Chapter 6
1014 Words
Melanie's POV
I couldn't help but mock myself a little.
Over the last few years, I'd drifted so far from who I used to be—my entire world revolved around Archer and Trista, like I was orbiting a cold, dead star.
It made sense that Skye just assumed I didn't have a life of my own.
But those days were over.
I was about to say something back, but the wind chime above the door rattled as a group of people approached.
It wasn't the scent of normal humans.
It was the smell of werewolves—distinct pack signatures overlapping: sharp, damp, metallic... the scents were so heavy they managed to stifle the warm aroma of the coffee beans.
The man leading them called out as soon as he stepped inside, "Skye!"
As they walked over, they did what wolves do—they sniffed the air, the most primal way to "ID" someone.
As their eyes swept over me, I saw their nostrils flare, gauging my rank.
"Skye, who's this?" a young beta asked, his vertical pupils narrowing with scrutiny.
Skye didn't even look at me. She just gave a dismissive shrug. "One of our pack omegas."
She completely erased my title as the Luna of the Razor Pack.
She tossed the word out like a piece of trash, as if acknowledging my true rank would somehow embarrass her in front of her friends.
"Oh—an omega." They dragged out the word, letting out light, condescending chuckles. Their contempt was barely hidden.
In werewolf society, being labeled an "omega" usually meant you were someone to be ordered around, ignored, or treated like furniture.
I glanced at their clothes and accessories: silver buckles, wolf-motif rings, dark family crests—these were high-ranking members of various packs.
This alumni event was just a cover; for them, it was a networking gala.
They quickly lost interest in me and surrounded Skye to head out.
If this had been the old me, I would've been humiliated. I would've tried to explain, tried to defend myself.
But now? I just found it pathetic.
The moment they turned their backs, I let my presence go.
I didn't push out an aggressive, suffocating pressure; it was a steady, spreading power—like an underwater current, silent but impossible to fight.
The aura rippled across the wooden floor.
The group came to a dead stop.
I saw the hair on the back of their necks stand up. Their breathing hitched.
Skye's face went pale instantly.
They were werewolves; there was no way they couldn't recognize that level of aura.
Someone who could release that kind of stable Alpha aura was definitely not just an "omega."
The air turned heavy for a heartbeat.
I didn't bother explaining myself, and I didn't demand an apology.
I just picked up my bag and walked out.
The next day, as I stepped into the lobby of the office building, the gland at the back of my neck suddenly flared with heat.
It wasn't a fluke.
The air in the building had changed.
The scent was faint, but I knew it too well.
"It's him," Frost whispered inside me.
"No way," I argued back. "They're supposed to still be in London."
"I'm not wrong," she insisted, her voice sharp with certainty. "Nobody else has that specific undertone."
Right then, the elevator doors slid open.
Archer walked out.
The suddenness of it made me freeze in my tracks.
He was wearing a dark overcoat, his shoulders squared, looking like a blade tucked into a sheath.
To the human employees, he just looked like a cold, intense boss, but they couldn't feel the suppressed Alpha aura radiating off him.
I had no idea he was back in the country.
The mating bond that hadn't quite snapped yet suddenly tightened, tugging at my subconscious, trying to force me toward him.
My gland burned, and my pheromones almost leaked out.
My wolf flared in my fingertips for a split second before I crushed them back down.
Archer's eyes locked onto mine for a heartbeat. His pupils contracted.
He felt the pull, too.
But he didn't say a word.
He just walked right past me, treating me like a complete stranger.
In the past, his sudden appearance would have sent my heart into a tailspin.
But now, I just stood there watching his back disappear, feeling absolutely nothing.
He was back.
Which meant things could finally end.
I went to my desk and forced myself to work.
Half an hour later, Herbert called. "Melanie, mix a drink and bring it up to Archer's office."
He didn't say "coffee."
In the office, that was code between werewolves.
I knew exactly what he needed.
An Alpha in a mixed-work environment has to keep his aura strictly contained, otherwise, humans get instinctively uncomfortable and lower-ranked wolves lose their minds.
The suppressants on the market were too harsh, so Archer always used the stabilizing drink I formulated for him.
I sealed the drink, put it on a tray, and headed up.
His door was slightly ajar.
As I reached the entrance, a thick, sweet orange scent slammed into my nose.
It wasn't a normal perfume.
It was a she-wolf's mating pheromones—cloyingly sweet and pulsing with an electric, seductive lure. It was a net designed to catch an Alpha's instincts.
I stopped dead.
At the same time, our mating bond at the back of my neck felt like it was being poked by a hot needle. It wasn't a dull ache; it was the sharp, invasive sting of someone trying to force their way onto a line that was supposed to be private.
It made my stomach turn, feeling someone else's scent trying to touch that connection.
The tray felt heavy in my hands.
I looked through the c***k in the door.
Archer was in his chair, his back still rigid like a frozen mountain.
Camille was sitting on his lap, her body pressed against his chest, her fingers twined in his tie.
I stood there, my fingers going cold.
Then, they kissed.
- Writer
