Chapter 2 You're late!
Elara's POV
The walk across the parking lot feels unreal, like I’m wading through water. The sun is too bright, too warm, too cheerful for the way my chest feels like it’s collapsing inward, a black hole swallowing every shred of hope.
Traffic blurs past in streaks of color. Voices, horns, engines—everything blends together into a dull roar, muted by the numbness spreading through me like poison.
I unlock my car with hands that barely follow my commands, fingers numb and shaking as if they belong to someone else.
The engine hums to life, but I don’t remember turning the key.
I don’t remember backing out of the parking space.
I don’t remember half the drive, only the way my heart slams against my ribs whenever my mind circles back to the same devastating truth:
She’s dying.
And I can’t save her.
A healer who can’t save the one person who matters most.
Pathetic. Useless. Broken.
My phone buzzes in the cupholder again. I don’t have to look to know it’s either the billing department or the hospital’s automated system, hounding me like vultures circling a corpse.
I can’t answer.
Not until I can breathe again—if I ever can.
The city thins out as I reach the central district—tall buildings rising like jagged blades of steel and ambition, piercing the sky with ruthless intent. At the center of it all stands the tower.
His tower.
Alpha Voss’s headquarters cuts into the sky like it owns the right. Eighty-four floors of tinted obsidian glass, black metal, and power so thick the air tastes different near the entrance—metallic, charged, oppressive.
It’s beautiful in a fierce, brutal way—much like the Alpha who rules it: a dominant force of nature, his presence alone enough to command submission, his ruthless decisions shaping empires and shattering lives without a flicker of remorse.
My grip tightens on the steering wheel, knuckles aching bone-white.
Every instinct in me screams that today is the worst possible day to be near him. Alphas nearing their rut become volatile—moody, aggressive, territorial beasts barely contained by human skin. Alpha Voss is already a storm on his calmest days, a whirlwind of calculated fury that leaves destruction in its wake.
I should turn around.
I should drive anywhere else—flee to the ends of the earth.
But I pull into the underground garage instead, the shadows swallowing my car like a grave.
Because I have no options left. Desperation is a chain around my neck, dragging me forward into the jaws of the wolf.
I park in my designated spot and kill the engine. Silence fills the car—too heavy, too suffocating, pressing down like the weight of impending doom. I lean forward, pressing my forehead against the steering wheel, trying to steady my breathing, but it comes in ragged gasps, tears stinging my eyes anew.
Get it together, Elara.
Your mother needs you—a warrior, not a crumbling wreck.
You can fall apart later... if you survive this.
Footsteps echo through the garage as I force myself out of the car, each heel click on concrete a betrayal, a step closer to the abyss. The security cameras swivel toward me—always watching, always assessing, cold eyes tracking my every tremble.
A guard posted by the elevator nods sharply when I approach, his nostrils flaring as he scents my fear-sweat.
“Afternoon, Miss Hale.”
I give a faint nod back, my pulse thundering like war drums. “Is he in?”
“Upstairs.” The guard’s jaw tightens, eyes shadowed with warning. “He’s… not in a good mood. Worse than usual.”
“When is he ever in a good mood?” My voice cracks, a feeble attempt at levity that falls flat.
The guard huffs something like a laugh, but there’s no real humor in it—only grim pity. “True. But today is different. Rut’s brewing early, and with that wound... it’s a powder keg. You sure about this?”
Different.
I know exactly what that means—rumors fly like shrapnel: the ambush at the docks, silver claws tearing into him, accelerating the rut into a feral nightmare.
Ruts hit every Alpha differently, but Alpha Voss’s are infamous. Brutal. Dangerous. He isolates himself for everyone else’s safety—except for the healers who regulate his vitals, risking their lives to chain the beast.
Except this time, all three on staff were dismissed this morning, sent packing with bruises and terror in their eyes.
That alone says enough—chaos reigns, and I’m walking into the heart of it.
The elevator doors slide open with a hiss like a predator’s breath.
The ride up feels longer than usual, an eternal ascent into hell. My reflection stares back at me in the mirrored walls—pale as a ghost, shaken to the core, composed only on the surface, red-rimmed eyes betraying the storm within. Just enough to pass for functional.
Just enough to face him—and beg for mercy from a man who has none.
The elevator dings, a death knell.
