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Rejected by the Alpha, Claimed by the Alpha King

Luo Ye

5.0

Romance

10 Chapters

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I was a wolfless Rogue, cast out and humiliated when my childhood sweetheart abandoned me to mate with a powerful Alpha's daughter. To get revenge, I willingly walked into the bed of Graham Rogers, the ruthless Alpha King of New York. I thought I could use his power, but I traded one monster for an even worse one. He forced me to sign a suffocating contract, trapping me as his personal assistant and absolute property. When he found the empty box of the morning-after pill I took, his eyes turned black with terrifying rage. "Did you really think a filthy rogue bloodline like yours was worthy of carrying my child?" His brutal fury left me with severe internal injuries that a doctor warned could permanently destroy my body. While I was trapped in this living hell, my ex and his family, now facing bankruptcy, suddenly came crawling back. They begged for my forgiveness, hoping to use my new connection to the Alpha King to save their dying pack. They thought I was still the weak, pathetic girl they could easily manipulate and discard. But they didn't know I had just discovered they were likely the ones who murdered my parents fourteen years ago. Looking at my ex's desperate, pleading face, I calmly answered a call from the very devil who held me captive. I was done being a victim, and I would borrow the beast's power to burn their entire world to the ground.

Rejected by the Alpha, Claimed by the Alpha King Chapter 1

CILLA POV:

"Sign it."

The words, low and cold, slice through the haze of pain.

I clutch the silk sheet tighter, my knuckles white. Every bone in my body feels like it's been snapped and reset incorrectly. A deep, grinding ache radiates from my core, a brutal reminder of last night. Of him. Of the Alpha King.

Fear, cold and sharp, seizes my heart. It's a physical thing, a fist clenching in my chest, making it hard to breathe.

I need to get out.

Slowly, I try to slide my legs over the edge of the massive bed. The movement sends a fresh wave of agony through my hips. His scent, a powerful, intoxicating mix of cedar and cold winter air, clings to my skin, to the sheets, to the very air I'm breathing. It's an invasion. My rogue instincts, the ones that have kept me alive on the streets, scream at me to submit, to curl up and wait for his command.

I bite down hard on my lower lip, the sting of it a welcome distraction.

My feet touch the plush carpet.

My legs immediately buckle.

A muffled thud echoes in the silent suite as my knees hit the hardwood floor. I scramble, grabbing for the clothes scattered like fallen leaves around the bed. My dress, torn at the shoulder. My heels, one lying forlornly on its side.

My eyes catch my reflection in the mirrored wardrobe door.

My throat is a canvas of angry red and deep purple marks. Humiliation burns in my stomach, hot and acidic. This wasn't the plan. The plan was revenge. Quick, clean, and on my terms. Not this... demolition.

The bathroom door clicks open.

He's leaning against the frame, already awake, dressed in a black bathrobe that does nothing to hide the sheer power of his frame. Graham Rogers. His gray eyes, cold as a winter storm, sweep over me, taking in my pathetic, crumpled form on his floor. He doesn't look angry. He doesn't look pleased. He looks... bored. Like he's observing an insect trapped under glass.

I snatch my ripped dress and hold it against my chest, a useless shield. My instinct is to run, but his gaze pins me in place. I try to muster a look of indifference, the mask I've perfected over years of being nothing and having nothing.

It doesn't work.

He pushes off the doorframe and stalks toward me. Each step is silent, predatory. I scramble backward, my back hitting the cold, unyielding wall of the suite. Trapped.

He doesn't touch me. He doesn't have to.

He tosses a thick manila folder onto the glass coffee table between us. The papers inside spill out, the sound unnaturally loud in the suffocating quiet.

"A million dollars," he says, his voice devoid of any emotion. "For one year. You'll be my personal assistant. Available 24/7. You will do exactly as I say, when I say it."

He gestures to the papers. "Sign it."

My eyes scan the top page. It's a contract. A meticulously drafted document of indentured servitude. It details everything, from a non-disclosure agreement that carries a penalty of financial ruin to a clause stating my presence is required at any and all functions he deems necessary. It's a cage made of paper and ink.

I open my mouth to refuse, to spit the word "no" in his arrogant face.

But the word dies in my throat. A faint, almost imperceptible pressure emanates from him, an Alpha's command layered beneath his casual tone. It settles over my shoulders like a physical weight, pressing down, silencing me. He isn't even trying, and still, it's enough to make my vocal cords lock up.

To anger the Alpha of all New York, the man who holds the fate of every wolf in this city in his hand, is suicide. Especially for a rogue.

A bitter, hot wetness stings the back of my eyes. I refuse to let it fall. I force it down, swallowing the lump of despair in my throat. My hand shakes as I reach for the expensive-looking fountain pen lying on the table.

My signature is a spidery, broken thing.

The moment the ink is on the page, the pressure lifts. I can breathe again.

A flicker of something-satisfaction, maybe-crosses his face, gone as quickly as it appeared.

"Be at my office in ten minutes," he says, his tone turning dismissive. He turns his back on me and walks toward the massive walk-in closet. "Don't be late."

I don't answer. There's nothing to say.

My movements are stiff, robotic. I gather my things, my fingers fumbling with the zipper of my purse. In the attached bathroom, I find a spare professional suit I'd stashed in my bag for my 'plan'. It feels like a lifetime ago. I quickly change, the crisp fabric a welcome armor. I layer concealer over the bruises on my neck, hiding the evidence of my submission, burying the broken girl from last night under a flawless corporate mask.

I pull open the heavy suite door without a backward glance.

The cool air of the hallway feels like a slap in the face. I lean against the wall, my forehead pressed against the cold wallpaper, and drag in a deep, shuddering breath. The tears I refused to shed for him now burn trails down my cheeks. I wipe them away with the back of my hand, angry and vicious. No more weakness.

I walk to the elevator and press the call button. As the doors close, I catch one last glimpse of the suite's interior-the massive bed, the scattered clothes, and the rumpled sheets.

On the corner of the bottom sheet, near the foot of the bed, I notice a small, dark stain.

Blood.

My stomach lurches. I look away quickly, my face burning. Don't think about it. Don't think about any of it.

The elevator descends. I keep my eyes fixed on the numbers, counting down floor by floor, as if each one puts more distance between me and the monster upstairs.

It doesn't.