Chapter 4
334words
Not my perfume.
Something heavier, with deep musk notes.
I remembered sophomore year when I caught Alaric smoking for the first time. He'd reacted with lightning speed, shoving the cigarette into Dorian's hand.
"It's Dorian's! I swear! He just asked me to hold it!"
Then he'd dragged me to a quiet corner of the library, his voice dropping to that persuasive tone: "Aria, I wasn't smoking, honestly. Don't be mad. I've been chasing you for a whole year—when are you finally going to be my girlfriend?"
So much has happened since then. That once carefree, vibrant Alpha has had his light dimmed by responsibility and politics.
A month ago, Alaric's uncle Marcus died.
He'd been the Pack's Beta, a major power player, and the only Thornfield elder who didn't openly humiliate me.
Not out of kindness. He simply didn't bother with subtlety—just offered me money to disappear.
After A-levels, nineteen-year-old Alaric had brought me to Thornfield Manor for the first time.
His father had looked at me like something scraped off the bottom of his shoe.
Luna Morgana—Alaric's mother—and his aunt were having tea. They didn't stoop to mockery.
But throughout the entire visit, they didn't acknowledge my existence with a single word or glance.
They were masters at humiliating humans.
I understood.
Thornfield Pack was London's oldest werewolf lineage, with an estate spanning thousands of acres and a bloodline tracing back to medieval times.
Alaric is the only son, a meticulously groomed Alpha heir.
When I met him in high school, he was in his rebellious phase, raising hell just to spite his family.
But even that rebellious version of Alaric was far beyond what someone like me should dare to want.
That night at dinner, they hadn't even set a place for me.
Alaric had flipped the entire table. Fine china shattered across marble floors as he grabbed my hand and stormed out.
