Divorced on Live TV, Claimed by the Rival Alpha

The scent of pine needles and damp earth was completely drowned out by the metallic stench of fresh blood and wet fur.

My back hit the side panel of the overturned survey SUV, the impact sending a jolt of pain up my spine. My left pant leg was shredded from the knee down, soaked in crimson where rogue claws had raked through denim and flesh.

Three mangled rogue wolves lay motionless on the gravel access road, neutralized by the high-voltage stun charges from my tactical defense rod.

Only one remained.

A massive, gray-furred brute paced ten feet away, its yellow eyes locked onto my bleeding leg. Low, guttural growls vibrated in its chest, saliva dripping from yellowed fangs. My field team’s two security guards were thirty yards down the embankment, knocked unconscious when our lead vehicle was rammed off the switchback.

I was on my own.

My breath came in shallow, frosty bursts in the thin mountain air. I adjusted my grip on the silver-tipped defense baton, my knuckles white, my thumb resting on the trigger of the pressurized wolfsbane canister embedded in the hilt.

The rogue lunged.

It moved with savage, desperate speed, aiming straight for my throat.

I didn't try to dodge on my torn calf. Instead, I dropped low, letting my shoulder absorb the collision against the SUV's tire. As the beast snapped its jaws inches from my ear, I jammed the baton upward, driving the silver spike deep under its rib cage and depressing the release valve.

The wolfsbane hissed.

A strangled yelp tore from the rogue’s throat as the silver-burn and neurotoxin flooded its system. It violently thrashed, knocking me against the gravel, before collapsing onto its side, clawing frantically at the dirt as it dragged itself into the dense underbrush to die.

The clearing went dead quiet, save for the wind whistling through the pines.

I let the defense rod clatter to the ground. My head spun, dizziness creeping in from blood loss and the lingering psychic exhaustion of my severed bond.

*Crack.*

The sound of tires crunching over splintered branches broke the silence.

A matte-black armored truck crested the ridge at breakneck speed, drifting sharply across the loose gravel before braking to an absolute halt twenty feet from where I sat.

The door opened instantly.

Roman Cross stepped out.

He didn't have an escort. His charcoal jacket was gone, his dark dress shirt sleeves rolled to his forearms, exposing the corded muscle and faint scars of an Alpha who had fought his way to the top. His amber eyes swept the scene in less than two seconds—the unconscious guards, the neutralized rogues, the blood smeared across the gravel.

When his gaze landed on my torn leg, a violent tremor shook his frame. A dark, predatory aura pulsed from his skin so heavily that the surrounding pine needles shuddered. His jaw clenched until the bone ticked.

He closed the distance between us with long, urgent strides.

Yet, when he reached me, he didn't grab me. He didn't hover, and he didn't unleash an overwhelming wave of Alpha dominance to assert control over the situation.

Three paces away, Roman stopped dead.

He dropped down onto one knee in the dirt, keeping his hands open and resting against his thighs. His chest rose and fell in heavy, controlled breaths as he fought back the primal instinct screaming in his blood.

"Emergency dispatch flagged the transponder hit twenty minutes ago," he said, his gravelly voice remarkably steady despite the dark fire burning in his irises. "Are there any more in the treeline?"

"No," I rasped, pressing my palm against the gash on my calf. "That was the last one."

"Medical transport is five minutes behind me." His eyes flicked down to my bleeding leg, then back to my face. The scent of ozone, rain, and dark chocolate rolled off him, cutting straight through the stench of rogue blood and soothing the frantic rhythm of my pulse.

He didn't touch me. He waited.

"Can I?" he asked quietly.

Two simple words. No assumption of ownership. No patronizing commands. Just quiet, steady respect.

I looked at him, feeling the cold mountain air biting at my skin. Then, slowly, I gave a single nod.

Roman moved immediately.

He slid one powerful arm beneath my knees and the other behind my shoulders, lifting me off the frozen ground with smooth, effortless strength. He held me securely against his chest, careful not to jostle my injured calf.

The warmth radiating from him was staggering. Through the thin cotton of his shirt, I could feel the rapid, heavy thrum of his heartbeat—proof of the sheer adrenaline he was holding back beneath that calm mask.

"How did you get up here so fast?" I whispered, leaning my head back against his shoulder as the exhaustion began to take hold. "The state forestry service doesn't even have this sector marked on public maps."

"You filed the preliminary site logistics yesterday morning," Roman said, turning toward his truck. "You marked the unpaved logging spur as the primary access route. I read the entire file."

A faint, bitter sting touched my chest. He had read my file. He had memorized the route I mapped out.

Before Roman could take three steps toward his vehicle, the violent roar of an engine tore through the mountain silence.

A luxury SUV skidded wildly around the hairpin turn, throwing a cloud of dirt and loose shale into the air. The tires locked up, burning rubber as it slammed to a halt at a crooked angle, nearly careening into the ditch.

The driver’s side door was kicked open before the engine even cut out.

Damien practically tumbled out of the vehicle.

His expensive suit jacket was missing, his white shirt wrinkled and soaked in sweat. His hair was completely disheveled, and pure, blind panic was written across every inch of his face.

For five years, whenever crisis struck in the field, Damien had never known where I was. He had never looked at the operational manifests, never bothered to memorize my transit schedules, leaving the logistics to assistants while he courted investors in high-rise penthouses. He had clearly dropped whatever board meeting he was running the second the news broke, burning through the mountains in a blind, frantic search.

"Mara!" Damien's voice cracked across the clearing, hoarse and trembling.

He sprinted forward three paces before his boots skidded to a dead halt in the gravel.

His eyes widened in sheer, disbelieving horror.

The frantic relief in his expression curdled into something grotesque. He looked at me, cradled tight against Roman’s chest, my hands resting instinctively on the broad shoulders of his mortal enemy. He saw the dark, protective Alpha aura rolling off Roman, sealing me inside a perimeter Damien could no longer breach.

The broken bond flared between us—not with warmth, but with a cold, toxic shockwave.

A violent, suffocating jealousy twisted Damien’s features into a mask of pure rage. The veins in his neck bulged, his pupils dilating with unhinged territorial fury. To him, it didn't matter that he had discarded me on national television a day and a half ago. It didn't matter that he had chosen Celeste Vance and her family's billions.

In his mind, I was still his possession. And I was currently in the arms of the man he hated most in the world.

"Get your hands off her," Damien snarled, taking a heavy, menacing step forward.

His fists shook at his sides, his Alpha command vibrating through the air like a whip, loud enough to scatter the birds from the pines.

Roman didn't flinch. He didn't step back, and his grip on me didn't loosen by a fraction of an inch. He simply turned slightly, placing his broad shoulder between me and Damien’s line of sight, his amber eyes cold and lethal.

Damien lunged forward, pointing a shaking, furious finger directly at Roman’s chest.

"I said put her down!"