My Alpha Tried to Drown Me

I can feel the weight of the tray cutting into my palms before I even enter the banquet hall. The ceremonial glassware—crystal goblets etched with the pack's crescent moon sigil—clinks softly with each step, a delicate sound that feels obscene against the low hum of anticipation threading through the Moonveil Pack house. My Omega uniform, rough-spun linen that itches against my collarbone, marks me as clearly as a brand. I'm Briana Gilbert, wolfless Omega, and tonight I'm invisible labor in a room full of wolves waiting to bare their throats to someone new.

The hall is already half-full when I push through the service entrance. Strings of white lights crisscross the vaulted ceiling, casting everything in a soft, deceitful glow that makes the room look warmer than it is. The air smells like pine boughs and roasted meat, undercut by the sharp, electric scent of too many wolves packed into one space. I keep my head down and my movements efficient, setting goblets at each place setting with the mechanical precision I've perfected over the past year. Don't be seen. Don't be noticed. Finish the work and get out.

But the whispers find me anyway.

"I heard he trained with the Northern packs—came back stronger than his father ever was."

"And the chosen mate? Someone said she's from the Herrera line. High-ranking. Beautiful."

"Poor thing, being chosen instead of fated. But I suppose when you're Alpha, you can afford to pick and choose."

My hands don't shake. I've had a year to build walls thick enough that pack gossip slides off like rain on stone. I move to the head table, the one elevated on a dais that makes it impossible to miss, and begin arranging the settings there with the same blank focus. The tray is almost empty when the hall's double doors swing open, and the temperature in the room drops.

Not literally. But every wolf in the space goes still in the same instant, a unified held breath that makes my skin prickle. I don't need to look up to know who's entered. The Alpha aura hits like a wall of pressure, thick and suffocating, rolling over the crowd in waves. It's not a request. It's a command written into the air itself: submit.

Around me, necks tilt. Shoulders curve. Even the higher-ranked wolves dip their chins in instinctive deference. I stay exactly where I am, hands still on the last goblet, eyes fixed on the table's polished surface. My wolf would know how to navigate this. My wolf would feel the pull, the primal need to acknowledge the Alpha's dominance. But I don't have a wolf. I just have a heartbeat that's started to hammer against my ribs in a rhythm I don't like.

I chance a glance up. Just one.

Zayd Gilbert stands in the doorway like he was carved there, all broad shoulders and controlled power wrapped in a charcoal suit that probably cost more than I've earned in six months. His dark hair