His Forsaken Omega, The Alpha King's Ruin

midable Alpha, Dustin Powell. He called me his Anchor

ough our psychic bond: the scent of another woman, a flash o

is car. At the restaurant where we first met, I discovered his secret phone and saw the explicit

d bought for her. *"Can't wait for you to put this on me tonigh

nated by his affair that my very soul was rejecting him. That night, Jami sent me a final, vicious psychic

ng from him," I said. "Not a cent. I want to be free." This wasn't an escape; it was a carefully

pte

na's

le Alpha of the Blackstone Pack. He was my world, and I, his Anchor. That's what he called me. My presence, my very scent, was the only thing that

perfect worl

mine, cheap and sickeningly sweet like drugstore perfume, seeped through the cracks. It was followed by a flash of a ment

tched. I kne

i Salinas, Dustin'

ored grey wool... I had picked them

t out a howl of pure agony inside my head. I shoved the sound down, my h

nightstand-a picture of my mother, taken years before she met my father, her maiden name-Tillman-written in elegant script

nds, but into the human city, to the cold,

egal name change," I told

cognition. My face was, after all, often plaster

sh to change it to Hope Tillman." Tillman was my mo

Alpha Powell's mate. That would re

ond. It was a sign of ultimate possession. Dustin had always said he was waiting for the perfect moment, a grand public ceremony. I had

oted Alpha. He raised a glass, his eyes finding the camera as if he were looking right at me. "To my beau

o my ears, were now just noise. A po

-two bands of woven silver, each holding a polished, luminous moonstone-to a

he old man behind the counter, plac

e. "These are mate-gifts. Sa

ent. "Melt them together until you can't tell one from the

white lilies. He leaned in to kiss me, and the scent hit me like a physical blow: his own powe

jawline, was the faint, un

ve," he murmured

a frozen stone in my ches