Chapter 2

Natasha's POV

The black sedan pulls away, and I stare down at the scattered bills on the ground, my cheeks flushed with heat, burning with humiliation and anger.

All werewolves are such arrogant bastards.

I struggle to my feet, deliberately stomping on the bills as I rise. What does he think I am, some street beggar? I continue walking aimlessly, letting the blood from my leg wound seep unchecked. Not like anyone in this world cares about a human's pain anyway.

Byron's voice echoes in my mind: "You're just a useless human!" Five years together—what a cosmic joke.

After walking for God knows how long, the persistent throbbing in my leg forces me to stop. Looking up, I find myself in front of an upscale bar. Drowning my sorrows in alcohol seems perfect for my current state.

I barely make it to the entrance before two security guards in black suits block my path. One wrinkles his nose slightly—the signature move werewolves make when identifying humans.

"Members only," the taller one says flatly, his eyes sweeping contemptuously over my disheveled appearance.

I grip my credit card tighter. "I can pay."

"Paying members, werewolves only." His tone leaves no room for argument.

Just as I'm about to turn away, a deep male voice calls from inside the bar.

"Let her in."

The guards immediately step aside, and I turn to locate the source of the voice.

The man stands in the soft glow of the doorway, tall and powerful, with broad shoulders tapering to a narrow waist. His impeccably tailored black suit outlines his perfect physique. His face looks like expertly carved marble—a chiseled jaw, high cheekbones, and eyes like glacial fissures, capable of freezing blood. His dark hair is swept back, revealing a small scar above his left eyebrow.

But what catches my attention most is the moonstone ring glinting on his right hand—the same one that threw money at me in the parking lot. The scent of frost and cedar rolled off him, unmistakably Alpha.

"You look like you could use a drink," he says.

His tone is so condescending, but he's not wrong—I do need a drink, and I'm not sure the next bar would even let a human through the door.

"Thanks," I reply stiffly, brushing past him into the bar.

The interior is elegantly appointed—dark wood, leather, and soft lighting creating a luxurious atmosphere. Someone plays piano in a corner while patrons converse in hushed tones. Almost everyone is a werewolf.

"What can I get you?" the bartender asks.

"Gin and tonic, please."

A few minutes later, I'm nursing my drink, trying to relax without looking like I don't belong. My eyes involuntarily search for that man—he's sitting in the VIP section in the corner, surrounded by several important-looking werewolves engaged in animated discussion.

Occasionally he glances up, his gaze sweeping across the bar, lingering slightly when it finds me. Each time this happens, a traitorous thrill shoots through me—fear tangling with something dangerously like attraction.

"Natasha..."

The familiar voice makes me freeze. I slowly turn to find Byron standing there, remorse written all over his face.

"Are you following me?" I ask coldly.

"No, it's not like that," he says hurriedly. "I've been looking everywhere for you. I made a terrible mistake, Natasha. I should never have treated you that way."

He looks genuinely disheveled—hair a mess, shirt wrinkled, bloodshot eyes. But I can't forget what I witnessed in the parking lot just two hours ago.

"Please leave, Byron," I say evenly. "We have nothing left to talk about."

"Please," he begs, sliding onto the barstool beside me. "Just hear me out. Erin was just using me. She never intended to help me; she just wanted..." His voice drops. "I got blinded by her status and promises. I never meant to hurt you."

"But you did hurt me," I look directly into his eyes. "You called me a 'useless human.' That's what you really think, isn't it?"

"No, that's not it at all!" He grabs my hand, and I can feel him trembling. "I love you, Tasha. I've loved you for five years. You've always been the one supporting me, helping me find my confidence. I just... temporarily lost my way."

I pull my hand away, feeling tears threatening again. "Lost your way? You betrayed me, Byron."

"I know I messed up," his voice breaks. "But we can start over. Five years of feelings can't just end like this. You once said we'd always be together, remember?"

His reminder of my promise stabs at my heart. Yes, we had promised to spend our lives together, but that was when I thought there was real love between us.

