Chapter 1

Drugs, guns, w*ores. Victor Erickson has a hand in all of it. He is the Alpha of a vicious and ruthless Pack, stationed in the Eastern plains. If there is a dead body floating in the River, Alpha Victor can be traced back to it within six degrees of separation. He is the Black Wolf, the grim reaper with red eyes, the beast with the face of a doll.

He's what one would call a beautiful monster.

Victor scans around the poker table, 10 million dollars in buy-in, holding a pair of aces. The other Alphas eye him patronizingly. It is his size. Victor is small for an Alpha, too dainty, not to be taken seriously. But that's their mistake, their ultimate loss.

“Vicky, your hand?” Arlo asks, a burly man with a false smile.

Victor inhales, thin cigarette slotted in between his full lips, tasting of ash, and smoked wood. He isn't planning on losing tonight, a Glock resting easily against his hip, in case things get dicey.

Victor lays out his aces and Arlo frowns, tossing his cards away.

“Better luck, next time.” Alpha Victor smiles, exhaling plumes of white vapor.

“We’ll see next round,” the larger man replies calmly, but his eyes give him away, glowing a bright yellow. Arlo's wolf, the animal inside, is furious.

“Nope,” Victor says with a pop, tilting his head. “I’m out. Have fun, boys.”

Alpha Victor abandons his chair and another takes his place, clockwork. Victor leaves a rich, well richer, man. He drives off in his ice-white Ford GT with satisfaction. There’s nothing quite like destroying a person who thinks they’re bigger than you.

It’s midway in his route that Victor realizes he really needs to take a piss. Being the classy man that he is, he pulls his astronomically expensive car to the side of the road, so he can relieve his bladder in a dark alleyway, right next to a nearly-full dumpster.

There are expectations of him, but fuck that. He’s not a business conglomerate heir. His money and power are scraped from the bottom of a grease trap. Alpha Victor has no illusions about himself. He isn’t someone high and mighty. He is a thug, not above cutting a man’s finger off, not above whizzing in an alley to mark off his territory.

It’s then that he hears a can fall over, a rustling from the other side. Victor tucks his massive c**k back into his pants and goes to investigate. What could it be? A rabid raccoon? A prom baby? Those dogs from Lady and the Tramp? It isn’t any of those things.

It is a Christmas gift from the devil himself. Thanks, dark lord, thanks.

Victor has seen corpses with more color. There’s an Omega with platinum blonde hair, bleeding out against the brick wall. She has a black eye, neck, and chest full of bites and hickeys. She has the smell of at least six Alphas on her. The woman has had a rough night, to say the least. What was her story?

But that would have to wait because - Victor inhales - the smell, it’s divine. The Omega smells like a thin mint from God’s personal girl scout cookie stash.

Her scent is so alluring that the great Victor Erickson kneels down to get a better taste. He’s not above it. His wolf is screaming at him to get closer. He wants to press his nose all up on that scent gland, on this Omega, who may or may not be alive.

A gun clicks at his temple.

“Just try it, motherf*cker,” a voice sounds, much deeper than expected of a typical Omega.

In her half-dead state, the Omega has managed to disarm Victor and place him at gunpoint.

Dark red eyes meet bright blue ones.

The Omega is shaking, frightened, blood dripping down from a cut lip. Victor, who has dug his share of unmarked graves, can tell that this pale woman has never killed anyone before. She is crying, quivering.

“Fuck it all,” she hisses before pointing the gun at herself.

Victor blames it on the Alpha hormones, or adrenaline, or a mix of both. He, lightning-fast, disarms the Omega with a flick of his thumb and finger. Then, he knocks the girl out cold with a quick jab to the jawline.

For the first time in his life, the wolf inside, tells him that he’s done something wrong. It’s something he’s never felt, not even when ending a life.

Victor considers leaving the omega to die, but the ache inside only intensifies. It would be catastrophically wrong. So, Alpha Victor gently picks the woman up in bridal style, and carries her to the car, slipping her into the backseat.

The Omega’s bleeding all over the custom leather. Victor is conflicted as he speeds down the highway. Why did he take her? Why does he feel this way now? Mercy, sympathy, feelings long dead to Victor Erickson.

The pale woman whimpers, clutching her sides, eyelids fluttering. Victor presses on the gas. He has to take this Omega home, patch her up. He has to. He doesn’t know why but he has to.

