I Sank The Alpha’s Yacht

Chapter 4. Cucumber Camouflage

Running barefoot through New York in May is a sport for extreme thrill-seekers. Or for someone who just sank a hundred-million-dollar yacht and is trying not to become an Alpha’s midnight snack. The asphalt was cold and rough, and the few late-night pedestrians scrambled away from me like I was a harbinger of the apocalypse.

And honestly? Can you blame them? A soaked girl in red rags, flashing bare heels and looking wildly around—just your average Tuesday night near the Financial District. I pressed my palm flat against my chest, checking my only asset. The micro-drive bit into my skin, reminding me that I was officially a high-profile fugitive.

"Landon, open up! It's me, your impending doom!" I pounded on my best friend’s door, nearly taking the frame down with it.

Landon opened it on my tenth frantic buzz. She was wearing a panda-face sheet mask, a fuzzy pink robe that read Rich b***h, and held a massive glass of pinot noir. She blinked, took me in, and slowly started closing the door.

"Ma'am, I don't donate to shipwreck victims. Try the harbor master."

"Landon, it's Tessa! Let me in before I get eaten alive!"

My friend squinted through her panda mask, recognized my face, and dragged me inside. "Holy Mother of God, Tessa! Did you try to swim across the Hudson in an evening gown for a bet? Or did you get kicked off a cruise ship for bad behavior?"

"Worse, Lan. Way worse. I sank Roman Wolfe’s yacht."

Landon froze. The cucumber slice stuck to her sheet mask slowly slid down her face and dropped right onto her slipper. "The Roman Wolfe? The Alpha? The guy who looks like he was sculpted from granite and trained to kill with a look?"

"The very same. And he promised to hunt me down. Landon, he's insane! His eyes literally glowed like headlights on a G-Wagon!"

Landon instantly shifted into survival mode. She grabbed my shoulders and marched me straight into the bathroom. "Okay, panic over. If he's a tracker, we need a counter-scent. We're going to scramble his radar so hard he’ll forget the way to his own Wall Street office."

Ten minutes later, I was sitting in the tub.

"Don't breathe your deep-sea trauma on me," Landon commanded, blasting the hot water and ripping off the shredded remains of my red silk. "Jesus, Tessa, look at your shoulder! Did he try to wring you out like laundry?"

I turned toward the mirror and went rigid. On my pale skin, flushed red from the cold, the perfect imprint of five fingers stood out. But it wasn't a normal bruise. The marks beneath the skin weren't turning blue—they were pulsing with a faint, golden luminescence.

Deep inside the muscle, a terrifying, heavy heat was radiating. It throbbed rhythmically, like a tracking beacon buried under my flesh, broadcasting my exact GPS coordinates into the ether.

"Bruises don't glow, babe," Landon said, stepping closer. Her panda mask looked genuinely freaked out now. "That’s a mark. My ex told me Alphas use that to claim territory. Right now, you’re broadcasting a signal louder than Times Square. He doesn't even need his nose to find you."

Landon, with the chaotic energy of a mad scientist, started pouring everything she owned onto me. "Okay, tar soap is our base. It smells like a railway track, old-school medicine, and mild depression. Now, let’s add this classic cucumber-fresh lotion from CVS. Feel that? That is the scent of hopelessness."

"Landon, I’m going to pass out!" I choked, wiping my watering eyes. "I smell like a pickled railroad spike!"

"Suck it up, spy! No Alpha is finding you through this."

The clothes she gave me matched the vibe. Landon handed me her "shameful" sweatpants with stretched-out knees and an oversized hoodie with a massive ketchup stain on the stomach that looked suspiciously like a map of Latin America.

"Perfect!" Landon applauded. "Your own mother wouldn't recognize you, let alone Wolfe. You look like a Brooklyn ghost. Come on, let's look at the loot."

We moved to the kitchen. Landon dragged her old, battered laptop from under the sofa. With trembling fingers, I pulled the flash drive from beneath my hoodie. It was warm and damp against my skin.

"Plug it in, quick," I whispered. "I need to know what this wolf is willing to tear my throat out for."

The laptop whined like a jet engine taking off. The screen flashed blue, then prompted a password screen.

Enter Encryption Key.

