The Alpha's Shattered Bond: His secret Lycan Heir

Diary of a Nobody (With Very Prickly Fingers) ~VINA HALE~ If you ever wanted to know what the absolute bottom of the werewolf social ladder looks like, hi. I’m Vina Hale and currently, my view is mostly grout. Specifically, the grout in the Silver Moon packhouse kitchen, which I have been scrubbing for three hours because Apparently (yes, with a capital A), the “Blood Moon Banquet” requires floors so shiny that the Alpha can see his own ego reflected in them. Most girls my age—eighteen, prime mating years, yadda yadda—are upstairs currently drowning themselves in expensive perfume and squeezing into dresses that cost more than my entire existence. Me? I’m wearing a gray tunic that smells faintly of lemon-scented Clorox and despair. I’m what the pack calls “Rankless.” It’s a fancy word for ‘We’re pretty sure she’s a wolf, but she smells like a regular human and her inner wolf is probably just three poodles in a trench coat.’ While other girls smell like “Midnight Rain” or “Winter Cedar,” I smell like nothing. Neutral. Blank. I’m the human equivalent of a beige wall. “Oh, look. The floor-scrubber missed a spot.” I didn't even have to look up to know who it was. The scent of cloying, expensive lilies and sheer arrogance hit me first. Sarah. I sat back on my heels, wiping a stray hair from my forehead with the back of a soapy hand. Sarah stood there, looking like she’d been airbrushed into reality. Her dress was a deep, blood-red silk that hugged every curve she’d spent her father’s money to perfect. “Hello, Sarah,” I said, trying to keep the Vitamin-C-induced sarcasm out of my voice. “Lovely dress. Does it come with a personality, or was that sold separately?” Sarah’s eyes flared. She didn’t say anything. Instead, she tilted her crystal glass. I watched, in slow motion, as a stream of expensive red wine cascaded down, landing right in the center of the white marble I’d just spent an hour polishing. “Oops,” she smirked. “My hand slipped. Clean it up, Omega.” I felt that familiar burn in my chest—the tiny, flickering ember of a wolf that never quite shifted. Don’t do it, vina, I told myself. Just scrub the wine. But as I reached for my rag, Sarah didn’t move. She stepped forward, the sharp, silver stiletto of her designer heel landing directly on my fingers. I gasped, a sharp yelp of pain escaping my throat as she pressed down, putting her full weight on my hand. “Don’t even bother looking at the stage tonight, vina,” she hissed, leaning down so only I could hear. “Jace is becoming Alpha today. He needs a Luna who can lead armies, a woman who brings power to his bed. He doesn’t need a rankless little flea who can’t even growl properly. You’re a stain on this pack’s reputation.” She twisted her heel—just once, for good measure—before gliding away, her laughter echoing against the stainless steel appliances. I pulled my hand back, my fingers throbbing and red. It’s fine, I lied to myself. I’m fine. I’ve had a crush on Jace Blackwood since we were ten. Back then, he used to sneak me cookies from the pantry and tell me that my “blank” scent was his favorite because it was peaceful. But that was before he grew six inches, gained fifty pounds of muscle, and realized that being the Alpha’s son meant he had to be perfect. And perfect people don't hang out with beige walls. I finished the floor (again) and retreated to the shadows of the Great Hall’s service entrance. I wasn't allowed to join the party, but I could watch through the cracked door. The drums started. A low, rhythmic thrum that made the very air vibrate. And then, he walked in. Jace. He was wearing a black suit that looked like it was struggling to contain him. He looked like a god carved from obsidian—sharp jawline, eyes the color of a stormy sea, and a presence so heavy it made the breath hitch in my lungs. He looked every bit the Alpha he was born to be. He started walking toward the dais, but halfway there, he stopped. The entire room went silent. His head tilted, his nostrils flaring as if he’d caught a scent that didn't belong. His eyes—those terrifying, beautiful eyes—started sweeping the room. They bypassed the Elders, ignored Sarah (who was practically vibrating with expectation), and moved straight toward the dark, dusty corner where the "Invisible Omega" was hiding. He stopped. For a heartbeat that felt like an eternity, Jace Blackwood looked directly at me. Through the door. Through the shadows. And for the first time in my life, my silent, poodle-in-a-trench-coat wolf didn't just whimper. She howled.