THE ALPHA'S BROKEN VOW

Chapter Two

Chapter Two

Noah's POV

I woke on the living room couch, as usual—the beds no longer felt right. Not since Eliza. If I stretched out on one, the hollow only ached more. Pushing myself upright, I rubbed my eyes as the stale alcohol coated the room. On the table, an empty bottle mocked me: another night wasted.

Letting out a sigh, I plucked the bottle from the table and chucked it in the bin. Then I moved into the kitchen. When I pulled the fridge open, its door groaned. A rush of chilled air poured out, slapping me with the scent of last night’s takeaway. I snatched the carton, stuffed it in the microwave, and sat at the counter.

The beeping had ceased. While I ate slowly, a movement at the corner of my eye suddenly froze me. Out of nowhere, she burst in, hair a mess, eyes blazing, a fire poker clenched in her fist.

“Rotten bastard!”

The poker arced through the air. I threw myself back just in time.

What the f**k is wrong with you?

You r***d me! What did you do to me?” She swung a second time, shattering the cupboard door into splinters. Because you can’t get a woman any other way, you just force yourself?

I slid away from the table, my teeth grinding. My frown set even deeper. She believed it had been me who did it last night. She assumed I’d been the attacker.

She kept swinging, glass shattered, the kitchen descending into a war zone. I watched the destruction unfold, torn between self-preservation and the urge to reason with her, but the chaos of her accusations left my thoughts spinning.

I steadied myself, trying to regain control. Enough.

I met the poker mid-arc, tearing it from her grip. I never laid a hand on you.” A low, sharp, cutting tone escaped me.

Her eyes slit open. She lunged for the counter, snatching for the nearest knife. I moved faster, pressing her wrists against the wall. Though she fought, I held fast.

“I didn’t so much as touch you,” I growled. The chap from last night was nowhere near my stature.”

Our gazes met. Gradually, she went still.

Let me free.

I stepped back, keeping a wary eye on her as she cinched her torn shirt tighter. The wreckage she’d caused glittered across the floor. My jaw clenched.

It would’ve been better to have left her in the alley. Should’ve kept walking.

What occurred? Her tone lowered, wary, as ever guarded.

I ran my hand through my hair, then knelt to gather up the scattered glass. I stopped him. I hauled you here so you didn’t freeze to death. Right about now, I wish I hadn’t come.

Fine, I apologize for not walking in more politely. She folded her arms across her chest and pulled the shirt tight. What, exactly, was I expected to believe? Wake up in a stranger’s flat, no idea what happened? For all I can tell, you’re the one who hauled me here.”

I gritted my teeth as I cleaned up. Next time I’ll let him have you, I thought, scooping the shards into the bin.

Fuck off to hell.

“Gladly.”

“I want my belongings.”

Which things?

“My suitcase. “My bag.”

I lifted a shoulder and resumed eating. Never saw either of them.

Her eyes contracted. Where the hell am I?

The other side of London. It would have taken you roughly two or three hours to get back to where I first found you.”

Her brow knit together as she closed her arms more tightly around her chest. Can you take me back?”

Your legs are fine. Walk.

Her voice came in a quiet, sour hiss—easy for me to hear. “Arsehole.”

A few seconds later, the door slammed. The flat gave in to quiet. I exhaled, staring at old crumbs. Why did I try to help her? She wasn’t my problem. Mortals and their disasters never are. I was an i***t for thinking otherwise.

I wiped the countertop, then went back to my room. The folder on the dresser watched me back. As I spread the papers on the mattress, a tight pressure settled in my chest. Eliza’s smile rose from photographs crisscrossed by creases wrought by countless nights I’d clutched them.

In several of the photographs, Maisie stood beside her. Eliza’s best friend. She was there the night Eliza was killed. Unconscious and left to live. He’d never desired her. Just Eliza.

Why?

I sorted through the documents, the pages collapsing into torment. Spine severed. Heart ripped out. The scent trail vanished at the sea. Coward slipped into the waves, sure I’d never find him there.

