Claimed By The Lycan King

Kaelen POV

The freezing Detroit rain washed the grime of 8 Mile Road into slick, oily puddles. I stood shivering beneath the rusted awning of a pawn shop, water dripping steadily onto my cheap canvas jacket. I kept my shoulders hunched, my eyes downcast, playing the perfect part of the pathetic, clumsy wolfless stain on the Blair Pack.

A stretched black Lincoln Navigator pulled up to the curb, its tires sending a spray of dirty water over my boots. The driver didn't get out to open the door. Instead, a sharp, impatient honk pierced the rain.

I splashed through the puddle, deliberately dragging mud onto the pristine beige leather as I hauled myself into the backseat. In the rearview mirror, Justin Frye’s nose wrinkled in profound disgust. He was an Omega, the lowest ranking wolf in the pack, but he had an inner wolf. To him, my lack of a scent made me an abomination—something less than garbage.

"Try not to ruin the upholstery, trash," Justin muttered, throwing the SUV into drive.

I offered a pathetic, trembling nod.

A moment later, the mechanical hum of the privacy partition filled the cabin, sliding up to seal me in the back. The second it clicked shut, my trembling stopped. The terrified, watery-eyed girl vanished.

I unzipped my cheap duffel bag and pulled out a heavily modified burner phone. My fingers flew across the screen, exploiting a vulnerability in the Lincoln’s Bluetooth network. Justin wouldn't use the mind-link to report to my stepmother—Candace was too paranoid to leave a psychic trail.

*"I have the package,"* Justin’s voice crackled through my earpiece.

*"Good,"* Candace’s voice replied, dripping with cold malice. *"The hungry rogues are waiting under the I-94 overpass. Let them have their fun. Break her spirit, Justin. Make sure she remembers her place before we ship her off to St. Augustus."*

I stared out the rain-slicked window, my face a mask of stone. They thought I was a lamb being led to the slaughter. They had no idea what was actually sitting in the backseat.

Ten minutes later, the Navigator slowed, pulling into the pitch-black shadows beneath the massive concrete pillars of the I-94 overpass. The locks clicked shut. Three beat-up pickup trucks boxed us in, their high beams blinding in the dark.

The stench of sour sweat, wet earth, and feral aggression seeped through the air vents. Rogues.