The Alpha's Lottery

Prologue

---Sindy--

I’d been warned the mate candidates would be naked, but knowing it in theory and seeing it in the flesh were two very different things.

The first flash of pale, smooth skin was enough to make my stomach clench. But it wasn’t the nudity itself that hit me—it was the eyes. Those haunted, hollow eyes staring out from the women lined up on that polished wooden platform, their fear so raw I could almost taste it. That was when I really understood what I’d walked into.

Kalem, my team leader, laid a steadying hand on my shoulder, her grip firm but almost… gentle.

“Steady, agent. We went through this. Remember your training.”

Her voice was calm, collected, the kind of even tone you use to keep a rookie from freezing up. But I wasn’t new. I’d been to pick-ups before. I’d just never been here—never been inside an auction. And now, with my heart hammering hard enough to echo in my ears, my mouth felt bone-dry, as if the moisture had been sucked straight out of me.

I’d heard plenty of whispers about what really happened at these things—rumors traded over coffee in the breakroom, hushed warnings from agents who’d “seen too much.” I’d built mental pictures in my head, thought I knew what I’d be walking into. But the reality? It was more mundane than I expected, and at the same time, far more disturbing.

Fifteen women stood shoulder to shoulder under the warm wash of the overhead lights, the glow picking out every detail of their trembling, exposed bodies. No modesty. No dignity. Just flesh on display for the highest bidder.

And the worst part? My team had brought one of them here. We’d done this.

They ranged from barely legal to old enough to be someone’s mother. Eighteen to early forties. All of them surrounded—outnumbered—by at least ten to one. The crowd of tall, broad-shouldered men pressed closer to the stage, dangerous in the way only predators could be.

Kalem tipped her chin toward a pair of folding chairs along the wall. “Sit.”

The metal was cold against my backside, even through my slacks. I gripped the edges of the seat until my fingers ached, hoping the pressure would hide the faint tremor in my hands.

On the left side of the stage, a towering man in a sharp gray pinstriped suit stepped forward, his voice cutting through the thick, charged air. “Turn around.”

The women obeyed with stiff reluctance. Color drained from their faces, shoulders curling forward, as if they could somehow make themselves smaller.

One girl—brunette, with silky curls framing a face that might have been pretty under different circumstances—broke first. Tears streaked down her cheeks as she turned, her sobs hitching with each breath, baring the soft curve of her backside to the assembled men.

Con Olivar. I remembered her name from the list. Community college student. Spokane. Picked up before she even had the chance to drop out or graduate.

The men in the crowd murmured like they’d just been handed a menu, their voices low and appraising. The man in the suit called the first woman—a tall, statuesque redhead with lips the color of pale roses—down from the platform.

I watched her descend the stairs and walk straight into the middle of the male throng, every instinct in me screaming that she was stepping into the lion’s den.

Kalem was unmoved, her fingers flying over her phone as if she were just answering office emails. Her earpiece hung loose against her shoulder, brushing the lapel of her charcoal suit—standard FMB issue. It could have passed for corporate attire, if not for the weight of the holstered weapon underneath.

Corporate, except the numbers we chased weren’t quarterly earnings—they were human lives. Fugitive recovery, they called it. But when the “fugitive” was a terrified omega?

Victim.

Not that it mattered what I called them. The end result was the same. Once a mate was designated—ugh, fated mates, as the Wolf Nations liked to call it—there was only one choice: report for auction, or disappear.

If she refused? If she ran? That’s when teams like mine got the call.

“How the hell are they all so… tall?” I muttered under my breath, eyes glued to the scene in front of me.

“I’ve never seen one under six-two,” Kalem replied without looking up. “Most are taller.”

She was right. Not just tall—built. Every single one of them. Hard muscle under perfectly tailored suits. Not a hint of softness anywhere.

“Christ,” I said, rubbing a hand over my mouth, wishing for water to wash away the dryness in my throat. “It’s a bunch of Spartans.”

If only all my parts were dry.

I shoved that thought aside, not ready to unpack the mess it hinted at.

Another woman was called down. Her breasts swayed with each careful step, her gaze darting nervously between the waiting men. Two of them stepped forward, each taking an arm, guiding her to the side like they were selecting a prize pig at market. Several more followed. The “Interview,” we called it. A sick joke.

One by one, the women were led away for inspection. The wolves culled the herd, choosing the ones that appealed most, isolating the ripest, the most tempting.

The metaphor made me shudder.

Con was the last left on stage, shoulders shaking as she cried openly now. When her name was finally called, she didn’t even move—two tall, lean men leapt up to her instead, flanking her, shielding her from the crowd in a way that made my throat tighten. She looked up at them with eyes so wide and wet they almost shone, listening as they murmured to her.

I had to look away. I took a deep breath and glanced at Kalem—only to find her staring hard at a table across the room.

“What is it?” I asked.

She didn’t answer right away, just kept scanning. We were trained to watch the crowd for trouble—uninvited guests, suspicious movement. Wolf Nation security was good, but no amount of testosterone in one place came without the risk of an incident.

“You see him?” she asked finally, her tone lower now.

“See who?”

“The one sitting down.” She nodded toward the back. “Short black hair. Stison.”

I followed her gaze, and there he was—leaned back in a leather chair like he owned the place. Relaxed. Too relaxed. Elbows draped over the armrests, gaze fixed on the stage… until it wasn’t. Until it was fixed on me.

Granite jaw, bluish shadow of stubble on tanned skin, eyes that didn’t look away when I caught them.

I smirked faintly at Kalem. “You talking about the cowboy?”

“That’s the one.”

“Caught him watching us, I take it?”

Kalem’s reply was a whisper out of the corner of her mouth, but it landed like a punch. “He’s not watching us, agent. He’s watching you.”