Ericka POV:

Panic seized me, cold and sharp. I scrambled for the silk comforter, pulling it up to my chin like a shield. My eyes darted around the room, desperately searching for my clothes.

My dress.

It was a crumpled heap on a chaise lounge, torn at the shoulder seam.

The shower shut off. The glass door swung open.

He stepped out, a white towel knotted low on his hips. Water dripped from his wet, black hair onto his broad shoulders.

In the clear morning light, I saw his face for the first time. It was all hard lines and sharp angles, a jaw that could cut glass, and those same gray eyes, colder and more piercing than I remembered.

The sheer force of his presence, the raw Alpha power rolling off him in waves, made me shrink back. The Omega in me wanted to bare my throat in submission.

His gaze swept over me, lingering on the dark marks blooming across my collarbone and shoulders. There was no warmth in his expression, only a detached, clinical assessment.

I bit my lip, hard, forcing myself to meet his gaze.

"Last night," I said, my voice shaking despite my efforts. "It was a mistake."

He didn't answer. He walked over to a sleek mahogany desk, pulled a checkbook and a pen from his suit jacket, which was draped neatly over a chair.

He leaned against the desk, looking down as he wrote. The soft scratch of the pen on paper was the only sound in the room. Each stroke felt like a lash against my pride.

He tore the check out with a crisp, final sound and walked back to the bed. He held it out to me, his movements casual, dismissive.

My eyes fell to the number written in bold, black ink. My breath caught.

One million dollars.

"What is this?" I whispered, my mind reeling.

"Compensation," he said. His voice was a low, emotionless rumble. "Or hush money. Whichever you prefer."

The blood drained from my face.

He was sober last night.

He knew exactly what he was doing.This was him taking what was offered by a pathetic, wasted Omega.

A wave of shame so profound it made me nauseous washed over me. I felt cheap. Disgusting. A prostitute being paid for her services.

Anger, white-hot and cleansing, surged through me, burning away the shame.

I snatched the check from his hand. With all the strength I possessed, I ripped it into tiny pieces.

"I don't need your damn money!" I screamed, the sound tearing from my throat.

For the first time, a flicker of something-surprise?—crossed his features. He frowned slightly, as if my reaction was an unexpected variable in a simple equation.

As I glared at him, my eyes caught a detail I'd missed. A thin, white scar ran across the back of his hand. The image registered for a split second before being consumed by my rage.

My gaze fell to the nightstand. My phone and wallet were there, placed neatly beside a folded man's white dress shirt.

I didn't care. I lunged for it, yanking it on over my naked body. It fell to my mid-thighs, a ridiculously large but welcome covering. His scent-pine and metal-clung to the fabric, a scent that had felt safe last night and now felt like a brand.

I grabbed my phone and wallet, my bare feet hitting the plush carpet as I scrambled for the door.

He didn't move to stop me. He just stood there, a silent, powerful statue, watching my pathetic flight.

My hand was on the cold, brass doorknob when his voice cut through the air again.

"Your wrist is bruised."

I froze, looking down. A faint circle of red was visible on my left wrist, a ghost of a grip from the night before.

His words weren't an apology. They were a statement of fact. A reminder that last night wasn't just my doing. A reminder of his power. It only made me feel more confused, more violated.

I didn't look back. I wrenched the door open and ran.

I heard the door click shut behind me.

Jame POV:

I watched the empty doorway for a long moment. I walked to the desk, took out a cigarette, and lit it, the flame illuminating my impassive face.

Mine. Don't let her go, the wolf in my head snarled, a possessive, primal roar.

I walked to the window, looking down at the street below. I saw a small figure in a too-big white shirt, running barefoot on the pavement. A ghost of a smile touched my lips.

I pulled out my phone and dialed a number.

"Leo," I said, my voice calm and commanding. "I need you to find someone. An Omega. Ericka Montgomery. I want everything you can get on her."

Ericka POV:

The cold pavement bit at the soles of my feet. Each step was a fresh shock of pain, a stark contrast to the plush carpets of the hotel. The morning breeze cut straight through the thin cotton of his shirt, raising goosebumps on my skin.

People stared. Their curious, pitying glances felt like physical blows. I had never been so exposed, so utterly humiliated in my life.

I ducked into a narrow, grimy alleyway, pressing my back against the cold brick. I slid to the ground, hugged my knees to my chest, and finally let the sobs come.

The pain of the betrayal, the sting of the morning's humiliation—it was all a toxic cocktail churning in my gut.

When the tears finally stopped, a cold resolve settled in their place. I pulled out my phone, my fingers still shaking, and ordered an Uber.

I gave the driver the address for the Knight estate.

I had to get my belongings, pack a bag, and leave. I was done. Done with my family, done with this pack, done with this life.

The Uber pulled up to the imposing gates of the Knight estate. I took a deep breath, tugged at the hem of the long shirt, and forced myself out of the car.

The grounds were quiet. Most of the party guests had left.

I kept my head down without being seen.

I was just passing under the main portico when a voice stopped me dead.

"Ericka? Where have you been all night?"

I froze. I looked up. Candice stood at the top of the steps, dressed in a pristine silk morning robe, her face a perfect mask of concern.

Her eyes, sharp and calculating, raked over me. They snagged on the unfamiliar man's shirt swallowing my frame.

"Whose clothes are those? You didn't come home," she pressed, her tone dripping with suspicion.

I didn't have the energy to play her games. "It's none of your business," I said, my voice flat.

I tried to step around her, but she blocked my path. She leaned in close, her nose twitching as she took a breath. Her expression changed instantly.

"You smell..." Her eyes narrowed with a flash of something ugly-jealousy and disbelief. "Why do you smell like my brother?"

The world stopped. My brain short-circuited.

Brother? Candice's brother?

I knew she had one. An older brother who was always abroad, a phantom figure who ran the Knight empire. The true Alpha of the pack.

Last night's stranger... that cold authority, those flint-gray eyes, that overwhelming Alpha presence...

A horrifying, impossible thought began to form. The blood in my veins turned to ice.

"Don't be ridiculous," I managed to choke out.

Just then, the massive front door of the mansion swung open.

Jame Knight stepped out.

He was dressed in an impeccably tailored suit, his dark hair perfectly styled. He saw me and Candice, and his stride faltered for a fraction of a second. His gray eyes flickered over me, over the white shirt-his white shirt-and a knowing, almost amused glint appeared in their depths.

"Jame! You're back!" Candice squealed, instantly abandoning me to cling to his arm like a frightened child. "Look at Ericka, she..."

Jame.

The name was a death knell. It confirmed my worst fear.

I had slept with my best friend's-my enemy's-brother. The Alpha.

His gaze locked onto my face. He spoke, his voice quiet but carrying an undeniable weight of command.

"Candice. Let go."

His eyes never left mine, as if he was watching the realization dawn on my face, savoring it.

I felt like a thief caught red-handed. I was trapped, exposed, with nowhere to run.

It was over. Our secret, my shameful, desperate secret, was about to be laid bare for everyone to see.