Alphas Hated Mate

Elara Valerius POV:

I woke to a pounding headache, the kind that felt like a spike being driven between my eyes. A groan escaped my lips, the sound foreign and raspy in the heavy silence. My eyelids fluttered open, heavy as lead shutters, revealing a room that wasn't mine.

A canopy of dark, blood-red silk billowed above me, held by four intricately carved posts of some dark wood. My fingers twitched against sheets that felt like spun moonlight, softer than anything I'd ever touched. The air was thick with the scent of pine, damp earth, and something else… something metallic and coppery.

Blood.

My heart hammered against my ribs. Fragmented memories, sharp and violent, sliced through the fog in my brain. A sneering laugh. The glint of jewels. The crunch of bone. They weren't my memories, but they were in my head, a vicious storm of someone else’s life.

I pushed myself up, my body screaming in protest. Every muscle ached, a deep, cellular exhaustion that left me feeling hollowed out. My gaze swept the opulent room—gilded furniture, velvet curtains, a roaring fireplace—and landed in the far corner.

And my breath caught in my throat.

A man was chained to the wall.

He was built like a god of war, all broad shoulders and corded muscle, his bare torso a canvas of scars old and new. Heavy, gleaming silver chains bound his wrists to the stone wall, the metal glowing with a faint, sickly light. His head was bowed, his jet-black hair falling over his face.

As if sensing my stare, he lifted his head.

My world tilted on its axis. His eyes were the color of molten gold, burning with a hatred so pure and intense it was a physical force. It slammed into me, stealing the air from my lungs, a promise of brutal, violent retribution.

A voice, low and guttural, echoed in the back of my mind. It wasn't my voice. It was a possessive, primal growl.

*Mine!*

I recoiled from the thought, from the animalistic claim that had risen unbidden from my soul. I tried to speak, to ask the question screaming in my mind—*who are you?*—but my throat was a desert, my lips cracked and dry.

A cruel, slow smile twisted his lips, not reaching those burning eyes. His voice was a low rasp, like stones grinding together. "Awake, are you? The Tyrant graces us with her presence." He shifted, the silver chains clinking musically, a sound that made my teeth ache. "What new torment have you devised for me today?"

*Tyrant.* The word sent a chill skittering down my spine. I was a librarian. I organized book clubs and paid my taxes. I wasn't a tyrant.

I tried to swing my legs over the side of the massive bed, but my limbs felt like water. A wave of dizziness washed over me, and I collapsed back against the pillows, weak and trembling.

His golden eyes raked over my form, disgust and contempt rolling off him in palpable waves.

My frantic gaze darted around the room again, searching for anything familiar. This wasn't my small, cluttered apartment. This was a medieval fantasy, a gilded cage. Then I saw it—a full-length mirror with an ornate silver frame.

With a surge of adrenaline, I forced myself off the bed, my bare feet sinking into a plush fur rug. I stumbled, my legs threatening to buckle, and half-crawled, half-walked to the mirror.

The face that stared back was not my own.