Mated to the Cursed Alpha (eBook)

A Cursed Alpha, A Fated Mate, and a Destiny Written in Blood

Michael Clanton (Autor)

eBook Download: EPUB

2025 | 1. Auflage
162 Seiten
Publishdrive (Verlag)
978-0-00-112851-4 (ISBN)

Infos

He broke her heart to save her life. Now, their secret could burn the world.

Seraphine Ashmoor was a pawn until the night she became a Queen. After one night of soul-shattering passion with a masked stranger, she was met with a cold, brutal rejection that sent her into a five-year exile. She fled Manhattan with nothing but the clothes on her back and a secret that would change the Lycan world forever: she was carrying the King's heir.

Now, she's back. Not for love, but for survival. Her son is dying from the 'Silver Fever,' an ancient curse that only one man can stabilize. But that man is Darian Bloodhowl-the ruthless billionaire Lycan King and the very stranger who threw her to the wolves.

Darian is a man of jagged edges, ruling a global empire while fighting an ancient spirit, Malric, for control of his own soul. He never wanted to let Seraphine go, but a prophecy warned that his touch would wither her. When he discovers the woman he never stopped haunting and the son he never knew existed, his possessive instincts go nuclear.

Trapped in Darian's 'Golden Cage,' Seraphine must navigate a minefield of 'slow-burn' tension and lethal pack politics. But as a rival Alpha closes in, the truth is revealed: the curse isn't a disease-it's a seal. And Seraphine isn't just a mate; she is the Queen of Moonveil, the only power strong enough to chain the beast or set it free.

In a world of billionaire boardrooms and blood-soaked caves, can they break the prophecy before the darkness claims their son?

Claim your throne. Feel the heat. Break the curse.

[Read Mated to the Cursed Alpha Now - A Secret Baby Billionaire Werewolf Romance]

Textauszug

Chapter 1: The Masquerade of Thorns

Glass and steel offered a different kind of camouflage than the mud and cedar of the North Woods. High above the humming arteries of Manhattan, the Bloodhowl Tower pierced the clouds, a monolith of black marble and reinforced obsidian glass that served as the throne for a king who had traded his pelt for Italian silk. Inside, the air was thick with the scent of vintage champagne, expensive floral arrangements, and the underlying, metallic tang of predatory power.

Seraphine Ashmoor adjusted the lace edge of her obsidian mask, her fingers steady despite the frantic thrumming of her pulse. It had been nearly two thousand days since she had stepped foot on Bloodhowl territory, and every instinct in her body screamed for her to flee back into the humid safety of the subway tunnels. But she couldn't. Not tonight. Not when Leo’s breath was growing shallower with every passing hour, his skin burning with a silver radiance that was slowly consuming his life force.

She moved through the ballroom with the fluid, calculated grace of a shadow. Her dress was a masterpiece of midnight velvet, slashed high at the thigh to reveal the lethal glimmer of a silver-weighted dagger strapped to her skin. She wasn't the broken girl who had crawled through the mud in a ruined champagne gown. She was a ghost with a purpose, her eyes scanning the elite crowd of the supernatural underworld—high-ranking Alphas, ancient vampires, and the human oligarchs who paid for the privilege of their company.

"Champagne, Miss?" a waiter asked, offering a crystal flute.

"Not tonight," Seraphine murmured, her voice a low, melodic husk. She didn't look at him. Her gaze was locked on the far end of the hall, where a set of double doors guarded by two massive men in tactical gear led to the executive wing.

Somewhere behind those doors, inside a vault reinforced with mountain ash and cold iron, lay the Moonveil Ampoule. It was a relic of the old world, a concentrated essence of lunar grace that could stabilize the Bloodhowl curse. To the pack, it was a religious icon. To Seraphine, it was the only thing that would stop her son’s heart from exploding.

She slipped past a cluster of laughing socialites, her ears straining for the one sound she dreaded most. She knew Darian would be here. As the host and the King, he was the sun around which this dark world orbited. She had spent weeks studying his patterns, learning the rhythmic gait of his walk and the specific, terrifying resonance of his voice. She had convinced herself that she was ready. She had convinced herself that the bond was dead, withered by half a decade of silence.

She reached the perimeter of the ballroom and veered toward the service corridor. With a practiced flick of her wrist, she jammed a localized electromagnetic pulse device into the keypad of the service elevator. The light flickered from red to a soft, inviting green.

Almost there, Leo, she thought, the image of her son’s pale face giving her the strength to step into the lift. Just a few more minutes.

The elevator ascended in a stomach-dropping rush. When the doors opened, the silence of the executive floor hit her like a physical weight. Here, the music was a distant hum, replaced by the low, steady throb of the building’s climate control. Seraphine moved down the hallway, her boots silent on the plush carpet. She bypassed the primary office, heading straight for the sanctum at the end of the hall.

She reached the vault door—a shimmering expanse of dark metal etched with ancient runes. This was where the "art thief" persona came into play. She pulled a delicate, needle-thin tool from her hair, a gift from the Undercity’s finest locksmith, and began to work the mechanical tumblers that backed up the magical wards.

Click. Click. Thrum.

