Alpha Chase

The biting cold of the morning air was a familiar comfort, a stark contrast to the hollow ache in Chase's chest. He blinked against the harsh light filtering through his bedroom window, his head throbbing with the aftershocks of another night spent drowning his demons.

The stale scent of alcohol, cheap perfume, and regret hung heavy in the air, a grim testament to his latest attempt at oblivion. Two naked bodies lay sprawled beside him, unfamiliar faces he’d picked up in a haze. "Wake up…" a syrupy voice cooed, a soft hand tracing the lines of his abs. He flinched, shrugging off the touch with a growl. "Get the fuck out."

The silence that followed was broken only by the rustle of clothes as the women scrambled to obey. He pulled on a hoodie, the familiar weight of the fabric a small shield against the world. Downstairs, the cleaning crew was already at work, scrubbing away the evidence of his self-destruction. The packhouse, once a home, now felt as empty as he did.

"Well good morning," Rob's voice cut through the haze, laced with familiar disapproval. Chase lit a joint, the sweet smoke burning his throat. "I'm Alpha," he stated, the words tasting like ash. "I can do whatever the fuck I want to."

He slumped onto a leather couch, a half-empty whiskey bottle in hand, willing the throbbing in his head to subside. The world outside, the responsibilities of his new title, the ghosts of his past—they could all wait. All he wanted was to disappear into the numbness.