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Elara Vance was a withdrawn omega, often overlooked in the Silver Moon Pack for her quiet demeanor and unassuming appearance.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

The searing pain across my back woke me before my alarm did. I gritted my teeth, restraining a growl as I rolled out of bed. Each movement sent fresh waves of agony rippling across my skin where those damn markings were spreading further.


I stumbled to the bathroom, twisting my neck to examine my back in the mirror. The sight made me curse under my breath. The dark, intricate patterns had expanded again overnight, creeping over my left shoulder blade and down toward my spine. The skin around them looked angry and inflamed.


"Fuck," I muttered, reaching for the prescription-strength cream my doctor had given me. The one who'd looked completely baffled by my condition and had the nerve to suggest it might be "stress-related."


As if I didn't know exactly what—or rather who—was causing this. Elara Vance. Florence Ross. Whatever name she went by now.


The Alpha's Hidden Agony and Defiant Stand