I Never KNEW MY HUSBAND IS A WEREWOLF ALPHA

Chapter 3:The Audit Of War

The glass of the penthouse didn't shatter—not yet. It groaned, a deep, crystalline protest against the sudden, violent pressure from the outside. The grey wolf perched on the neighboring ledge didn't move, its yellow eyes fixed on Sloane with a chilling, intelligent focus. It wasn't an animal; it was a scout, a living surveillance camera for a power that had been waiting for Roman Pierce to slip.

Roman stood in the center of the living room, his shirt discarded, the silver-blue runes on his chest pulsing with a rhythmic, bioluminescent light. The air around him was shimmering with heat, the smell of ozone so thick it tasted like copper on Sloane’s tongue.

"Get in the safe room," Roman growled. The sound was no longer coming from his throat; it was vibrating out of his very ribcage. "Now, Sloane. The South Pack doesn't negotiate. They shred."

Sloane didn't move toward the reinforced steel door hidden behind the bookshelf. Instead, she walked back to her laptop, her fingers flying across the keys.

"Roman, look at the screen," she commanded, her voice cutting through his primal growl with the sharp, cold authority of a woman who had faced down billionaire embezzlers and won. "I’m not a 'personnel issue' you can just hide away. I’m the only one in this room who knows how to read their logistics."

Roman turned, his eyes entirely gold, his fangs beginning to distend from his gums. "Sloane—"

"Quiet!" she snapped. "Look. I hacked into the building’s external sensors. That wolf on the ledge? He’s not alone. There are four more on the roof, and six in the subterranean garage. They didn't just walk in, Roman. They used keycards. Your 'impenetrable' security has a leak, and it’s a financial one."

Roman froze, the predator in him yielding for a split second to the CEO. He stepped toward the table, his massive, heated shadow falling over her.

"What are you saying?"

"I’m saying your 'Beta,' or whoever manages the Lupine Guard payroll, just bought a $2 million villa in the Caymans last week," Sloane said, pulling up a bank transfer record she’d intercepted in the last three minutes. "You’re being sold out from the inside. If you go out there into the hallway, you’re walking into an ambush designed by your own people."

A heavy thud echoed from the roof. Then another. The sound of claws scraping against reinforced steel.

"They're coming through the maintenance hatches," Roman whispered, his hands curling into claws. "They know the bypass codes."

"Then change the game," Sloane said. She grabbed her tablet and started swiping rapidly. "You fight them with your teeth. I’ll fight them with the infrastructure. I’m shutting down the elevators, venting the fire suppression gas into the stairwells, and rerouting the building’s power to the perimeter floors. I’m turning this penthouse into a black box."

Roman looked at her, and for the first time, the gold in his eyes wasn't just filled with rage—it was filled with awe. He reached out, his hand—now tipped with dark, sharp talons—hovering just inches from her shoulder.

"You really are a hunter," he murmured.

"I'm an accountant, Roman. I balance the books. And right now, the South Pack is in a massive deficit."

The glass finally gave way.

It didn't break inward; it exploded. The grey wolf from the ledge launched itself through the window, a three-hundred-pound blur of fur and muscle. It landed on the marble floor with a bone-jarring impact, its claws skidding for purchase.

Roman didn't hesitate. He moved with a speed that blurred Sloane’s vision. He didn't shift into a wolf—not fully. He stayed upright, his body expanding, his skin rippling with raw power. He met the intruder mid-air, his roar shaking the foundations of the tower.

Sloane dove behind the obsidian kitchen island as the two titans collided. The sound was horrific—the wet tear of flesh, the snap of furniture, and the guttural snarls of two apex predators fighting for territory.

"Sloane! The door!" Roman shouted, his voice a jagged edge of pain as the grey wolf’s teeth found his shoulder.

Sloane didn't run for the door. She reached under the kitchen island and pulled out a heavy, professional-grade fire extinguisher. She didn't aim for the wolves. She aimed for the high-voltage floor sockets she had just overloaded via her laptop.

"Roman! Jump!" she screamed.

Roman, sensing the shift in the air, kicked the grey wolf back and leaped onto the dining table. Sloane slammed the extinguisher's handle, dousing the floor in a cloud of chemical foam just as she triggered a power surge through the kitchen’s smart-floor system.

A brilliant arc of blue electricity hissed across the wet marble. The grey wolf let out a high-pitched yelp as the current surged through its body, paralyzing its nervous system. It collapsed, twitching, the smell of singed fur filling the room.

Roman landed back on the floor, his chest heaving, blood dripping from the three new gashes on his arm. He looked at the smoking wolf, then at Sloane, who was still holding the fire extinguisher like a weapon.

"That... was not according to pack law," Roman wheezed, a dark, blood-stained grin spreading across his face.

"Pack law doesn't account for a 220-volt surge," Sloane replied, her heart hammering against her ribs so hard she thought it might break. "But we have a problem. There are ten more coming up the stairs, and I just fried the building’s main breaker. We’re in the dark, Roman."

Roman stood tall, the blue runes on his chest glowing brighter in the sudden shadows of the penthouse. He walked over to her, his heat radiating like a sun. He wrapped a heavy, scarred arm around her waist, pulling her flush against him.

"Let them come," Roman whispered, his amber eyes scanning the darkness. "They think they’re fighting an Alpha. They don't realize they’re fighting a partnership."

Sloane leaned into him, her fear transforming into a cold, hard resolve. She tapped her wedding ring against his skin. "I’ve mapped their retreat path, Roman. If we survive the next ten minutes, I know exactly where their Alpha is hiding. I tracked his jet fuel purchases."

Roman let out a low, dark chuckle that vibrated through both of them. "Remind me never to lie to you about my expenses ever again."

"Too late for that," she whispered. "Now, get ready. The door is coming down."

As the heavy oak foyer doors began to splinter under the weight of a dozen wolves, Sloane opened her laptop one last time. She wasn't looking at spreadsheets anymore. she was looking at the kill-zone she’d created.

The "Happy Ending" was still miles away, but for the first time in her marriage, Sloane didn't feel like a guest in Roman’s life. She felt like the owner. And she was about to collect every cent of the debt the South Pack owed them.