One questionable car ride later, the Omega is lying on his bed, in his room. Victor pulls the torn rags from her body. And yes, he looks. But there’s nothing to really look at. The Alpha imagines that the Omega would be really beautiful, if only she wasn’t marked up so badly.

There are angry claw lines along her rib cage. Her thighs are a mess, her hands are caked with blood. It makes Victor want to cry. But that’s weird because there’s very little that makes Victor want to cry.

Slowly, the Alpha cleans her off, washing the scents away. The Omega is already healing, a little quick for a wolf, which only serves to the truth. This has probably happened before. Her body has already adjusted to the abuse.

The Alpha checks the Omega’s scent glands, on the underside of her chin. She’s clean. She’s not marked. Victor realizes what he has on his hands. He clicks his teeth in disbelief. It’s a rare unmated, albino, female Omega. He could fetch a hundred million won on the market, easy.

Victor quickly dresses the woman, pulling a black t-shirt over her, and a pair of plaid pants. Then he sits in the chair and waits. He looks at the Omega’s face, for two whole hours, as the black eye slowly fades.

The Alpha busies himself with a few cigarettes and a couple of capfuls of whiskey. God that smell, it’s doing crazy things to Victor’s mind. All he wants to do is touch. But the Alpha in him growls in protest. It’s ungentlemanlike.

“You’re probably thinking that I’ll be grateful,” the Omega says, rousing Victor from his musings, “But I didn’t ask for your help, so f*ck you.”

Heat rises from the bottom of Victor’s feet all the way to the top of his head. His mind is filled with images of the Omega writhing in pleasure beneath him. He doesn’t know this woman. He doesn’t understand why. He just wants it so badly it hurts.

“How about just your name?” Victor asks, eyes burning. They must be glowing. He can’t even control that. He’s going wild already.

“My name is F*ck You,” the Omega curses.

“How inviting,” Victor grins.

The next second the Alpha is on her, straddling the stranger in between his strong thighs. His nose is pressed against the Omega’s scent gland, his fangs out.

“I could make you mine and throw you away,” Victor threatens, “You’d die starving, begging for me to take you.”

A claw presses against the Alphas thigh, right on his femoral artery. “You can try.”

Victor is mad. His wolf wants this more than anything. He wants to make this Omega his. But something is wrong. He doesn’t know what. Ultimately, the Alpha rolls over so that he is flat on his back, by the Omega’s side.

“I won’t,” Victor sighs, “I’m too much a romantic.”

A joke. At least he hopes it is.

The Omega breathes evenly for a long time, tears gently falling from the sides of her face and dying on the pillow. Victor wants to reach out, confused as to why it hurts him so much to see the Omega cry, but he doesn’t move. He lays still.

The Omega counts her breathing, from one to ten. Discomfort grows in Victor’s chest. All he can imagine is a poor omega child, hiding under a table, counting her breathing. Someone would be throwing dishes, and another would be screaming.

“Ariadne,” she says thickly.

Victor turns to her, “What?”

“My name is Ariadne,” the Omega clarifies.

What is a name but a hot label to the mind, a fixation point to the beauty in front of him? The wolf in him guards it as if no other name would ever again matter. It’s alarming, and Victor realizes he needs to getaway.

“Victor,” the Alpha says, “Victor Erickson.”

The Omega takes a shaky breath. She knows. Of course, she does. The news channels have not painted the Alpha in a good light. Anyone would be afraid. But still, Victor wants the Omega- to not be afraid.

“Are you going to sell me?” Ariadne asks, bright eyes swirling with pain.

“No,” Victor says as he rolls off the bed and makes it towards the door. “Get some rest. You’re going to need it.”

He flips the light off.

Victor sleeps in the guest bedroom, one door over. Well no actually, he doesn’t sleep. The walls are too thin. He just lays there, wide awake. Every so often, the Omega lets out a whimper, and Victor has to clutch the sheets to prevent himself from bolting over. Every fiber of his being is telling him to return to the Omega and comfort him.

But why?

It is just a name.

When the sky begins to lighten, Victor realizes that he has stayed up all night. His chest hurts, and his eyes are bloodshot. The Alpha gets up, showers, runs a comb through his dark locks, and gets dressed.