When the doors part, the atmosphere shifts instantly—the air thickening, charged with dominance and agitation, a palpable wave of raw power that nearly buckles my knees.
Voices echo down the hall. Loud voices, laced with panic.
“He asked for those files an hour ago!” someone hisses, voice cracking with fear. “Do you want to be the one to tell him they’re missing?!”
“I—I'm looking! It’s not my fault they weren’t labeled—”
“It’s always your fault when he’s in this mood! He just backhanded Reyes—silver in his veins, and he’s still snapping necks like twigs!”
I round the corner just in time to see two junior assistants scatter like frightened birds, clutching stacks of paperwork, their faces ashen with dread.
This floor is chaos—an apocalypse in motion.
Phones ringing unanswered, shrill cries ignored. Staff whispering frantic updates, huddled like prey. A vase shattered in the hallway, water pooling with blood-flecked shards that glint like accusations. A chair overturned, legs splintered as if crushed by a giant’s fist.
It’s worse than I expected—far worse. Rut haze amplifies everything—his temper a live wire sparking inferno, turning the executive suite into a war zone.
“Miss Hale,” a familiar voice calls, edged with relief and dread.
I turn to see Darren—the head of security—striding toward me. His tie is crooked, jaw blooming with a purple bruise, shirt collar torn like claws raked it in fury.
That worries me more than anything—a fresh wave of nausea rises.
If Alpha Voss struck him—a loyal lieutenant, battle-hardened for years—things are dire, teetering on the edge of total collapse.
“Darren,” I breathe, my voice trembling. “Are you alright?”
He waves me off, but his eyes betray the pain. “Just caught in the crossfire. Alpha Voss is—” He stops, glancing at the closed double doors at the end of the hall, tension radiating like heat haze from a blaze. “He’s beyond agitated. Tore into accounting—literally. Blood on the walls. You shouldn’t go in there, Elara. Turn back while you can.”
“I have to.”
“Elara—”
“I said I have to.” My voice sharpens with desperation, a knife’s edge born of fear and resolve.
He stares at me for a long moment, then sighs heavily, rubbing the back of his neck, blood smearing his knuckles—not all his own.
“It’s like walking into a cage with a wounded predator,” he mutters, voice low and grave. “Rut’s spiking early from the silver. Don’t meet his eyes too long. Stay near the door if he lunges—scream, and we’ll come running, but... gods help you.”
“I’ll be fine.”
I won’t be.
But my mother doesn’t have time for caution. The hospital’s ultimatum echoes in my mind: pay or watch her fade. The call I made earlier was a gauntlet thrown; now, I must face the storm.
Darren steps aside and buzzes the door, his hand hesitating for a split second.
A deep, resonant growl echoes from inside, shaking the frame like an earthquake.
“WHAT NOW?” Alpha Voss’s voice roars, vibrating through the floor, his command aura slamming outward like a tidal wave. Nearby staff whimper, dropping to their knees in instinctive submission.
I flinch despite myself, my magic flaring protectively in a golden pulse, heart seizing in raw terror.
Darren winces. “Good luck. Gods, you’ll need it.”
The doors unlock with a soft click, ominous as a lock on a coffin.
I push them open, stepping into the abyss.
The scent hits me first—assaulting like a physical blow.
Alpha blood. Sharp, metallic, burning like acid in my lungs.
Layered with something darker, primal—rut musk coiling like smoke from a funeral pyre, thick and intoxicating, stirring forbidden heat amid the fear.
His magic crashes into me like a storm wave, my own healer magic reacting instinctively—rising, reaching, responding in a desperate clash. Veins glow faint gold under my skin; I clench my fists to contain it, but it surges wild, drawn to his pain.
I swallow hard and step inside, the door sealing behind me with finality.
Papers strewn across the floor like battlefield dead, torn and scattered in rage. A glass tumbler lies shattered near the wall, scotch pooling dark and sticky. His desk chair overturned, leather gashed deep as if by claws. Blinds hang crooked, one slat bent inward like a fist-punched it in fury. Crimson smears the desk edge, fresh and accusing.
And Alpha Voss stands at the center of it all, broad shoulders heaving with barely contained violence, shirt soaked in blood, a violent tension radiating from him like heat from forged iron. Back turned, but his head tilts—scenting me, dissecting my essence with predatory precision.
His voice drops, low and rough, laced with barely leashed snarl—a velvet threat.
“You’re late.”