Claimed by the scarred Alpha

LUCIAN

Sleep eluded me completely, even as dawn slipped quietly into the room.

I lounged against the headboard, laptop perched on my knees, its pale blue glow painting my study in ghostly hues. I scrolled through the list again, though every name was already etched into memory.

The thought of someone hunting those tied to the trafficking ring lodged beneath my skin like a splinter that would not work its way out. I hated that feeling. For decades, I had arranged the board so every knife stayed in plain sight, ready to be turned away or redirected before it ever reached my back. Vulnerability was not a state I tolerated, and I had no intention of letting it linger.

So I dug.

My list was never about sentiment. It was insurance, built over years—names of every key player and high-value client, catalogued in case loyalty ever became a bargaining chip. I crafted it as leverage, a weapon ready to aim at anyone who dared cross me.

Tonight, it served as a tally of the dead.

Twelve.

I stared at the number after I finished cross-referencing it against the most recent information my contacts and spies had quietly fed me. Twelve of the twenty names on my list were confirmed dead within the last several years, and that figure alone would have been alarming on its own merits. Men died in this business. It happened. Disputes over territory, over product, over money owed and not repaid quickly enough.

But these twelve were not missing fingers or throats slit in alleyways over unpaid debts.

They were missing their heads entirely.

I leaned back against the headboard and let that information settle properly, because the man who called me, the strange and oddly formal voice that had warned me someone was hunting the people responsible for the business that made him good bank, had apparently not been exaggerating or attempting to fearmonger me for nothing.

Someone was cleaning house, methodical and patient as a surgeon.

I had wanted to believe, for a comfortable handful of minutes, that this was simply business as usual dressed up in dramatic packaging. Trafficking houses competed. They always had. A rival operation eliminating key players to absorb territory and product lines was not a new story, and decapitation could be read as a particularly aggressive negotiating tactic rather than anything personal.

But a sentinel I had embedded undercover years ago around one of those unsanitary corners of society, the one who still fed me scraps when the price was right, had told me something that undid that comfortable theory entirely.

When that trafficking house burned to the ground, none of the victims inside had died.

Every child and victim in that building had survived the fire.

That detail changed everything. Competitors did not usually let the product walk away untouched while the operators burned. This was not sabotage for profit. This was rescue set ablaze. Whoever was behind it had a personal stake that ran far deeper than market share.

A victim.

Or someone connected closely enough to one that the distinction barely mattered.

I scrolled through the rest of my files with the same slow, methodical patience I reserved for problems that demanded calculation over panic. Most of the remaining names were either out of the country or had gone silent—the kind of silence that meant they had heard the same rumors I had and were taking cover. I could not confirm their status.

But one name I knew for certain was still alive, still comfortable, still moving in plain sight.

Beta Kayden.

He was a particular breed of degenerate I had once recommended to that trafficking house, back when he came to me through a mutual acquaintance with a disturbingly specific appetite. I connected him because it was profitable, and because men like Kayden made for excellent leverage—the kind of secret you keep in your pocket until the perfect moment.

If this hunter was thorough enough to track down twelve names already, he would have eyes on Kayden eventually. It was only a matter of time.

Which meant Kayden could serve me now, as bait.

If I stirred up enough noise around him, gave the hunter a reason to show himself early, I could draw this shadow into the open on my terms, not sit in my study waiting for my name to become number thirteen.

I reached for my phone and dialed the number of the right-hand lackey, the one who had warned me in the first place. The line returned nothing but a flat tone and a message informing me the number was no longer in service.

Blocked.

I exhaled slowly, shelving my frustration for later. Instead, I opened my messages, found Kayden’s contact—dormant for over a year—and typed something casual, careful not to spook him.

Hey... It has been such a long time. Can we talk?

I waited a few seconds, then sent a second message, dangling the kind of bait Kayden could never resist.

Just found out the spot I recommended to you is no longer in business. I have another spot if you want.

I sent both, powered down the phone, and felt the satisfaction of a hook set deep, no matter how long it took to reel something in.

A soft beep tugged my attention toward the dresser.

I crossed the room and opened the second drawer, the one with the false bottom that most people in this house did not know existed, and lifted out the second phone I kept there. The screen glowed with a single new notification.

A message from Shanelle.

Margaux is not really having a great time in Valcourt. I worry about her because she is trying so hard to be brave, but these people are ruthless. I witnessed how cruel her husband’s father was to her. I do not think the files will help her case much. I hope it does, though. I will keep you updated.

I read the message twice.

Then the small typing indicator appeared beneath it, three dots pulsing in their patient rhythm, and I understood immediately what I was looking at. The device mirrored every message sent and received on my sister’s own phone in real time, a precaution I had installed myself years ago and never bothered to mention to her.

My sister was awake.

Her reply came through a moment later.

Thank you for keeping me updated. Ensure the file comes back here before the eyes my brother has around here notice.

The messages vanished from the screen almost immediately afterward, both of them, deleted with the careful efficiency of someone who had done this kind of cleanup before and knew exactly how long to wait before erasing the evidence.

I sat there, phone in hand, for a long moment.

Then laughter broke out of me.

It was low and genuine, the sound I made when something delighted me and reminded me just how little I ever needed to worry about my sister growing a conscience inconvenient enough to threaten me.

"Sister," I said quietly, to the empty room, to the phone, to the version of my sister who apparently still thought she could keep secrets from the one person who had built every wall in this house with his own hands. "What exactly are you doing?"