Desired by Alpha Triplets

Katherine POV

The rain jacket clung to my shoulders, heavy with Maine’s relentless drizzle, as I perched on a jagged outcrop overlooking a fog-choked bay.

Mist curled like ghostly fingers through the water, weaving between dark pines that stood sentinel along the shore. I raised my camera, its lens capturing the wild, untamed harmony of forest and ocean—a fleeting moment of beauty in a place I’d rather forget. Here, on this rugged cliff, Maine was almost tolerable.

Almost.

The scene could’ve graced a travel brochure, far removed from the gritty reality of Portland’s outskirts where I was trapped. I glanced at my watch, and my stomach twisted. Shit. School. Time had slipped away, and the thought of facing another day in that fluorescent-lit prison made my skin crawl.

One month in Portland, and I still despised every damp, bone-chilling second of it. Maine’s cold was a living thing, seeping through layers to gnaw at my core, so unlike the dry, sun-soaked heat of California that still lingered in my memories.

The three-day drive from the West Coast had been a nightmare etched into my soul: David, reeking of whiskey, sprawled across the backseat, his snores punctuated by slurred curses; Mom, her knuckles white on the steering wheel, her silence louder than any argument. No motels, just endless rest stops with flickering lights and the stench of stale coffee. I’d kept my eyes on the window, quietly falling in love with Oregon’s emerald forests and windswept coastlines, mentally marking trails I’d hike after graduation—assuming I survived that long.

At seventeen, I was a stranger to my own father.

Mom’s icy glares branded me a mistake, a living reminder of some unforgivable sin. David, her latest boyfriend, was worse—his hands wandered when we were alone, his breath hot with beer and malice. As a child, I’d naively believed being good could fix things, could make her love me. Now, I knew better. Goodness was a fairy tale, and I was no princess.

Fantasies of my father swooping in to save me had died years ago, buried under the weight of Mom’s contempt and David’s leers. My identity was a fractured puzzle, pieces missing or deliberately hidden. Mom—Mary, as she insisted I call her—never spoke of my origins, only spat that I was an “error.” David was just the latest in her revolving door of men, each worse than the last.

Friends were a luxury I wasn’t allowed. “They ask questions,” Mom would snap, her eyes narrowing as if she could see the secrets I carried. She didn’t know the full truth about me, only that I was “different.” That difference was my cage, keeping us in isolation, always moving, always hiding.

Descending the trail, the forest thinned, giving way to the first signs of civilization—sagging houses with peeling paint, their yards littered with rusted junk. The neighborhood grew rougher as I neared home, a twisted kind of comfort. A bad area meant Mom and David were likely still passed out, their hangovers a temporary shield.

Home was a decaying two-story on Portland’s East Side, its warped boards and chipped paint a perfect match for the rot inside. I slipped through the front door, the silence broken only by the creak of floorboards underfoot. Upstairs, I grabbed clean clothes and darted into the bathroom, showering in a frantic race against the house’s failing hot water. Three minutes, maybe four, before it turned ice-cold.

Dressed in a blue sweater, jeans, and boots, I opened the bathroom door—and froze. David loomed in the hallway, his bulk filling the space, the sour stench of beer rolling off him. Before I could slip past, he pulled me into a hug, his hands sliding down to grab my ass. “Careful with those high school boys,” he slurred, his grip tightening. My skin crawled, but I shoved him off, heart pounding, and snatched my bag from the floor. I didn’t look back as I bolted downstairs.

In the kitchen, I reached for an apple from the counter. The fridge door slammed shut, trapping my hand. Pain shot through my fingers as Mom’s voice hissed, “Useless.” Her eyes glinted with venom. “Find somewhere else to live.”

I bit back a retort, the sting in my hand nothing compared to the fire in my chest. Getting kicked out wasn’t an option—not yet. My mission required a cover, a facade of normalcy until my eighteenth birthday. “Sorry,” I muttered, forcing the word out. “Won’t happen again.”

“Get out,” she spat, turning away.

Anger surged, and with it, the familiar heat of my FIRE ability flickered at my fingertips. I clenched my fists, breathing deep to smother it. Not now. Not here.

The bus ride to school was a thirty-minute journey from the East Side’s decay, through downtown’s gleaming high-rises, to the polished neighborhoods near the school district.

Houses grew tidier, their lawns manicured, trees lining the streets like silent sentinels. I stepped off the bus and faced Portland Public High’s modern facade, its glass and steel a stark contrast to the chaos I’d left behind.

I inhaled deeply, my enhanced senses catching the faint, musky scent markers no ordinary human would notice. Werewolves. A dozen, maybe more. My trainers had warned me this school was a mixed population, but feeling their presence sent a chill down my spine.

The hallways buzzed with students, but I felt their eyes on me as I found my locker. Some glances were curious, others predatory, nostrils flaring as if they sensed something off. The wolf-born students knew I wasn’t one of them, but the wolfsbane injections I took weekly masked my true nature—a vital shield for my mission.

I arranged my books with practiced calm, organizing morning classes while scanning my surroundings. My trainers had drilled me for years: blend in, hide your abilities, stay invisible. This wasn’t my first infiltration. I’d faced deadlier enemies in darker places. Portland High was just another battlefield.

In the classroom, I chose a seat near the back, sinking into it as I pulled out my notebook. My pencil moved instinctively, sketching intricate swirls to channel the restless energy humming beneath my skin. A tingling in my fingertips warned me to stay in control. Not here. Not now. But I felt a stare boring into the back of my head, persistent and unnerving.

The teacher’s heels clicked on the linoleum as she entered. “Everyone, please take your seats,” she commanded, silencing the chatter.

I glanced up—and froze. Three boys, impossibly handsome, occupied the row in front of me. Their broad shoulders and perfect posture set them apart from the slouching teens around them. Power radiated from them, an aura that made the air feel heavier. Werewolves, no question. But not just any werewolves.

The Griffin Triplets.