Chapter 3 Chains Of The Alpha
Lyra woke to the scent of metal and smoke.
It took her a moment to realize she wasn’t in her room anymore. Cold chains bound her wrists, connected to the stone wall of an underground chamber. The floor beneath her was damp, the air thick with the hum of machinery and faint howls echoing from somewhere deeper in the mansion.
Panic seized her chest.
She yanked at the chains but it's if no use. Silver. The metal hissed against her skin, leaving faint burns. Her wolf whimpered inside her, weak and caged.
The heavy door creaked open. A man stepped in , tall, broad, wearing black tactical gear and a half-mask. He wasn’t Dante. The scent was different. Colder. “You shouldn’t struggle,” he said, voice low. “The Alpha doesn’t like when his guests damage his property.”
“Property?” she spat, glaring. “I’m not anyone’s—”
The door slammed behind him, cutting her off.
Footsteps echoed, calm and deliberate. Dante Moretti entered, dressed in black slacks and a shirt rolled at the sleeves, his presence filling the room like smoke. The other man bowed slightly and slipped out.
“Good morning,” Dante said casually, as if she weren’t chained to his wall.
“This isn’t a morning…it’s a prison.”
“It’s precaution,” he corrected, walking toward her. “You had nightmares. You screamed my name and three others in your sleep. I don’t enjoy mysteries in my house.”
Lyra’s pulse thudded. “You can’t just lock me up because I talk in my sleep!”
“Actually, I can,” he said softly. “You’re lucky I didn’t let Lorenzo shoot you when you started glowing.”
Her head snapped up. “Glowing?”
He crouched in front of her, eye level, voice dropping low. “Your veins lit up like silver fire. My men saw it. That doesn’t happen to ‘powerless omegas.’”
“I don’t know how…”
“Lies again.” His hand closed around her jaw, forcing her to look at him. “You want me to believe you’re nothing while power leaks out of you like blood?”
Tears stung her eyes. “I swear, I don’t remember anything before the fire. Just me running, hiding, pain.”
Dante studied her face. For a moment, she thought he might actually believe her. Then he stood, motioning toward the guards by the door. “Leave us.”
When they were gone, the air changed.
He leaned against the wall opposite her, silent, watching. His expression wasn’t cruel, just calculating as if he were trying to solve her instead of destroy her.
“Do you know what they call me, Lyra?”
“Murderer? Devil?”
His mouth twitched. “Both true. But the wolves call me cursed.”
She frowned. “Cursed?”
“I can’t shift,” he said, his tone matter of fact but his eyes shadowed. “Not fully. My wolf’s trapped between worlds of human and beast. That’s why I rule the mafia instead of a pack.”
Lyra blinked. She hadn’t expected honesty. “Why are you telling me this?”
“Because when you screamed last night, the curse broke for three seconds.”
He stepped closer, voice hardening. “I felt my wolf claw his way to the surface. That hasn’t happened in years. So, little omega, you’re going to tell me what you are.”
“I don’t know!” she snapped. “Maybe your curse broke because of you, not me!”
In a blur, he slammed his palm beside her head, the wall cracking under the force. “Don’t test me.”
Her breath caught; he was too close, too dangerous. Yet something inside her—the part that still burned with defiance—refused to submit. “If you’re going to kill me, just do it,” she whispered. “I’m tired of being afraid.”
For a moment, silence. Then Dante’s expression shifted. The rage in his eyes softened into something darker. Curiosity. Respect. Desire.
“You’re either the bravest omega I’ve ever met,” he murmured, his fingers brushing her throat, “or the most foolish.”
“Maybe both,” she said, her voice trembling.
His touch lingered, thumb tracing the faint pulse at her neck. “Fear looks different on you now,” he said quietly. “Almost like hunger.”
Her breath hitched. “You think everything’s about hunger.”
“In my world,” he said, his lips near her ear, “it is.”
The space between them crackled. The scent of him spice, smoke, wolf wrapped around her like heat. Her heart hammered. She should have pulled away, should have screamed, but instead, she leaned closer.
Their eyes met. For one dangerous second, both of their wolves surged forward. Her pulse spiked, his pupils blew wide.
He caught himself first, stepping back sharply as if burned. “Damn it,” he muttered. “You’re not supposed to do this to me.”
“Do what?” she whispered.
“Make me forget what you are.”
He turned away, raking a hand through his hair. “Lorenzo was right. I should’ve let them kill you.”
“Then why didn’t you?”
He didn’t answer.
Instead, he strode to the control panel on the wall, pressing a button. The chains released, clattering to the ground. Lyra rubbed her wrists, staring.
“You’re letting me go?”
“I’m not your jailer,” he said flatly. “But if you try to run again, I’ll find you. And next time, I won’t be gentle.”
Her knees were shaky as she stood. “I don’t want your gentleness.”
He looked back over his shoulder, a smirk ghosting across his mouth. “You say that now.”
Later that night, she wandered the east wing, trying to find the courage to leave.
The halls were quieter than before, filled with faint music and the scent of rain. Through an open doorway, she heard two of Dante’s men talking.
“She’s dangerous,” one whispered. “Boss should’ve killed her. The Council’s already suspicious. They think he’s losing control.”
“Maybe he is,” the other said. “You saw how he looked at her.”
Lyra’s heart sank. She backed away before they noticed her and ducked into a room lined with glass panels and old photographs.
It wasn’t a room, it was a memorial. Wolves. Families. A pack. All dead.
Names were etched beneath their portraits. Moretti Pack.
One photo made her chest ache, a boy with silver eyes, maybe fifteen, smiling beside his alpha. Dante.
“Now you see what you walked into.”
She turned. Dante stood behind her, expression unreadable.
“This was your pack,” she said softly.
“My family.” His gaze drifted to the photos. “They burned when the curse took root. The Scarlattis finished the job. And the Council watched.”
“I’m sorry.”
He looked at her sharply. “Don’t pity me. I don’t need it.”
“I wasn’t….”
He closed the distance between them, the air thick again. “Then what do you feel, Lyra?”
“I don’t know,” she said truthfully.
He reached out, brushing a strand of hair from her face. “You should. Because I feel everything I shouldn’t.”
Her pulse quickened. His hand slid to her jaw, rough but not cruel. Their eyes locked, and this time neither looked away.
“Tell me to stop,” he said.
She didn’t.
The kiss was inevitable, rough, desperate, the clash of two people who should hate each other but couldn’t. Her body melted into his; his grip tightened as if anchoring himself. The scent of wolf and blood filled the air, their power mingling until the lights flickered.
Then, just as suddenly, he pulled away, breathing hard. His eyes glowed crimson again, and for a heartbeat, she saw real fear there…fear of himself.
“Go,” he ordered hoarsely.
Lyra’s lips parted. “Dante…”
“Go!” he roared, his voice layered with the growl of
his wolf.
She fled the room, heart hammering. Behind her, she heard the sound of shattering glass and a low, pained snarl that didn’t sound human.