Rejected by the Heir, Claimed by the Alpha

Elinor POV:

"Landed."

The single word on the JFK arrivals board mocked me. Ewing's flight from London had been on the ground for one hundred and thirty-seven minutes.But I've waited here for so long and still haven't seen his figure.

I shifted my weight from one foot to the other, the sensible heels I'd chosen for this reunion starting to pinch. A knot of irritation tightened in my stomach. I pulled out my phone, dialing his number for the third time.

Voicemail. Again.

My thumb hovered over the screen, then typed out a message, the words sharper than I intended.

"I'm here. Where are you?"

I hit send, the blue bubble of my text sitting unanswered in our chat history. The airport buzzed around me-reunions, tearful hellos, happy embraces. A bitter taste filled my mouth.

A few minutes crawled by before my phone buzzed in my hand. A reply.

"Sorry, babe. Got held up with something urgent. In the parking garage. Meet me in the first-class lounge. I'll be right there."

Urgent? What could possibly be more urgent than meeting his fiancée after two months apart-especially a fiancée bound to him by sacred pack marriage vows that guaranteed the stability of both our clans?

A frown pulled at my lips. Instead of heading to the lounge, a different idea-a stubborn, foolish idea-took root. I wanted to give him a surprise. Show him how much I'd missed him.

I turned on my heel and walked towards the parking garage, the rhythmic click of my heels echoing in the concrete cavern. I spotted it almost immediately, tucked away in a far corner under the dim fluorescent lights: Ewing's black Mercedes S-Class.

As I got closer, a prickle of unease crawled up my spine. The windows were completely fogged over, a strange sight in the cool New York autumn air.

Then I heard it.

A muffled sound from inside the car. A woman's giggle, soft and cloying.

A sound so familiar it made the blood in my veins turn to ice.

It was my sister. Kayla.

My stomach lurched, a wave of nausea so intense I had to press a hand to my mouth. My feet felt like lead.

I peered through a small, clear patch on the windshield.

Kayla's blonde hair was a spill of gold against the dark leather of the driver's seat. Ewing's head was buried in her neck. I saw his shoulders move, a gesture I knew all too well.

The car rocked with a slight, sickening rhythm.

There was no room for doubt. No space for misunderstanding.

The heartbreak I should have felt was absent. In its place, a terrifying, cold clarity settled over me. The knot in my stomach wasn't irritation anymore. It was rage, frozen solid.

I didn't scream. I didn't cry.

I took a deliberate step back, my movements calm and precise. I pulled out my phone, my fingers steady as they found the number for airport security.

The call connected on the second ring.

"Airport security, how can I help you?"

My voice, when it came out, was unnervingly level. "I'd like to report a vehicle in Parking Garage C. A black Mercedes, license plate KHY-583. There's... indecent activity. It's a public disturbance."

"We'll send someone right over, ma'am."

I hung up.

Without a backward glance, I turned and walked back towards the terminal. I needed a drink. The strongest one they had.

I walked straight to the first-class lounge, the one Ewing had told me to wait in. The access card he'd given me, a symbol of my status as his future wife, swiped green.

The lounge was an oasis of quiet luxury. I went to the bar, my reflection a pale, blank slate in the mirror behind the rows of expensive liquor.

"Whiskey. Neat," I told the bartender.

He poured a generous amount of amber liquid into a heavy glass. I took it and sat at a high-top table by the floor-to-ceiling windows, a perfect vantage point to watch the show in the parking garage below.

Across the lounge, a man in a dark gray, impeccably tailored suit lowered the tablet he was reading. His eyes, the color of a winter sky, landed on me.

He had been watching me. I felt it before I saw it. A focused, intense energy that had nothing to do with the ambient hum of the airport.

That man was Alaric Charles. And he knew exactly what was happening.

The moment I had stepped into the lounge, a scent had hit me-clean and sharp, like fresh rain on lilies. It was a strange, disorienting sensation. The scent didn't just register in my nose; it seemed to sink directly into my bones, calming a storm I didn't even know was raging inside me.

For Alaric, my scent was doing something else entirely. It wasn't just pleasant. It was the answer to a question his wolf had been asking its entire life. The scent of his Fated Mate. His pupils contracted, a predator's focus locking onto its target.

I felt a sudden jolt, a bizarre palpitation in my chest. The air around me seemed to crackle, thick with a new presence. It smelled of cedar and an approaching storm, a powerful, masculine scent that made the fine hairs on my arms stand on end.

My eyes darted around the room, searching for the source of the feeling, and they collided with his.

His gaze was sharp, piercing. It held a flicker of something ancient and possessive, an unnerving look of assessment that made me feel seen in a way I never had before.

Just then, the distant flash of red and blue lights caught my eye.

Down in the parking garage, two uniformed security guards were rapping sharply on the window of Ewing's Mercedes. The scene was suddenly, brutally comedic.

A slow, cold smile spread across my lips. It was a smile of pure, unadulterated vengeance.

From across the room, Alaric saw it. A flicker of something that looked like approval, or maybe appreciation, crossed his face. He lifted his own glass in a silent, deliberate toast.

I stared back, confused. I didn't understand his gesture. But the strange, electric current his presence had ignited inside me only grew stronger, a confusing counterpoint to the icy satisfaction of my revenge.