My Alpha Tried to Kill Our Pup for Power

The pack house buzzed with whispers as I walked through the main hall, my fingers trailing along the polished banister. Three days had passed since I'd left Thatcher standing alone in the garden, his triumphant return reduced to ashes at my feet. The memory of his shocked expression still brought a cold smile to my lips when no one was watching.

I paused at the entrance to the dining room, where a small crowd had gathered. At the center stood my betrayer, his arms laden with wildflowers—moonflowers and bluebells, plucked straight from the pack garden where we'd once shared our first kiss as mates.

'These were always your favorites,' Thatcher said, his voice carrying that practiced tenderness that once made my heart race. Now it made my skin crawl. 'I remember how you used to weave them into your hair during the summer ceremonies.'

The pack watched, their faces a mixture of hope and confusion. I could feel their collective need for our reunion—the Alpha and Luna, together again. Their fairy tale.

I accepted the flowers with a polite smile that didn't reach my eyes. 'How thoughtful. Though I'm afraid I don't recall sharing that preference with you.'

His jaw tightened almost imperceptibly, but he recovered quickly. 'Perhaps my memory is mistaken. We have time to make new ones.'

The next evening, he appeared at my door with a steaming pot of homemade venison stew—the same recipe he'd prepared during our first month together, when we were still learning each other's rhythms. The rich aroma filled the hallway, drawing curious onlookers from their rooms.

'I made this for you,' he said, his Alpha tone softening to something almost vulnerable. 'You always said it reminded you of home.'

I took the pot, my fingers careful not to brush against his. 'That's very kind of you, but I'm not feeling well. Perhaps another time.'

Each night brought new offerings—handmade trinkets, his favorite books he thought might jog my memory, even a silver locket he claimed contained a photo of us from years ago. I accepted each gift with the same polite distance, watching him grow increasingly desperate as his charm offensive failed.

Behind my door, I catalogued each lie, each manipulation in his Alpha tone. The way he leaned in too close, trying to trigger the mate bond. The calculated pauses in his speech, designed to make me fill the silence with questions he could answer. Every tactic was a data point in my growing arsenal.

A week after his return, a familiar scent reached me before I heard the knock—cedar and cold river water. Wells Riley stood at my door, his tall frame filling the frame, his silver-tipped hair catching the afternoon light.

'Just checking on an old friend,' he said simply, his voice devoid of the performative warmth Thatcher employed.

I studied his face—the steady eyes that never demanded anything, the slight furrow between his brows that deepened when he was concerned. 'Come in.'

Wells had been my classmate before pack politics and mate bonds complicated everything. Now, as Beta of the Silverfang Pack, he maintained a respectful distance, but his loyalty remained.

'You're playing a dangerous game,' he said quietly once we were alone, his voice pitched low enough that only I could hear.

I met his gaze without flinching. 'I'm aware.'

'You don't have to do this alone.'

I turned to the window, watching the pack grounds below. 'I'm not alone. I have you.'

The words hung between us, heavier than I'd intended. Wells was silent for a long moment, then simply nodded. 'The pack gathering is tomorrow night.'

'Will you stay?' I asked, surprising myself with the request. 'For the gathering, I mean.'

Something flickered in his eyes—something that made my wolf stir with interest. 'If you want me to.'

'I do.'

While Thatcher continued his public courtship, I worked in private. Late at night, when the pack house was silent, I moved through shell corporations and offshore accounts, systematically purchasing the mounting debts Gwen had accumulated with her reckless spending. Her shopping sprees at designer boutiques, her weekend getaways, her collection of luxury vehicles—all financed with loans she never intended to repay.

One by one, I became the silent holder of her obligations, along with the rogue taxes and property deeds tied to Thatcher's bribes. With each transaction, I tightened my grip, becoming the ultimate creditor to their conspiracy.

They had no idea that every dollar they spent, every debt they incurred, was another thread in the web I was weaving around them. And soon, very soon, I would pull those threads tight.