Claimed by the Alpha King: His Secret White Wolf

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chapter in my life. The lock clicked into place, a flimsy barrier against the storm raging downstairs. I le

other side. "Caroline! Open this door!

ious command of a man u

s trying to force it. Then came the heavy th

! Sign the papers and you c

rd the walk-in closet, a space bigger than my first apartment. One side was a meticulously

attling on the hardwood floor. With a cold, methodical efficiency, I began to pack. Only my things. The clothes I

wasn't a diamond. It was a small, cheap moonstone we'd bought from a street vendor on our first t

of grief so powerful it stole my breath washed over me. The memory of h

the ring into the wastebasket beside the vanit

retreating down the hall, followed by the distant roar of his spor

cted to the master bedroom was my private art studio. I pushed the door open and stepped in

t came from the soft glow of my computer monitor on the large drafting table. This wasn't just a

. The screen flickered to life, revealing an email inbox. It was not Ca

nd studios, all clamoring for a piece of Argent, the anonymous, enigm

of Momentum Studios. His message was practically begging. He was offering an obscene

ty, bragging to his friends. "If I can just land the lead in 'The Crimson Pact' adaptation," he'd sa

. He thought I just dabbled in pretty lands

grief was gone, replaced by a shard of ice

ly. My tone was cold, imperious, exactly what

Mi

wever, I am declining to sell the ada

be associated with any project involving the actor Colten Alvarez. Consider him pe

ge

breath left my lungs. It was a small act of revenge, but it was a start. I had ju

desk, buzzed. A New York number I didn't re

ckson?" a crisp, profess

t

ast month regarding divorce counsel. Mr. Hayes has reviewed your preliminary informatio

of doubt I had quickly suppressed. It seem

tell Mr. Hayes I want him to find everything. Every h

hear that, Ms. Dickso

ning against the walls, at the life I had put on hold for hi

he solid-state drive, my entire life's work, my secret identity, contained on that small black recta

out of the studio, out of the bed

e scattered pieces of the agreement. She saw me and my lug

ou don't take anything that belongs to the

the opulent foyer, lingering on the custom Italian chandelier, th

commission check. And that rug? I bought it with the advance from my first graphic novel. In fact, most of the furnitur

lack-jawed. Her skin turned a blotc

, pulled it open, and stepped out into the blinding C

the trunk, slid into the back seat, and didn't look back. The house, the lif