Marked by the Alpha I Ran From

Estelle's POV

I stood before the floor-to-ceiling window of the hotel suite, my fingers unconsciously rubbing the camera strap. This was the only habitual motion that had made me feel safe over the past five years.

The room was filled with the scent of newly renovated leather and disinfectant, and the gray autumn light of Silver Crown City filtered through the glass, falling upon my open equipment case.

I bent down to inspect the lenses. My coat collar slipped, and the long-faded bite mark on the side of my neck suddenly stung as if pricked by a needle.

The pain nearly made me drop the camera onto the carpet. I clutched my neck abruptly, forcing myself to take deep breaths.

Then I rummaged through my bag for pain relief spray and applied it to my wrist, pretending this was merely muscle soreness from the long flight, while quickly zipping up my coat to completely cover the mark.

The face reflected in the suite's dressing mirror was as pale as paper. I stared at those amber eyes, confirming that my gaze had returned to that of the capable photographer Estelle, not the blood-covered fugitive from five years ago.

My phone vibrated. It was a message from Claire: "The client's final personnel list has been updated. Please confirm tonight's dinner seating arrangement."

I opened the PDF attachment. My eyes scanned the attendance sheet for the "Silver Shadow Studio Collaboration Project," and in the investor representative column, it read: Black Moon Pack Alpha Bruce.

Wasn't it supposed to be Alpha Marcus from the Silver River Pack?

My fingers instantly turned ice-cold, and Zara, my wolf soul, let out a suppressed whimper. I slammed the laptop shut, as if those words might leap out and bite me.

Trembling, I dialed Claire's number, deliberately keeping my voice steady: "Is there a printing error?"

"No mistake," Claire confirmed on the other end. "Alpha Bruce himself may personally attend tonight's meeting. This is Black Moon Group's first major project entering the jewelry industry."

After hanging up, I collapsed beside the equipment case.

The bite mark on my neck began to burn continuously, like a branding iron embedded in my skin.

This was the most intense reaction I'd experienced in five years, and memories flooded through the floodgates like a deluge.

That stormy night five years ago, the dim, endless corridor of Thornwood Manor was like a net silently closing in. The wall lamps cast ambiguous, oppressive light, and the air was thick with the scent of fir, leather, and a mature Alpha's aroma—so intense it was almost invasive.

Alpha Bruce stood at the end of the corridor, his black shirt loosely unbuttoned at the top two buttons, revealing a stretch of sharply defined collarbone and firm, rising chest. Shadows swept across his high brow bone and hard jawline, making those ice-gray eyes appear even more dangerous.

My instinct was to flee, but my legs felt trapped in a quagmire, unable to retreat even half a step. I could only watch helplessly as he walked toward me. The oppressive presence closed in inch by inch until my back slammed heavily against the wall, my breathing squeezed tight.

He stopped in front of me, looking down, his gaze slowly scraping from my face down to the side of my neck, as if to peel me open.

The next second, he raised his hand and gripped my chin, forcing me to tilt my head back.

His palm was scorching, his knuckles powerful, carrying a familiar dominance that made my scalp tingle. His thumb first ground against my lips, slowly, forcefully, then moved downward, lifting my short skirt, stopping between my legs.

The instant his fingertip pressed down, my entire body trembled.

My wolf soul was suppressed by the Alpha's pressure like being submerged in deep water, without any response. Yet my body betrayed my will first, trembling beneath his palm, my breathing becoming utterly chaotic.

Alpha Bruce lowered his head, his breath brushing against my ear, his voice hoarse and heavy: "Where do you think you can run?"

I bit my lip tightly, refusing to make a sound. But he seemed to have anticipated this, tightening his grip slightly, forcing heat to my eyes.

Those ice-gray eyes stared at me with an almost pathological possessiveness, as if the moment I dared say another "no," he would claim me right there.

"Still want to run?"

I remained frozen, my lashes trembling, tears nearly forced out.

He suddenly smiled, though his thin lips held no warmth. His fingertip slowly rubbed against my vulva through my underwear, each stroke making my spine tighten, my body numb, my knees so weak I could barely stand.

He knew my weaknesses too well—knew where a single touch would make me lose control, knew exactly how to make me produce the most humiliating reactions within fear.

"Look at me," he commanded.

I was forced to raise my eyes, meeting those ice-gray eyes that seemed ready to drag me into an abyss.

"You think that by leaving the manor, leaving me, the mark on your neck would disappear?" He leaned even lower, his lips almost touching the side of my neck, his burning breath scalding that mark with each exhale. "Your body is much more honest than your mouth."

As the last sentence fell, he bit down on that patch of skin, and his finger also penetrated my vagina.

I snapped rigid, a sound nearly escaping my throat. My fingertips dug desperately into my palms, shame burning through even my ears.

Yet that tingling sensation seemed completely ignited, rushing downward through my blood, forcing my legs weak, barely able to stand. I could only cling miserably to the wall, letting him trap me between his embrace and breath, like a prey that knew the danger but was still seized by instinct.

In the memory, I couldn't shift, couldn't break free, couldn't even deny my body's most honest trembling. In the end, I could only endure his finger's invasion within his control, eyes red, body shaking, humiliated and out of control.

Eventually, we still lost control in the corridor. Alpha Bruce roughly removed my underwear, lifted my left leg, and claimed me.

In a daze, I bit my lower lip and shook my head, softly pleading for the man to finish quickly.

I became somewhat entranced, as if dragged back into an old tide of passion and nightmare from which I could never awaken.

The doorbell rang, startling me from the memory. It was the hotel attendant delivering the gown prepared for tonight's dinner.

I stood before the dressing mirror. The black gown outlined the toned lines I'd developed over five years of training, but the bite mark on my neck seemed to glow faintly against the black fabric.

I grabbed a silk scarf and tied it tightly around my neck in a dead knot, as if this could strangle that fear.

"Estelle," my wolf Zara called softly, "You're not alone. I'm with you."

Hearing Zara's comfort, I gradually calmed down.

Then I practiced smiling in the mirror until the corners of my mouth no longer twitched, picked up my camera bag, and prepared to scout the banquet hall early.

As a photographer, I needed to test the lighting in advance.

Before leaving, I checked the memo on my phone one last time, confirming that tonight's task was only photography—no need for direct communication with the investors, and certainly no need to make eye contact with anyone from the Black Moon Pack.

"Just get through tonight. Tomorrow I can request a transfer from this project."

I entered the elevator to the banquet venue, the mirrored walls trapping me in a small space. I stared at the jumping floor numbers, feeling like I was being escorted to an execution ground.

The elevator stopped on the tenth floor.

The moment the doors opened, a sharp scent of cedar mixed with Alpha pheromones rushed at me, the smell stabbing directly into my nostrils like a knife.

My wolf soul issued a sharp alarm, and my entire body froze in place, unable to move.

I lowered my head and shrank into the corner, praying it was just some passing Alpha, but from the corner of my eye I still glimpsed a pair of familiar, well-crafted black leather shoes and dress pants.

That figure paused for a second at the elevator entrance, seemingly sniffing the air.

The elevator doors began to close, when a hand wearing a silver pinky ring suddenly reached in to block them.

That deep voice, like a cello, resonated in the enclosed space: "The banquet hall on the fifteenth floor, correct?"

A pause.

"It seems we're going the same way."

My blood froze completely in that moment.

The bite mark on my neck felt as if it had been torn open again, searing with pain.