Elara Veyne

"Ahh!" She writhed in a haze of moans, her body trembling with conflicting sensations. She loathed this man, yet every fiber of her being reacted to his touch. As his hands began to roam along her waist, she sucked in a sharp breath—the sudden pull of her back zipper sent a shiver down her spine. The metal slider halted at the small of her back, and as it opened, her upper back and waist were exposed, baring her skin to the cool air. "D-Don’t—mmph!" Her protest was smothered by the pillow as his fingers caressed her bare spine, leaving a trail of goosebumps in their wake. With a deep, angry growl, he whispered harshly in her ear, "I'll make you forget every touch, every kiss, every thing about him. From now on, when you're with another man, you'll only see me."

Elara Vance was a withdrawn omega, often overlooked in the Silver Moon Pack for her quiet demeanor and unassuming appearance. But beneath her thick glasses lay a hidden crush on Rhys Knight, the pack's future Alpha and a notorious campus playboy. Rhys scoffed at mate bonds, treating relationships as disposable—until Elara's eighteenth birthday, when he publicly rejected her, turning her into the butt of every joke.

Now, Elara returns transformed—glasses discarded, her hair styled sleek and confident—and Rhys can't take his eyes off her. What if her blood holds a sacred heritage chosen by the Moon Goddess? What if the "humiliation" was part of a larger scheme? And when Rhys, the alpha who once dismissed her, kneels before her new love interest, Liam Thorne, begging for a second chance, who will claim victory in this battle of pride and passion?

Rejected by My Alpha Mate

"This is going to hurt," I warned, my fingers hovering over the nasty wound on Rhys's arm. "I need to clean it thoroughly before applying the tonic."


Rhys's dark eyes narrowed with suspicion. "Since when did you become a medic?"


I bit back a sharp retort. His skepticism wasn't entirely unwarranted—the last time he'd seen me, I could barely stand the sight of blood. But four years had changed everything.


"Just hold still," I muttered, dabbing antiseptic onto a clean cloth. "Or would you prefer I let that magical infection spread until it reaches your heart?"


He flinched as I touched the cloth to his wound but remained silent. Small victories, I suppose.


The severity of his injury became clearer as I examined it. The magical blade had left more than just a physical cut—dark tendrils were spreading beneath his skin like ink in water. I'd seen this before, a corruption spell designed to weaken a wolf's connection to their inner beast.


Unwilling Patient, Unspoken Truths