Rejected by the Alpha, Claimed by the Alpha King

CILLA POV:

My hand hovered over the sleek internal phone on my new desk, my fingers trembling only slightly. I was dressed in a high-necked charcoal turtleneck—my armor. It hid the bite marks, the physical evidence of my "promotion," but it couldn't hide the way my body betrayed me every time the heavy mahogany doors of Graham's office swung open.

To the rest of the Rogers Corp staff, I was a Rogue, a wolfless freak who had somehow lucked into a high-paying gig. I felt their sneers, heard the whispers about "the Alpha's new pet." They didn't see the woman who had spent the last three years mastering the dark web, tactical infiltration, and the art of becoming invisible.

The internal phone shrilled, the sound sharp and demanding.

"The confidential files for the European merger. On my desk. Now. You have ten minutes." Graham's voice came through the speaker, low, resonant, and entirely devoid of warmth.

I looked at the mountain of binders on my desk. There must have been fifty of them, all unlabeled and identical. My heart hammered against my ribs.

My fingers flew through the files. Most people would have been blinded by the sheer volume of data, but I had a photographic memory trained for high-stakes intelligence gathering. I sliced through the titles with surgical precision: Q3 Financials, Logistics, HR Audits, Shell Corporations… and then, my breath caught.

Tucked inside a plain black binder, hidden between two mundane reports on office supplies, was a single page labeled Project Nightingale. My pulse spiked, a frantic rhythm in my ears. I recognized that code. It had been written in my father's personal ledger, the one he had clutched even as the car went over the bridge. It was linked directly to the name "Patterson."

I snatched the binder and stood, a sharp, stabbing pain shooting through my abdomen. I bit my lip until I tasted copper to keep from crying out. My new heels clicked a frantic, uneven rhythm on the marble floor as I hurried toward his office. I pushed the double doors open without knocking.

Graham was sitting behind a desk the size of a small car, his head bent over a tablet. He didn't look up, but I felt the weight of his presence—the sheer, gravitating pull of an Alpha King. His office was like him: vast, cold, and designed to intimidate.

"On the desk," he murmured, his voice a low vibration that seemed to settle in my bones.

I leaned forward to place the binder down, my hands steady despite the storm inside me. As I moved, my blazer shifted. The collar of my turtleneck, slightly askew from my frantic search, slipped just enough to reveal the very top of the darkest bruise on my collarbone.

Graham's eyes, which I thought were fixed on the tablet, flicked up with predatory speed. He didn't look away. Instead, he reached across the desk, his movements fluid and terrifyingly fast. He hooked a finger into the collar of my sweater, pulling it down with enough force to reveal the full extent of his mark.

"You can save the theatrics for the bedroom, Ms. Henderson," he said, his voice a low, dangerous drawl. "Here, I expect professionalism. Or perhaps you enjoy showing the world who owns you?"

Humiliation flooded me, hot and suffocating, turning my cheeks a bright, shameful red. But I didn't flinch. I looked him straight in those storm-gray eyes, refusing to be the first to blink.

"I am here to work, Mr. Rogers. My private life are none of your concern."

A low growl rumbled in his chest, a sound so primal it should have sent any other wolf into immediate submission. I just stood there, a wolfless girl standing before a king. His eyes narrowed, and for a fleeting second, a flicker of something else crossed his face—not just anger, but a dark, dangerous intrigue.

"Days later," he said, cutting me off as I turned to leave. "The Blackwood gala. You'll be accompanying me."

"I can't," I said, the words slipping out before I could stop them. "I'm not… feeling well."

The air in the room suddenly grew heavy, thick with the weight of his Alpha aura. It felt like being submerged in freezing water.

"The contract, Cilla. It stipulates your attendance at all social functions. Or have you forgotten the million dollars already resting in your bank account?" He leaned back, a cruel, beautiful smirk playing on his lips. "Wear the black dress I sent to your apartment. And don't bother with the concealer. I want people to know exactly whose shadow you're standing in."

I beat a retreat from his office, my legs shaking so hard I could barely walk. I felt like a fly caught in a masterfully woven spider's web. But as I sat back at my desk, my hand went to the pocket of my blazer. I touched the small thumb-drive hidden there. I had scanned the Project Nightingale page when I was supposed to be collating.

He thought he was playing with a toy. He had no idea he had just let a wolf into his inner sanctum—one who was ready to bite back.