The Alpha King's Runaway Daughter

Over Text

Elara’s POV

Something was wrong.

I felt it before I saw anything, a prickle at the base of my spine, a shift in the air pressure, the faintest tremor under my skin. My wolf stirred, lifting her head, sniffing at something I couldn’t yet name.

I swallowed hard.

Not now.

Not tonight.

I’d taken my suppressant pill hours ago, the tiny white tablet that dulled my senses enough to pass as human. It muted scent, hearing, instinct. It kept my wolf quiet. Manageable. Contained.

But even muted, she felt him.

A scent curled through the hallway, faint but unmistakable: warm skin, clean sweat, eucalyptus steam, and something else, something wild, sharp, electric. Something that didn’t belong in my apartment.

I froze.

That wasn’t Mary.

That wasn’t Claire.

That wasn’t anyone I knew.

My wolf pressed against my ribs, restless.

Intruder.

Male.

Wolf.

I blinked hard, trying to shake it off. The suppressant should’ve blocked this. It always blocked this. But the scent was too strong, too alive, threading through the air like a warning.

I stepped toward the bathroom anyway, heart thudding.

The steam leaking from the cracked door was thick, warm, fragrant with eucalyptus and layered with that unfamiliar male scent that made my wolf pace.

I pushed the door open.

And there he was.

A man I did not know.

In my bathroom.

In my house.

My brain short‑circuited and dumped every worst‑case scenario at once: thief, stalker, murderer who liked to steam his victims first. Or worse, a wolf sent to drag me home.

He was tall. Too tall for my bathroom. The ceiling light caught the water running down his chest, each drop slow, deliberate, like the room itself was holding its breath. His hair was black, dripping onto the bath mat in dark circles. A scar nicked his collarbone. And his eyes, wide, startled, were the color of a river at night.

For one suspended second, neither of us moved.

Steam curled between us, thick with eucalyptus and the cheap citrus soap Claire bought in bulk.

Then I screamed.

High, raw, scraping my throat.

He screamed too.

And as he spun toward me, shock doing what shock does, the towel at his hips lost the fight with gravity. It slipped. It fell.

Did I see?

Yes.

God, yes.

Hard lines. A tattoo on his hip, jagged, half‑finished. Water. Skin. All of it.

You know that moment when it happens too fast, but later you wish it had lasted long enough to actually register? That was it. Because before I could think, before I could blink, I was already stumbling backward out of the bathroom, my hand smacking the doorframe, my heart hammering so loud I couldn’t hear myself breathe.

My wolf was fully awake now, pacing, alert, ears pricked.

Male. Strong. Close.

Too close.

That was when Mary came out of the kitchen.

She was a mess, the good kind, like she’d just stepped out of the shower and hadn’t decided to be a person yet. Her hair was damp, shrinking into a soft cloud around her face. A towel was knotted under her arms, slipping low on one side. She smelled of cocoa butter and coconut.

“What is it?” she asked, eyes wide. She must have run at the sound.

Right behind her, Claire appeared, more of a mess. Barefaced, lips swollen, in tiny black shorts and nothing else. No bra. Her hair was a wild nest, and she smelled like s*x and vanilla perfume.

These were my housemates.

I thought they were out.

“There’s a man,” I said, pointing back at the bathroom like it was on fire. “There’s a man in the bathroom.”

Claire let out a laugh. Not nervous.

A full, throaty, you’re‑kidding‑me laugh.

“What’s funny?” I snapped. My voice was still an octave too high.

“He’s with me,” she said, rolling her eyes. Like I’d just asked why water was wet.

“With you?” I blinked. “But—”

Oh.

Oh.

It pieced together ugly and fast. Claire had a good time. The guy was in the shared bathroom because her ensuite was probably a crime scene of tangled sheets. And now I’d been exposed to all of… him. Because of course.

Not that it mattered. Claire’s men never lasted. They either self‑destructed or she got bored. Two weeks, tops.

Minutes later, they were all over each other by the front door. Claire pressed against his chest, fingers playing with the damp hair at his nape. He murmured something low that made her giggle. She kissed him goodbye like she was trying to leave a mark.

By then Mary and I were on the couch. The sitting room was vast and cold, AC humming a steady note that made the hairs on my arms stand up. The walls were eggshell white, hung with Mary’s framed prints. The air smelled like seasoning from the kitchen, layered under Claire’s vanilla, Mary’s shea butter, and the faint, stubborn ghost of the stranger’s eucalyptus.

And under it all, faint but sharp, the scent of wolf.

“So,” I said, keeping my voice level. “I thought we agreed we’d tell each other before bringing guests.”

Claire flopped onto the armchair, still grinning. “My bad. I was caught up in the moment. He had me against the—”

“Claire,” Mary cut in, not looking up from her food.

“I don’t know what to say,” I went on. “Do you know what I saw in there?”

“You liked it, right?” Claire wiggled her eyebrows. “I could put you on. Or what do you think?”

“That’s gross,” Mary said around a mouthful of food, then swallowed. “When did you start sharing men?”

“Stop overthinking,” Claire said, pulling out her phone. “I’m just having a good time. Don’t worry, I’ll link you up with someone else. Tall. Goes to the gym. Hates shirts, apparently.”

“Not interested,” I said. My phone buzzed in my lap. Franklin’s name flashed, then went dark. I silenced it without answering.

“How’s prep for the grand opening?” Mary asked, shifting the topic like she always did when Claire got crude.

“That’s the package I picked up today,” I said, nodding at the brown box. “Prep’s been smooth. Please, can you dish food for me? I’m starving.”

“Didn’t you eat with Andrew?” Mary asked, standing.

“I didn’t really eat,” I said. “I was focused on something else. Not ice cream.”

“You can dish yourself,” Mary called from the kitchen. “I’m on a call.”

Fine.

I pushed up from the couch. The kitchen light was harsh after the dim sitting room. The pot of food was still on the stove, rice glistening red and oily, steam fogging the lid when I lifted it.

The smell hit me. My stomach cramped.

And that was when Mary screamed.

“Ahhhhh!”

Not a play scream.

Not a spider scream.

A sound that ripped from her chest and tore the air in half.

I dropped the spoon. It clattered against the tile. Claire jumped up from the chair, phone hitting the couch.

“What? What is it?” we both yelled, running.

Mary stood in the doorway to her room, phone in her hand, face blank. Her chest was moving too fast. Her dress slipped off one shoulder. She didn’t fix it.

“Franklin dumped me,” she said. Her voice was empty. Scraped out. “He broke up with me. Over text.”

— End of Chapter 3 —