Claimed By The Alpha King

CILLA POV:

"Sign it."

The words, low and cold, slice through the haze of pain.

I clutch the silk sheet tighter, my knuckles white. Every bone in my body feels like it's been snapped and reset incorrectly. A deep, grinding ache radiates from my core, a brutal reminder of last night. Of him. Of the Alpha King.

Fear, cold and sharp, seizes my heart. It's a physical thing, a fist clenching in my chest, making it hard to breathe.

I need to get out.

Slowly, I try to slide my legs over the edge of the massive bed. The movement sends a fresh wave of agony through my hips. His scent, a powerful, intoxicating mix of cedar and cold winter air, clings to my skin, to the sheets, to the very air I'm breathing. It's an invasion. My rogue instincts, the ones that have kept me alive on the streets, scream at me to submit, to curl up and wait for his command.

I bite down hard on my lower lip, the sting of it a welcome distraction.

My feet touch the plush carpet.

My legs immediately buckle.

A muffled thud echoes in the silent suite as my knees hit the hardwood floor. I scramble, grabbing for the clothes scattered like fallen leaves around the bed. My dress, torn at the shoulder. My heels, one lying forlornly on its side.

My eyes catch my reflection in the mirrored wardrobe door.

My throat is a canvas of angry red and deep purple marks. Humiliation burns in my stomach, hot and acidic. This wasn't the plan. The plan was revenge. Quick, clean, and on my terms. Not this… demolition.

The bathroom door clicks open.

He's leaning against the frame, already awake, dressed in a black bathrobe that does nothing to hide the sheer power of his frame. Graham Rogers. His gray eyes, cold as a winter storm, sweep over me, taking in my pathetic, crumpled form on his floor. He doesn't look angry. He doesn't look pleased. He looks… bored. Like he's observing an insect trapped under glass.

I snatch my ripped dress and hold it against my chest, a useless shield. My instinct is to run, but his gaze pins me in place. I try to muster a look of indifference, the mask I've perfected over years of being nothing and having nothing.

It doesn't work.

He pushes off the doorframe and stalks toward me. Each step is silent, predatory. I scramble backward, my back hitting the cold, unyielding wall of the suite. Trapped.

He doesn't touch me. He doesn't have to.

He tosses a thick manila folder onto the glass coffee table between us. The papers inside spill out, the sound unnaturally loud in the suffocating quiet.