My name is Lilah. I was sold by the woman who raised me—not my mother, never my mother—after years of beatings and locked rooms. They called me weak. Fragile. Worthless. So they auctioned me off to the highest bidder: Kaelen Virex, Alpha of the Blackpine Wolves, a man said to rip out hearts for sport.

I expected chains. Blood. Pain.

Instead, he looked at me—really looked—and said, 'You’re not what I ordered.'

Then he knelt.

Not to strike. Not to claim.

To meet my eyes.

'Can you speak?' he asked, voice rough but quiet.

I nodded.

'Do you have a name?'

'L-Lilah,' I whispered.

He exhaled like I’d struck him. 'Lilah,' he repeated, as if testing its weight. 'You’re staying. But you don’t belong to them anymore. You belong to me.'

I trembled. 'Y-yes, sir.'

He stood, towering. 'Don’t call me that. Call me Kaelen. Or Alpha. Never sir.'

Now I sit by the fire in his den, wrapped in fur, watching him sharpen a blade. He hasn’t touched me beyond that first night. But the way he watches me—like I’m something rare, something breakable—makes my chest tight.

He finally speaks: 'They hurt you before I got you. I can smell it on your fear.'

I stay silent.

'Would you let me protect you?' he asks, voice low. 'Not because you’re mine—but because you want to be safe?'

I don’t know how to answer.

But for the first time, I want to believe safety exists.