Ditched! The Alpha's Secretary Ain't His Puppy No More

The moment Beta's voice crackled through the phone, I was tracing the embossed lettering on Peter Riegert's business card-my thumb catching on the raised ink as if it were a scar.

"Alpha Riegert approved your resignation, Secretary White, but he thought it was for... someone else. Should I-"

"Leave it," I cut in, my voice as steady as the letter opener lying on my desk. "He'll figure it out."

The line went silent, save for the distant howl of wind against the penthouse windows.

Five years as Peter's shadow, Five years of filing reports and fetching coffee. Now, all that remained of me here was a half-packed box and the taste of iron in my mouth.

"But you're his right hand,"

Beta protested. "He depends on-"

"Werewolves depend on the moon," I whispered.

"But even the moon sets."

I hung up before they could respond.

The penthouse stared back at me with empty corners.

My eyes fell on the bookshelf where I'd hidmanor a vial of Peter's blood, taken from a paper cut he'd dismissed as trivial.

Now, it felt like a relic from another life.

Eight years.

That's how long I'd carried this secret: Peter Riegert, alpha of the North Ridge pack, had sunk his teeth into my neck once in a drugged frenzy, and I'd let him.

Not just because I loved him, but because his bite had awoken something in me-something wolfish, something that craved his scent, his touch, his very essence.

My mind wandered to the first time I'd seen his eyes flash gold.

It was at the Riegert manor, during a full moon gala.

He'd been arguing with his sister Madeline, and when he turned to leave, his pupils dilated into slits.

I'd thought it a trick of the light, but then came the night he was drugged.

His fists had raked the wall behind me, leaving gashes in the drywall, and his tooth had grazed my throat-so close to the mark that would make me his.

"Take the money," he'd said the next morning, sliding a black card across the sheets.

"I can't give you more than this. Emma..."

Emma Brown.

His fated mate, the she-wolf who'd left him to "find herself" in Silverstone pack. I'd heard the stories: how Peter had howled at the moon for months, how he'd refused to take a second, how his wolf pined for her scent.

And now she was back, her Instagram filled with pictures of them under fireworks, his arm around her waist, his eyes soft in a way they'd never been for me.

A growl rumbled in my chest, unexpected and feral.

I pressed a hand to my sternum, feeling the vibration.

Since that first bite, my senses had sharpened-smells became overwhelming, sounds deafening, and the urge to run under the full moon nearly irresistible.

Peter must have sensed it, too; he'd always been stricter with me during lunar cycles, as if afraid of what I might become.

As I folded the last of my