After My Alpha Called Me His, I Planned Revenge

The club smelled like money and sweat and something darker I couldn't name. I balanced the tray on my hip and moved through the crowd, keeping my left side angled toward the speakers. The bass thrummed through the floor, and I let it guide me. As long as I could feel the vibration, I could fake the rest.

Bottle service paid better than anything else I could get without references or a degree I never finished. The uniform was simple—black skirt, black top, heels that made my calves ache. I'd learned to smile with my mouth and keep my eyes empty. Most wolves didn't look past the tray anyway.

I set down a bottle of Grey Goose at table six, poured three glasses without being asked, and collected the empties. A hand brushed my waist. I stepped aside before it could settle. The wolf grinned like he'd won something. I kept walking.

Sylvia caught my eye from across the room and mouthed something I couldn't hear. I angled toward her, reading her lips. "VIP booth. Incoming."

I nodded and headed back to the bar. My fingers trailed along the edge of the tray without thinking, tapping out a rhythm that had no sound. Old habit. I stopped when I noticed.

The VIP section sat elevated at the back, separated by velvet ropes and a bouncer who looked like he ate smaller wolves for breakfast. When I approached with the bottle order, he stepped aside without a word. That meant Alpha.

I should have turned around.

But I'd spent three years working toward this moment, and I wasn't about to waste it because my hands wanted to shake.

I climbed the three steps to the platform, tray balanced, and immediately felt the shift in the air. The kind of presence that made unmated wolves drop their eyes and back away. I didn't look up yet. I set the tray down on the table, opened the bottle of Macallan 25 they'd ordered, and poured the first glass with steady hands.

Then I smelled it.

Pine and cold air. Snow on granite. The scent I used to bury my face in and breathe like it could keep me alive.

My head snapped up before I could stop myself.

Derek Miller sat in the center of the booth, one arm draped across the back, his jaw sharp enough to cut. He looked older. Harder. His dark hair was shorter than I remembered, and he wore a suit that probably cost more than I made in six months. But his eyes—those hadn't changed. Still that same unreadable gray that used to make me think I could see straight through to his soul.

I'd been so stupid.

His gaze locked on me, and his entire body went still. Not the kind of stillness that came from self-control. The kind that came from a wolf slamming into the surface, clawing its way up, demanding to be let out.

I watched his pupils blow wide. Watched his nostrils