Claimed By The Ruthless Alpha

Celeste paused outside Thorne’s study, the tray in her hands trembling slightly. Steam curled gently from the teapot, carrying the calm scent of chamomile and honey but beneath it a  scent slipped through the closed door, sweet, thick and unfamiliar.

Not hers.

Not anything from Silvermere.

Another woman.

Her wolf stirred uneasily inside her chest.

Celeste frowned. That scent didn’t belong in Silvermere. She pushed the door open, and the tray nearly slipped from her hands.

The firelight painted the room gold, illuminating everything in cruel reality. The large stone fireplace crackled softly, shadows dancing across the dark wooden shelves that lined the walls. Scrolls, maps, and hunting trophies filled the room.

Thorne sat in his chair behind the desk.

A woman sat on his lap, turned slightly sideways across his thighs. One of her legs hung over the arm of the chair while the other curled against his hip. Her fingers were buried in his shirt. She was laughing softly when Celeste entered, a low sound that carried across the room.

Then she leaned forward again. Her lips brushed Thorne’s.

Thorne didn’t pull away. He rested his hand on her waist, pressed his fingers lightly against the curve of her back and kissed her again, deeper this time, tightening his grip instinctively.

She let out a soft breath against his month– quiet and intimate– until she noticed Celeste standing in the doorway.

The laughter died.

The woman didn’t move. Neither did Thorne.

For a heartbeat Celeste waited. For guilt. For panic. For the hurried explanation of a man caught doing something unforgivable.

Instead, Thorne leaned back in his chair and sighed.

Relief softened his expression. Like a man who had just been saved from a difficult conversation.

“Well,” he said calmly, “I suppose you were going to find out eventually.”

The words struck harder than the scene itself.

Celeste stared at him.

The woman in his lap tilted her head, studying Celeste with open curiosity as if she were nothing more than a servant who had interrupted something private.

The tray slipped from Celeste’s fingers.

Porcelain shattered across the floor.

Neither of them flinched.

“Get off him,” Celeste said quietly.

The woman smiled.

Slowly.

Deliberately.

She slid from Thorne’s lap, smoothing her dress as she stood. When she stepped forward, the scent of her perfume grew stronger, sharp, expensive, and  foreign.

She extended a hand toward Celeste.

“You must be the healer’s daughter,” she said smoothly. “I’ve heard about you.”

Celeste didn’t take the hand. Her eyes never left Thorne.

“You’re engaged to me,” she said.

Thorne stood.

“Yes,” he said.

The calmness in his voice felt cruel.

“Were,” he corrected.

The room went still.

Celeste felt the ground tilt beneath her.

“Excuse me?”

The woman beside him laughed softly.

“Oh, Thorne,” she murmured. “You didn’t tell her yet?”

Celeste’s stomach dropped.

Thorne ran a hand through his hair, irritation flashing briefly across his face.

“I intended to,” he said. “But you walked in sooner than expected.”

Sooner than expected. Like she was the inconvenience.

Celeste forced herself to breathe.

“Who is she?”

The woman answered before Thorne could.

“Lysara Blackridge,” she said with a polite smile. “Daughter of the Alpha of Blackridge.”

The name landed like a stone in Celeste’s chest.

Blackridge. One of the most powerful packs in the north.

Lysara’s smile widened slightly.

“And soon,” she added softly, “Silvermere’s Luna.”

Celeste turned back to Thorne. “Tell me she’s lying.”

Thorne didn’t. Instead, he crossed the room and shut the door behind her.

“You were never meant to hear it this way,” he said.

Celeste laughed. The sound came out sharp and broken.

Thorne’s patience thinned.

“Silvermere needs strength,” he said. “A Luna who commands fear as well as respect.”

“You’re kind,” he said flatly. Like it was an insult.

“Kind doesn’t protect a pack.”

Celeste stared at him. Five years. Five years of believing she was building a future with the man who would become Alpha.

“And the elders?” she asked.

“They agree with me.” “You were never going to be my Luna, Celeste. Silvermere deserves someone stronger.”

Lysara slipped her arm through his. “And now,” she said sweetly, “it has one.”

For a moment Celeste’s eyes drifted across the room, the half-filled wine glasses on the desk, suddenly she understood. She hadn’t interrupted anything tonight. This had been deliberate. They had wanted her to see it and the humiliation was part of the plan.

Celeste stood there for a long moment, and the silence that followed felt heavier than the shattered porcelain on the floor. Her chest rose and fell unevenly as if the air had suddenly thickened around her, then she realized she was gripping the edge of the desk so hard that her fingers had turned white.

She pressed a hand briefly against her forehead as if steadying herself. “So this was the plan,” she said slowly, her voice trembling between disbelief and fury. “Five years, Thorne. Five years of promises, of walking beside me through this pack, of telling everyone I would be your Luna… and all this time you were preparing to replace me.” The words tasted bitter on her tongue.

Thorne stood tall and composed behind the desk. There was satisfaction in the firmness of his posture, the quiet certainty of a man who believed he had chosen correctly, yet something faint moved beneath it when he looked at Celeste.

His jaw tightened slightly, “Celeste,” he said in a low voice, as if trying to keep the moment contained, “this decision was for the future of Silvermere.”

“The future,” she repeated, shaking her head slowly.

She felt anger rise suddenly inside her chest, hot and sharp, and before she could stop herself a small laugh slipped out. It was brittle and uneven.

She took a step backward, then another, her hand brushing against the edge of the door. Her heart was racing now, anger and hurt colliding so fiercely she could barely tell which one was winning. For a second she imagined grabbing the wine bottle and smashing it against the floor, but the urge passed as quickly as it came, replaced by something colder.

“You’re right,” she said softly, her voice suddenly calm in a way that made Lysara’s smile falter.

She wrapped her hand around the door handle, paused there long enough to look at both of them one last time, her expression unreadable. “Let’s see,” she murmured under her breath, almost to herself, “who Silvermere calls weak… when the storm finally arrives.”

Then she opened the door and walked out.

She didn’t look back.