Her Broken Alpha - Isoellen Page 0,10

somewhere deep inside of her, a pure, raging power current down the lines of her every nerve ending. The static charge of it spread to her breasts, her belly, and the place between her thighs.

The thunderous rumble of a prime alpha growl tumbled into an ear-splitting roar of challenge over her head. The sound made her bones quiver and the small of her back hum with an unnatural sensation. She moaned, her insides seizing.

Released unexpectedly, she fell forward, curling tight, a small ball of female on the floor. She should have been afraid.

But she wasn't.

Be afraid, she begged herself. Please be afraid. This wasn't what she wanted. Who she wanted.

But that sound, that noise he was making, dismantled her insides, reshaping her being and remaking her cells.

Claiming her.

She covered her ears, plugged them with her fingers to drown it out, yet even still the feel of it, velvet over steel, assaulted her. It battered at everything she knew, tore away rules and social guidelines and opened the doors of instinct.

The cloudy daze faded. Her muscles locked, her omega breeder body frozen, waiting.

He was strong. She didn't need to see him. His smell and the sound of him told her everything she needed to know.

Above her, a storm exploded. Hot and wild, blood rained down. An alpha was fighting for the rights to a female. She didn't want that. But her heart beat hard with an ancient memory.

A strong alpha killed all challengers.

Where was Crispin? Where was her father? Her brothers?

But she knew they weren't stronger. They couldn't save her.

They would all die if they were here.

Chapter Three

Darre

His office windows filled the space with light and heat. It wasn't even noon. The sunshine made the room so eye-blinkingly bright that Nothonal Darre could hardly see.

He could have curtains if he wanted. But he didn't want them. Bright sun was rare; he'd take it when and how he could, inviting the glow to burn him, to cook his guts, plagued with the constant slow-burn of his acidic rage. He liked to roast in the fire of it with only a bottle of his favorite mead to ease his thirst.

If he didn't have company coming soon to bother him, he'd have stripped down and soaked it in.

This world was so fuckin' gray, so endlessly the same. He knew to take advantage of a nice day when it happened.

A nice day. An auspicious day.

Decades ago when he’d served in the alpha king's army, there'd been sunshine a-plenty on the plains of the Un.

Uninhabitable, untamed, unwanted—the wild fucking Un, where water and food were always in short supply, the land poisoned, and breed banded together in packs. The Un had nothing to recommend it but sunshine and hidden garbage heaps of the past. He'd lived out there for years, camped with his band of men, beating feral alphas into disciplined soldiers who could take orders.

He'd liked that. The sun. The beating. Darre was born to kick ass.

There had only been two people he couldn't beat back then: his older brother, who was just two hairs faster, moving smooth and easy in a way Darre had to train for hours to match; and his asshole father, whose right hook knew just where to hit Darre to knock him out cold.

These days, no one dared stand against him, and he'd not seen his so-called family on anything but a screen for years.

Darre had a love-hate relationship with the sunshine and the memories it stirred up. The way heat and light felt on his skin and burned his retinas reminded him he was alive, still had a purpose to fulfill.

Turning from the windows, he went back to his desk. He liked the heavy, massive thing. The drawers were mostly empty, containing files of shit he couldn't afford to forget and a notebook for scribbling other shit down.

A man in charge needed a desk and office where he could do his business, where he could sit and look down his nose at those beneath him. The desk had a dent in one side, and the chair, while comfortable, had rips in the leather that exposed its insides. Both were older than he was, and that was very fuckin’ old.

But he was in charge, and he kept an office with a big desk as a mocking concession to the expectations of a sector Administrator.

Drinking the last of his mead, he set the bottle down, resisting the impulse to throw it against the wall and watch the glass shatter in a