The Alpha King's Runaway Daughter

I Ran

Elara’s POV

We spent a long time trying to calm Mary down.

This wasn’t like Claire, who treated men like night buses; miss one, another comes in ten minutes.

And it wasn’t like me.

I’d had my share and buried it.

I was done. Empty.

But Mary wasn’t done.

She’d poured herself into Franklin; time, money, prayer, plans.

“Calm down,” we kept saying.

Useless words.

Like telling rain to fall quieter.

Her breath came in sharp, wet gasps. She sat on the edge of her bed, dress twisted in her fists, phone facedown on the rug like it had bitten her. The room smelled of shea butter and salt. Tears streaked her cheeks, not the clean kind, but the hot, angry kind that burn on the way down.

“You know what,” Claire said, bouncing on the balls of her feet. She’d thrown on a silk robe, but it wasn’t tied. “I was going to go out anyway. What do you say we all go together? Forget him. Maybe find someone new tonight. Better. Hotter.”

Mary’s head snapped up, eyes red‑rimmed, swollen. “You think this is funny?”

Claire blinked. “No. I think you need tequila.”

“Now we’re all in the same shoes,” Mary said, voice flat. “Single. Used. Stupid.”

“What are you going to do?” I asked softly. I sat on the floor, back against her wardrobe, knees pulled up. The tiles were thin, scratchy against my legs.

“We were literally preparing for marriage,” Mary said. She laughed, but it broke halfway. “I even paid part payment for our apartment.”

“What!” Claire and I said together.

“Part payment?” Claire repeated, robe slipping off one shoulder. She didn’t fix it.

“Yes,” Mary whispered. “I was going to surprise him for his birthday. Two‑bedroom in Canary Wharf. River view. I signed last week.”

“How much are we talking?” Claire started, then stopped herself. She shook her head. “You know what, let’s not go there. We’ll treat that later. For now, let’s party. My treat.”

Right then my phone buzzed on the bedside table. Again.

Third time in ten minutes.

“What’s happening, Elara?” Claire narrowed her eyes. “You’ve been getting a lot of calls and you haven’t picked one since you came back.”

“Never mind,” I said too fast. “Spam. PPI nonsense. You know what, I subscribe to the party. Let’s go out.” I clapped once like we were starting a race. “Now.”

Because Claire sober was investigative.

And because my wolf was restless; pacing, sniffing, uneasy.

Twenty minutes later, we were ready.

Claire looked like sin in a good mood. Black mesh dress, nothing under it but a strapless bra and high‑cut briefs. Legs oiled, catching the hallway light. Gold heels, gold hoops, gold eyelids. She smelled like vanilla and bad decisions.

Mary had scrubbed her face, lined her eyes until they looked lethal instead of ruined. Backless emerald dress clinging to curves she usually hid under blazers. Hair pulled into a sleek ponytail, baby hairs curling at her temples, defiant. No smile, but her lipstick was blood red. War paint.

Me? Simple. White linen shirt knotted at the waist, half unbuttoned. High‑waisted black shorts. Leather slides. My crescent‑moon pendant cold against my skin. I didn’t want to be looked at. I just didn’t want to disappear.

My wolf stretched under my ribs, uneasy.

She didn’t like crowds.

She didn’t like noise.

She didn’t like the stranger’s scent still clinging to my bathroom.

But I ignored her.

I always did.

Outside, the street was wet from earlier rain. Pavement shone under orange lamps, reflecting headlights. The air was cool, damp, metallic. A bus hissed past, then a delivery bike, then silence except the distant thump of bass from somewhere open. The sky was low and grey, no stars, just city glow bouncing off clouds.

A car rolled up, windows down, music shaking the frame. Another of Claire’s friends. Or men. Or both.

“Babes!” he shouted over the beat. All teeth and cologne, something expensive and heavy. Bass so high my ribs felt it. He held out a spliff, smoke curling into the night. Claire took it, lips around it like she’d been waiting all day. Inhale, hold, pass back.