Ariadne is curled up in a fetal position, eyes open, so terrified, when Victor walks back into his room. God, Victor just wants to let the woman sleep in a week, but that isn’t happening. He needed to establish the ground rules now, no matter how much he hates himself.

“Get up,” Victor orders.

The woman slowly sits up, glaring at Victor with hateful eyes.

“Get clean, get dressed, and meet me downstairs,” the Alpha orders before turning to leave.

“Or what?” the Omega spits.

“Or starve,” Victor places his ultimatum. He fully admits that he’s a d*ck. All he wants to do is feed this woman. Ariadne looks so thin.

Victor is well into his bacon and eggs when the Omega arrives at the table. But she’s clean and presentable. There’s a plate of food waiting for her. Except, she just sits down and stares at it, not making a move to the knife and fork.

“Eat,” Victor says sternly.

They have a staring battle for two minutes, but Ariadne finally relents. Begrudgingly, she picks up a fork and takes a mouthful of food.

Victor is secretly relieved but he doesn’t show it. Ariadne keeps glaring daggers at him, an arrogant twist in her perfect mouth. She’s beaten, broken but proud.

Electricity run down Victor's spine. He imagines very vividly, clearing the table, and taking Ariadne right there. How would it feel to have this beautiful creature submit to him? What would her cries of ecstasy sound like?

“What do you plan to do with me?” Ariadne asks between slow bites. She’s hungry, Victor can tell. But she’s holding back, too proud to grovel, too proud to scarf down her food.

“You’re my new driver. You see this arm,” Victor raises his left arm, “You’re going to hang off this arm, or I’m going to kill you.”

Ariadne frowns as she considers it. She’s actually considering it. Victor is tense because it’s a bluff. The Alpha has no intention of killing Ariadne, not even if she refuses him. The thought of hurting the Omega makes him sick. But Victor doesn’t show his apprehension. His face is blank like a doll’s.

“Do I have to f*ck you?” Ariadne asks, eyes wide.

Their bodies, all twisted together in pleasure, the Alpha nearly drools.

“Only if you want to,” Victor says. Smirk playing on his face.

The fear in Ariadne’s blue eyes subsides. The water is calm again, “Okay, okay, I’ll do it.”

“Good,” Victor continues eating.

“Where are we going today?” Ariadne asks as she eats a little more enthusiastically. Victor is really concerned by how comforting it is to watch.

“Shopping,” Victor smiles.

Ariadne can drive really well. She makes it to the shop in record time, beating the traffic. She pulls onto the curb without any adjustments as if she designed the Ford GT herself.

Victor steps out onto the pavement, and into the store like he owns the place.

He does, in fact, own the place.

The store attendant, Lisa, flips the open sign to closed and shoos all the customers out the door. Then she turns to Victor, bowing low.

“What can I do for you today, Mr. Erickson?” she asks.

Victor nods over to Ariadne, “Take her measurements. Fix her up nice.”

If Ariadne is impressed or amused, she doesn’t show it. Her face is straight. Her eyes are dead. She takes off her shirt so that the woman can get a better number count. And Victor watches.

The bruising looks worse than yesterday, but only because it’s healing. The open cuts have now turned into dark purple and yellow spots. Victor imagines hunting down and killing every Alpha who’d harmed Ariadne that night.

That’s the only way the Alpha can sit through it.

Ariadne watches Victor watch her, dispassioned face. What is he thinking?

When Lisa is done, Ariadne looks like a different woman. She has a cream-colored suit, an expensive Rolex, and leather Jimmy Choos on. The suit really offsets her skin nicely. It has Victor desperate. Since she will be his driver, she has to dress formally.

“Where to next?” Ariadne asks.

The poker tournament is still running tonight. There’s always a pregame beforehand. Victor doesn’t usually show up to that shit. But that was before Ariadne. He wants to go, wants people to see him with that gem on his arm.

He wants everyone to know that Ariadne is his. Deeper than that, he wants Ariadne to be safe, and for every man to know that harming the Omega is a death sentence: one that he would carry out.

Such dangerous, confusing feelings.

They arrive at the club in less than an hour. Ariadne takes strange back roads against GPS instructions, and somehow she beats the clock.

Interesting.

The insides of the place are pretty typical: dance floor, bar, pretty for-hire people hanging off Alphas with something to prove. But no one is outshining Ariadne at the moment, all eyes are on her. The Omega scoffs dismissively, ignoring the attention.