomach. Not from hunger. Not from fear. But from the terrible, unspoken truth that sat inside me like a curse: I had been claimed by my mate. And I had never felt more alone. --- The door creaked open. I didn’t lift my head. Not at first. I’d stopped counting how many hours had passed since they locked me in here. Time had blurred into nothing—just cold walls and the burn of a mate bond left to rot. But something shifted in the air now. Something that made my wolf whimper deep inside me. The scent. Pine. Iron. Smoke. The scent of power. Of him. Damon. My mate. I didn’t have to look up to know it was him. The room felt smaller, tighter, like it couldn’t hold both of us. His boots scraped against the stone floor. Slow. Still, I didn’t move. If he wanted a show, he wouldn’t get it from me. “You haven’t eaten.” His voice was deep, rough like gravel. Not cold this time. Just… flat. I said nothing. “Why?” Still nothing. A pause. I heard the faint jingle of keys as he stepped closer. “Speak.” I raised my head, finally. Our eyes locked. And Moon help me, my heart stopped. He looked like a nightmare carved into a man—tall, broad-shouldered, dressed in black leathers and shadows. But it was his eyes that undid me. Silver. Burning. Beautiful. And completely at war with themselves. “Why should I eat?” I said quietly. The words came out before I could stop them. And I didn't know that I would bitterly regret them.