"Tessa, you're a journalist. Guess!" Landon nudged me. "His birthday? His first dog's name?"

"How should I know? He’s an Alpha! It’s probably something arrogant like King_Of_The_World_666."

I tried Wolfe1, WallStreetBoss, Yacht_RIP. Access Denied. One attempt left.

"Wait..." I remembered his hot breath burning against my ear on the yacht. His lips had almost touched my skin, his voice vibrating through my chest. "He told me I smelled like citrus and his secret."

I held my breath and typed: Citrus_Secret.

The Enter key sounded like a gunshot. The screen blinked... and unlocked a folder titled: Project Full Moon.

"Landon, we're in!" I gasped, a massive rush of adrenaline hitting my veins.

"Holy shit..." Landon leaned closer. "Look at this. Financial charts, bloodlines, lists... Tessa, these are the names of every Alpha pack in North America. This is blackmail material on the entire hidden elite!"

How could a billionaire Alpha use a password that easy? It felt almost... intentional. Like the file was waiting for someone specific to unlock it.

Our triumph lasted exactly one second.

Because right then, the shriek of burning rubber echoed from the street below. It was so loud and violent that the wine glasses in Landon’s cabinet rattled.

We froze. Landon dropped to her stomach, army-crawling toward the window, and carefully parted the blinds.

"Tessa..." she whispered, her panda mask looking ghostly in the shadows. "He's here."

I crawled up beside her. Below, under the flickering streetlamp, a black Cadillac Escalade sat idling. It was parked directly outside our walk-up apartment building—predatory, completely blacked-out, and terrifyingly quiet. Nobody got out. It just sat there, like a massive beast crouched before a strike.

I felt the mark on my shoulder throb violently, counting down the seconds to disaster. The heat became unbearable.

"That's his car," I whispered, panic finally paralyzing my throat.

Roman Wolfe stepped out of the SUV. In his flawless designer suit, he looked like an alien in this gritty Brooklyn alleyway. He didn’t check building numbers or search the street. He simply tilted his head up and looked directly at our window. In the dim light, his eyes burned pure gold, slicing right through the fourth floor.

And then, right inside my head, just behind my ears, his voice echoed. Low, vibrating, and laced with absolute amusement.

“Cucumber freshness, Tessa? Original. But I can smell you through that cosmetic nightmare. Walk out on your own. I’m giving you three minutes before my wolves come upstairs. And trust me, you want me to get you myself.”

I gasped, stumbling backward and knocking a kitchen chair over. "He... he's talking in my head! Landon, he's telepathic! The mark is acting like a phone line!"

"Okay, be cool!" Landon’s entire demeanor shifted. She snatched a heavy, cast-iron Lodge skillet from the stove—an object she clearly used for self-defense more than making eggs. "This is New York! There are laws! I'm calling the cops."

"Landon, if the cops see Roman Wolfe, they’ll gift-wrap me and hand me over themselves!" I frantically ripped the flash drive out of the port and shoved it back under my hoodie. "We're going through the roof! Do you still have the roof access key?"

"I have a firm belief that a bobby pin and a prayer can open any door in Brooklyn!" Landon grabbed her backpack, and we sprinted out into the hallway.

We flew up the stairs. Below us, a heavy, deafening boom echoed through the stairwell—the heavy security door of the building had just been ripped clean off its hinges.

Heavy, unhurried footsteps began their ascent. He wasn't rushing. That was the walk of a predator who knew every single exit to the den was already blocked.

"Landon, faster!" I pushed my friend’s back.

"I’m trying! These sweatpants keep slipping down!" she panted.

We reached the roof hatch. Landon began frantically picking at the padlock with a pin. From the stairwell below, Roman’s real voice drifted up, echoing off the concrete walls.

"Two minutes, Tessa. Your friend with the skillet is adorable, but cast iron won't stop my pack. Don't make me angry. You won't like my temper with the suffocating stench of dill in the air."

"Dill?!" Landon looked deeply offended, and the lock finally clicked open. "It’s organic cucumber, you uncultured swine!"

She threw the hatch open, and we dove into the dusty darkness of the roof. Ahead of us lay the New York skyline, the midnight air, and an Alpha wolf who was clearly starting to enjoy the hunt.