Two Mates, One Choice

The phone's shrill ring cut through the quiet of the pack records room, startling me from the monthly patrol schedules I'd been organizing. Marcus's voice crackled through the speaker, slurred with drink and urgency.

"Jocelyn? You need to come get Alden. He's... he's really drunk, and I can't get him to leave the party. Someone needs to take him home."

I set down my pen, the familiar weight of obligation settling over my shoulders like a worn cloak. "Where is he?"

"The old warehouse on Fifth Street. The one by the docks. Just... hurry, okay? He's getting pretty wild."

The line went dead.

I stared at the half-finished paperwork scattered across my desk—incident reports that needed filing, territory boundary updates that required the Alpha's approval by morning. All of it would have to wait.

It always had to wait.

I grabbed my jacket and keys, muscle memory guiding me through the motions I'd performed countless times over the past decade. Alden called, I answered. Alden needed something, I provided it. The rhythm of servitude had become as natural as breathing.

The warehouse district reeked of salt water and industrial chemicals, the kind of place pack members went when they wanted to party away from the watchful eyes of the elders. Bass-heavy music thumped from the converted building, its windows glowing amber against the night sky. I could smell the mixture of alcohol, sweat, and werewolf pheromones from the parking lot.

I pushed through the heavy metal door, the music hitting me like a physical force. Bodies pressed together on the makeshift dance floor, couples grinding against each other in the dim lighting. The air was thick with the scent of arousal and territorial marking—a typical pack party where boundaries blurred and inhibitions dissolved.

I found him near the back, and my stomach dropped.

Alden had a beautiful Delta pressed against the wall, his hands tangled in her platinum blonde hair as he kissed her neck with aggressive hunger.

She was everything I wasn't—curves in all the right places, skin that seemed to glow under the warehouse lights, the kind of effortless sensuality that drew every male gaze in the room.

Lyra. I recognized her from other pack gatherings, always surrounded by admirers, always the center of attention.

Alden's hands roamed her body possessively while she giggled and arched into his touch, her manicured fingers clawing at his shirt. They moved together like they'd done this before, like I was nothing more than an inconvenient interruption to their evening.

I stood there for a moment, watching them, feeling the familiar ache in my chest that I'd learned to ignore. This was nothing new. Alden had brought home plenty of women over the years, each one a reminder of my place in his life—useful, but never desired.

"Well, well," Alden's voice carried over the music as he noticed me, his words thick with alcohol and mockery. "Look what the moon dragged in."

He didn't pull away from Lyra. Instead, he seemed to