Claimed by the Cursed Alpha

Elisha Lane is my mate, destined for me since birth.

It’s not that I’ve lived for eight centuries.

But my grandfather, a renowned Healer in the Silver Moon Pack, predicted my fragile fate and arranged a mate bond for me—with Elisha, a werewolf infamous for his lingering resentment.

According to pack legends, centuries ago, the Lane family was prosperous, but suddenly, misfortune struck, and members began to die one after another. A rogue Alpha named Charles Mendez claimed that Elisha’s aura was cursed, bringing ruin to his kin.

Charles offered a solution: torment Elisha daily, drive him to despair, and seal his remains in a steel coffin. Only then would the pack prosper, their wealth and lineage secured.

Elisha endured this torment for twenty years.

At twenty-three, he died.

My heart ached for him. One night, I lay beside his grave, surrounded by a thick, swirling black mist—a manifestation of his hatred. Yet, strangely, I slept peacefully.

The next morning, two Delta warriors approached with black sacks.

“Quick, it’s a woman today. Easy work.”

They moved closer, and I opened my eyes, smiling. “Good morning.”

“AAAAHHH!!!”

“She’s alive!! Run!!!”

The men bolted down the hill.

I stood, turning to the humanoid shadow of mist behind me—a physical form of Elisha’s undying rage. I reached out, taking its hand.

In an instant, the mist’s arm crumbled and vanished.

“When Elisha died, his limbs were severed, his body mutilated,” my grandfather’s voice echoed in my mind.

Tears welled in my eyes. The Lane family was now the wealthiest in the pack, but Elisha had been trapped in anguish for centuries.

“Elisha,” I whispered. “I understand now. I’ll avenge you.”

==============================

Three hundred years after Elisha began his work as a pack enforcer in the afterlife, we had a child.

Yes, a child.

Even in the afterlife, werewolves could have offspring, though they weren’t bound by the pack’s records and would grow to serve in the same realm.

Our son, Jayceon, was the spitting image of Elisha—calm, composed, and unnervingly formal in his speech.

It made my teeth ache.

When Jayceon came of age, he bowed to us with perfect grace.

“Father, Mother. I wish to explore the human world. May I have your permission?” he said, his tone measured.

I nodded.

Elisha waved a hand. “Go.”

As soon as Jayceon left, I pinched Elisha’s side hard.

He winced, dodging, but I kicked him in frustration.

“I told you not to raise him like some ancient noble! Now he’s off to the human world, and with the way he talks, they’ll think he’s insane!”

Elisha smiled faintly. “I think it’s admirable. A male should uphold dignity and grace.”

What nonsense.

I watched Jayceon’s retreating figure, so like Elisha’s, and sighed.

Fine. If he ends up in a mental institution, I’ll just bail him out.