The runes glowed a faint, warning blue before fading into gray. The heavy door groaned as the seal broke, swinging open to reveal a room bathed in the soft, ethereal light of a single pedestal. There, encased in a glass cylinder, was the Ampoule. It glowed with an inner, swirling light, like a trapped galaxy.

Seraphine’s hand trembled as she reached for it. Her fingers were inches from the glass when the air in the room suddenly turned heavy, the oxygen seemingly sucked out by an immense, gravitational force. A scent hit her then—not the sterile air of the office, but the overwhelming, intoxicating aroma of cedarwood, mountain rain, and a dark, predatory musk that made her wolf howl in agonizing recognition.

"Stealing from a King is a capital offense, Seraphine."

The voice was deeper than she remembered, vibrating with a jagged, lethal edge that sent a shiver straight down her spine.

Seraphine froze. She didn't turn around. She didn't need to. The bond, which she had thought was a shriveled husk, suddenly flared to life, a white-hot wire connecting her heart to the man standing in the doorway. It was a sensory assault—the heat of his body radiating across the small space, the sound of his slow, deliberate breathing, and the sheer, crushing weight of his presence.

"Darian," she whispered, her voice failing her.

"Turn around," he commanded. The Alpha tone was a physical pressure, forcing her body to obey even as her mind screamed to run.

She turned slowly, her hand dropping to the dagger at her thigh.

Darian Bloodhowl stood in the center of the doorway, framed by the shadows of the hallway. He looked like a god of war dressed for a funeral. His black suit was tailored to perfection, emphasizing the massive breadth of his shoulders and the lean, powerful lines of a body built for violence. His face was a mask of brutal, aristocratic beauty—high cheekbones, a jawline that could cut stone, and those eyes. They weren't obsidian tonight. They were a glowing, molten amber, the irises bleeding into the whites as his wolf pushed to the surface.

He didn't move. He simply stared at her, his gaze traveling from the crown of her moon-white hair down to the curve of her throat, where a pulse beat frantically.

"I spent years wondering if I’d killed you that night," he said, his voice dropping to a low, dangerous growl. He stepped into the vault, and the door hissed shut behind him, locking with a finality that made the air sizzle. "I wondered if you’d crawled into a hole and died, or if you were out there, somewhere, plotting a way to finish what you started."

"I didn't start anything, Darian," Seraphine snapped, her fear momentarily eclipsed by a flare of righteous anger. "You were the one who threw me to the wolves. Literally."

Darian took another step, closing the distance until he was towering over her. The heat coming off him was staggering, a primal furnace that made her skin itch with the desire to touch him, to claw at him, to scream. He reached out, his gloved hand gripping her chin with a firmness that wasn't quite painful but was utterly dominant. He tilted her head back, forcing her to look into the storm of his eyes.

"And yet, here you are," he murmured, his thumb brushing against her lower lip. The contact sent a jolt of pure electricity through her, a phantom memory of the night they had shared. "Back in my city. Back in my house. Smelling of desperation and... something else. Something I can’t quite place."

He leaned down, his nose grazing the sensitive skin beneath her ear. Seraphine gasped, her back hitting the cold metal of the pedestal. She could feel his heart beating—a heavy, rhythmic thud that matched her own. The bond was screaming now, a deafening roar of mate, mate, mate that threatened to drown out her reason.

"You smell like the moon, Seraphine," he whispered against her skin, his breath hot and ragged. "And you smell like a lie."

He pulled back just enough to look her in the eye, his expression shifting from predatory hunger to a cold, calculating suspicion. He let go of her chin, his hand trailing down to her waist, his fingers brushing the hilt of her hidden blade.

"Why are you here?" he demanded. "And don't lie to me. My wolf can smell the sour tang of a falsehood on your tongue. Why do you need the Ampoule?"

Seraphine swallowed hard, her mind racing. She couldn't tell him about Leo. If he knew he had a son—a son who carried the very curse he spent every waking hour fighting—he would take him. He would lock the boy in a gilded cage and never let her see him again. Or worse, he would see the boy as a weakness to be eliminated.

"I'm a thief, Darian," she said, her voice regaining its icy edge. "It’s worth forty million on the black market. I thought it was a fair price for the life you stole from me."

Darian’s eyes narrowed, his grip on her waist tightening until it was a bruise-deep pressure. "You were always a terrible liar. You don't care about money. You never did."

He leaned in closer, his chest pressing against her breasts, his scent invading every sense she possessed. For a moment, the unspoken rage of their separation hung between them, thick enough to touch. He looked like he wanted to kiss her; he looked like he wanted to break her.

"I’m going to find out what you’re hiding," he said, his voice a promise of future agony. "And when I do, I’m going to make you regret ever coming back to this city."

Suddenly, the red emergency lights of the vault began to pulse, and a muffled explosion rocked the building. Darian’s head snapped toward the door, his inner wolf letting out a deafening roar that vibrated through the floorboards.

"The Blackthorns," he spat, his eyes flaring with a lethal light.

He looked back at Seraphine, his hand moving from her waist to her throat, not to...

Produkt-Details

• Erscheint lt. Verlag: 19.12.2025
• Sprache: englisch
• Themenwelt: Literatur ► Romane / Erzählungen
• ISBN-10: 0-00-112851-5 / 0001128515
• ISBN-13: 978-0-00-112851-4 / 9780001128514