Obsessed With My Alpha

Alaric Snows

Alaric's POV

I look at my hands, the same hands that have taken lives, that have claimed what’s rightfully mine through blood and violence. Even now, years later, they feel stained, marked by the legacy my father left me.

Sometimes, I think I can still see it—the blood, the pain, the curses of those who crossed me or who dared to hold me back. I remind myself that this is how the world works, that strength is all that matters. But in the dark corners of my mind, I wonder if there’s more to it than that, and if, in some twisted way, I am as broken as he was.

My father, Alpha Maxwell Snows, was not a man who believed in love. His fated mate abandoned him, shamed him, running off with an omega. After that, he saw women as nothing more than tools, possessions.

My mother—his second chance mate—was no exception. She was nothing but his punching bag, his scapegoat for his own failings. I was their child, but he barely saw me as that. To him, I was just an extension of his power, or lack thereof.

I learned early on that love was not in my future. My father made that clear in every cruel word, every time he turned his back on me or raised his fist to strike. When he tried to pass my rightful title to my cousin, I knew then that if I wanted anything in this life, I’d have to take it by force.

So, I did what needed to be done. I killed him. I killed my cousin and his family, took the throne drenched in the blood of my kin. There was no room for hesitation, no room for softness. Weakness was a disease, a plague that would ruin a man and drag him to his knees.

But then, fate threw its cruel twist. I met her, my fated mate. I remember the way she looked at me—like I was something more than a weapon, something beyond a mere title.

I saw a light in her eyes, one that I knew I could never allow myself to be drawn to. It was dangerous, this feeling she stirred in me. I had learned my lesson well: love was a disease, a threat to everything I’d built. I couldn’t risk it, couldn’t let her infect me with whatever softness lay behind her gaze.

So, I put it in writing, forced her to sign a contract spelling out what our union would be: cold, loveless, transactional. She would bear me a son, an heir, and nothing more.

Once Jonah was born, I would never touch her again, never acknowledge the bond we shared. I made it clear she could take a potion to numb the betrayal, or she could suffer every time I chose another woman’s bed. Either way, I wouldn’t care. I had made my choice.

And she signed it. I watched her hands tremble as she wrote her name, her eyes pleading with me, as if she thought she could somehow reach the man beneath the monster. But there was no man left in me, only the shadows my father left behind. So, I ignored the pain in her eyes, ignored the silent plea that haunted me more than I’ll ever admit, and I let her sink into that contract like a cage.

She endured it, for years. She bore me my son, watched me move from woman to woman, felt the sting of the bond with every betrayal. I told myself it was her choice, that she knew what she was getting into. I blamed her weakness, her inability to harden herself the way I had.

I convinced myself that it was her fault she couldn’t be stronger, that she couldn’t just live with it. But deep down, I knew the truth. I was the one who broke her. Piece by piece, I tore down every bit of love she tried to offer me, crushed it beneath my heel until she had nothing left to give.

I remember the day she took her life. It was quiet, and in that silence, she looked at me one last time. There was no anger, no accusation in her gaze—only an emptiness that haunts me to this day. She didn’t scream, didn’t cry. She simply let go, freeing herself from the prison I’d made.

And when she was gone, something in me died too, but I’d never admit it. I blamed her weakness, even then, and hardened myself even more, using her death as another reason to believe that love was poison, that it ruined everyone it touched.

And then, there was Jonah. My son. My heir. I see her in him sometimes, in the way he looks at that girl, Gema. I see the softness, the light in his eyes that echoes what his mother once had. It terrifies me, seeing her reflection in him, seeing the way he’s drawn to someone so much weaker than he should be.

I try to beat it out of him, try to remind him that love will only make him vulnerable, that it will be the ruin of him if he lets it take hold.

“Love will ruin you, Jonah, in ways you can’t even begin to know,” I told him at his mother’s funeral. I told him that she was weak, that she couldn’t survive because she didn’t have the strength to harden herself.

I could see his rage then, see the anger boiling in him as he looked at me, as if he saw the truth he’d never be brave enough to say aloud.

He didn’t know the half of it, the things I’d done, the choices I’d made that led to her end. And for that, I was grateful. I couldn’t have him look at me and see what I truly was.

I’d taught him well, though. Or so I thought. But as the years go on, I see the cracks forming, see the way he lingers on that girl, the way he hesitates, torn between what he wants and what I’ve taught him.

He’s walking a path I’ve seen before, a path that leads only to destruction. And I won’t let him fall into that trap, no matter what I have to do to prevent it.

Sometimes, I wonder if I could change. If I could undo the lessons my father beat into me, if I could learn to see love as something other than a disease. But the thought terrifies me more than anything.

What if it’s too late for me? What if I’ve gone too far down this path to turn back? My life has been a chain of choices, each one building the walls higher around me, walls so thick and unyielding that I can’t even see past them anymore.

And yet, there are moments when I look at Jonah and feel something close to regret. If only I’d had the courage to love her, to break the cycle instead of passing it down.

If only I’d had the strength to see her as something more than a contract, more than a means to an end. But that’s not who I am, not who I’ve been shaped to be. Love would have ruined me. I know that. But sometimes, in those quiet moments, I wonder if perhaps it was worth the risk.

Now, I am left with the remnants of a life built on control, on power, on the lie that love is something to be feared. I see the road Jonah is heading down, and as much as I want to drag him back, to harden him before it’s too late, I know that this is a choice he must make. He’ll either become the man I am, or he’ll break free of my shadow, casting off the chains I’ve tried to bind him with.

I’ve never had a meaningful connection. I’ve pushed everyone away, convinced myself that loneliness is strength. But as I watch Jonah, I feel the weight of it all pressing down on me, an ache that I can’t quite name. And for the first time, I wonder if perhaps I have been wrong all along. If perhaps there was another way, a path I was too afraid to take.

But it’s too late for me. This is my legacy now—one of blood and betrayal, of love twisted and broken. All I can do is hope that Jonah is stronger than I was, that he’ll find the courage to do what I couldn’t.