Just as I'm about to respond, I notice the man in the VIP area—the one with the moonstone ring—watching us with interest in his eyes. He gives me a slight nod, then turns to say something to an attendant beside him.

"I need some time to think, Byron," I finally say. "Tonight I just want to be alone."

Byron's expression grows anxious. "At least let me buy you a drink, okay? Consider it my apology."

Without waiting for my answer, he signals the bartender. They exchange a few words too quiet for me to hear. The bartender nods and begins mixing a cocktail as red as blood.

"I don't want this," I say, pointing to my barely touched gin and tonic. "I already have a drink."

Byron's expression hardens. "Please, Natasha. I ordered it specially for you. At least try one sip."

His insistence makes me even more suspicious. Just then, I notice the man with the moonstone ring approaching the bar. He orders a drink, then heads in our direction. Byron nervously glances at him before turning back to me, his voice urgent: "Natasha, please."

"No, I don't want it," I say firmly.

Byron tries to say more, but the tall man is already standing beside us.

"Seems like there's some tension here," he says in a deep voice, his gaze shifting between Byron and me.

Byron immediately stands, a flash of fear crossing his face. "Mr. Morgan, we were just—"

Morgan—the name makes my pulse quicken. Could this be Alexander Morgan, CEO of Infinity Corp, the country's most powerful Alpha?

"No explanation necessary," Morgan cuts him off, then turns to me. "Is someone bothering you?"

"It's fine," I force a smile. "He was just leaving."

Byron hesitates, looking from me to Morgan before reluctantly nodding. "Yes, I should go."

At that moment, the bartender arrives with two nearly identical red cocktails. He places one in front of me and the other beside Mr. Morgan.

"Your special mix, sir." The bartender gives a slight bow before quickly retreating.

Mr. Morgan picks up his glass and raises it slightly toward me. "To a pleasant evening."

Before I can say anything, he takes a sip. Initially, his expression is one of simple appreciation, but seconds later, something in his eyes changes. A strange orange glow emerges from deep within his pupils, burning like molten lava.

Byron's face instantly drains of color, panic flashing in his eyes. He backs away, turning to flee.

"Mr. Morgan?" I ask worriedly, not understanding what's happening.

Mr. Morgan's gaze locks onto me, the orange light intensifying. "You..." he growls, his voice dangerously hoarse. "This was your plan?"

"What?" I ask in confusion, instinctively rising from my stool.

"Stop him!" he suddenly shouts to security, pointing at the retreating Byron. The guards spring into action, pinning Byron to the floor.

The surrounding patrons begin shifting uneasily, some even moving toward the exits. Mr. Morgan grabs my wrist with a grip that burns like brand marks.

"A carefully orchestrated trap," he hisses, the orange glow in his eyes alarmingly intense. "First the 'chance' encounter in the parking lot, then drugging me in my own bar."

"I don't even know you!" I protest, struggling against his grip. "I have no idea what's going on!"

Mr. Morgan's breathing becomes labored, and he pulls me closer. "Take him to the interrogation room," he commands the guards holding Byron, then turns his attention back to me. "I'll handle this woman personally."

Before I can object, he's dragging me through the bar and up a staircase. The patrons scatter out of our way. He pulls me into a luxurious room, the door slamming shut behind us.

Mr. Morgan releases my wrist and staggers toward the center of the room. His entire body trembles, the orange glow in his eyes frighteningly intense.

"You conspired with that Omega," he says through clenched teeth, his voice distorted by barely contained emotion. "To drug me in my own establishment?"

"I don't know you," I argue, edging toward the door, ready to bolt at any moment. "Byron is my ex-boyfriend, but I have no idea what he put in your drink!"

He lets out a cold laugh, advancing until my back is pressed against the door. "Quite the coincidence, isn't it? First my parking lot, then my bar. Now your ex-boyfriend slips me an aphrodisiac, and you just happen to be here."

Cold sweat breaks out across my back as I finally understand Byron's true intentions. An aphrodisiac—to force my surrender? And now this powerful Alpha thinks I'm part of the plot?