Me and Mary declined. Same time. Same head shake.

We piled in. Leather seats cold. Heater blasting.

The party was in a townhouse with a back garden turned into something illegal. You could hear it before you saw it: bass, shrieks, water splashing. Then we pushed through the gate and it hit all at once.

Lights—blue, pink, white, strung through trees, reflecting off the pool like smashed glass. The water was full. Bodies, bottles, inflatable chairs. Men shirtless, skin gleaming with chlorine and night air. Women in bikinis and wet shirts, hair stuck to necks, hips moving even when the song didn’t ask. Smoke machine coughing into the cold. DJ hood up, one hand in the air. The smell: chlorine, weed, perfume, barbecue, vodka spilled on damp stone. Ground slick under my slides. Breath clouding faintly, then gone.

Claire, who brought us here to cheer Mary up, vanished. One second beside us, the next in the pool, dress still on, arms around two guys, head tipped back laughing.

So it was me and Mary. I pressed a plastic cup of something pink into her hand. It smelled like squash and regret.

“You see that guy over there?” I nodded toward a man by the grill. Tall, bearded, laughing with his whole body. “Go have some fun. He hasn’t stopped looking.”

Mary rolled her eyes, but she sipped. Then another. I nudged her until she moved, until she was talking, until the guy handed her a skewer and she was smiling. Not real. But a start.

I stood alone at the edge of the pool, sipping, watching. Water rippled, lights fractured, bass sat in my teeth. Night air bit at my arms, but the crowd made it bearable.

My wolf lifted her head.

Alert.

Focused.

That was when our eyes met.

He was in the deep end.

The guy from the bathroom.

Water sluiced off his shoulders, running down his chest in clean lines. Pool lights turned his skin blue, then white, then blue again. Hair wet, pushed back. Tattoo jagged on his hip, unfinished bird or flame, ink dark against skin.

He wasn’t smiling.

He was looking at me like he’d been looking for me.

My wolf surged; hot, sharp, electric.

Danger. Recognition. Something else.

The bathroom scene replayed, uninvited: steam, towel, all of it. My throat went dry.

I ripped my eyes away.

Too late.

He pulled himself out of the pool in one smooth motion. Water sheeted off him. No towel. Just a glass from a passing tray, downed in one go. Then he started toward me. Two girls stepped into his path, hands on his arms, laughing. He said something, sidestepped, kept coming.

Like water finding a c***k.

I pretended to be fascinated by my cup. My whole body was a prayer: don’t stop here, don’t stop here.

“Hi, beautiful,” he said.

His voice was low. Not a shout over the music. Low enough I had to lean in. He smelled of chlorine, fresh soap, cold night and under it, faint but unmistakable:

“Hey,” I managed.

“What should we call this? Double coincidence?” One eyebrow lifted. A drop of water hung from it.

“Well,” I started. No words came. He was close now. Too close. Scar on his collarbone, chest rising with each breath. I swallowed. Loud. Improper. He was with Claire three hours ago. Now me.

He didn’t touch me. Just tilted his head toward the side gate, darker, quieter, music dull. A question in his eyes. Then he turned and walked.

And I followed.

God help me, I followed. Feet moving before my brain filed a complaint. Past the grill, past the speaker stack rattling my ribs, past a couple pressed against the fence, sharing breath and smoke.

I was halfway there.

Then Mary screamed.

Not my name.

Not help.

Just raw, furious sound.

I spun. Mary was by the shallow end, hand still raised. The guy from the grill stared at her, palm on his cheek, red blooming fast. She’d slapped him. Hard. He staggered back, hit the edge, went down. Splash.

The music didn’t stop, but the pool did. Every head turned. Phones went up. Water, laughter, flash.

Mary stood there, chest heaving, emerald dress soaked to her thighs, war paint running down her face in black streaks.

I ran.

— End of Chapter 4 —