Every lead—hours, days, months—slipped through my fingers, turning to ash. All my effort: useless. No one gets justice. Not really. I kept chasing ghosts.

My thoughts pursued questions. Had Eliza in some way angered someone? Was the attack payback from another clan? Or me? Was the arrogance I’d always flaunted the very thing that marked a bull’s-eye on her back?

I’d pictured Oliver, son of the Duskfang Clan’s alpha. It had been only once that we’d fought. I almost killed him. For weeks, I was convinced he was behind it. Yet he’d refused it. His words had resonated, and deceit had never settled in an alpha’s bones. Not a single thread trailed back to him.

Even so, the rage kept boiling.

All the trails, every lead—they all slipped through my fingers, turning to dust. My thoughts circled, restless. I pushed the papers into the folder and fished my phone from my pocket. One name rose to the surface. Henry. Whoever might spot what I’d overlooked was him.

With little hope but some direction, I slipped into a jacket, the folder cradled under my arm, and walked out. The lift’s hum lulled me downward to the car park. The car sat there like an old acquaintance I’d almost forgotten. As I set the folder on the passenger seat and turned the ignition, I hesitated for a brief moment, the weight of everything pressing in. Still, I slid into the morning light.

Halfway down the street, a flutter of movement caught my gaze—her again. The mortal girl.

She wandered, tattered shirt clutched against the wind, looking completely lost. Clearly, she had no idea where she was headed.

I drove on, muttered a curse beneath my breath, and turned the car around. The urge to ignore her and keep going battled with something less definable—a stubborn unwillingness to leave things undone, or perhaps unattended guilt.

The window slid down. “Get in. I’ll take you back.”

Her glare was so sharp, it felt as if it could slice. “I don’t need your help.”

Two hours from anything that matters, and you’re walking in the wrong direction. Make your own choice.

She stopped. The wind snatched her hair across her cheeks as our eyes locked. Ultimately, she strode across, lowered herself into the passenger seat, and crossed her arms as if they were a shield.

I set the folder on the dashboard and turned the heat on.

For a while, the car slipped along in silence. I stole a sidelong look at the bruise that was still deepening across her cheek. You shouldn’t be walking those streets at night.

I’m fine on my own.”

You handled yourself very well last night. I spoke in a flat tone. Her glare singed the side of my face.

“Drive.”

I did.

As we pulled into the alley, she slid out and swept her gaze along the ground. Her face collapsed. No bag. No suitcase.

Her back struck the wall, and she slithered down, knees hunkered beside the dumpster. Shoulders trembling, she let wrenching sobs slip from her.

I stayed at the alley’s entrance, arms folded. What am I supposed to do here? Why am I still standing around for a stranger I don’t owe?

She raised her soaked, crimsoned face. Why are you still here?”

What’s wrong with you?

I’m not. She turned her head, rubbing her face with frenetic strokes.

I hesitated. Need a ride home?”

She shook her head. I have none. Arrived on the bus last night. My bag’s gone. No money. No hotel. Nothing.”

My jaw tightened. It’s not my responsibility to rebuild her life. But the words tumbled out anyway, before I could swallow them. Too soft? Too damn broken to look away?

Help yourself to the spare room. Until you get yourself straightened out.”

Her eyes flared, the suspicion carved deep into her. I don’t know you. You might be a r****t.

Take it or leave it. I spun back around to the car.

Not a moment later, the passenger door shut with a click. She slipped back into the seat, her arms still clamped to her chest. This is only a short-term offer. Only until I get a job.”

We went back to my flat. Once we were inside, I gave her the spare key. “Two rules. Keep to yourself. Stay out of my way—and out of my business.

She gave a curt, rigid nod.

I examined her ragged clothes, exhaled, and fished for my wallet. Between us, the card hung in the air.

I don’t want your money.

“You need it.” I glared at her shirt. You can’t turn up for interviews looking like that.

Her stare grew more menacing as she seized the card. “I’ll pay you back.”

“Whatever. Your room’s down the hall.

After dropping her off and handing over the key, I snatched the folder, slipped it beneath my arm, and headed out for Henry’s. She’d figure it out. Either way.