Carrying The Alpha Billionaire's Heir

Celina’s POV  THE TRICK to sneaking into a werewolf gala? Confidence and cleavage. I had plenty of both. My borrowed press badge hung crooked against the plunging neckline of my black satin jumpsuit, but no one had stopped me yet. The Thorne Estate pulsed with champagne and predatory energy. Velvet walls, dripping chandeliers, laughter like sharpened blades. These people were monsters in formalwear—pack Alphas, political power brokers, and supernaturals who ruled the city from behind closed doors. And I was here to expose one of them. Lucien Thorne. The infamous Alpha billionaire. Cold, untouchable. Dangerous. The man who, according to my research, had made a fortune off blood oath trafficking and off-the-record territorial hunts. His face was a myth. His crimes were whispered. And if I pulled this off, my byline would finally mean something other than clickbait on tabloid trash. I kept to the edges of the ballroom, snapping photos on my discreet micro-camera. Waiters floated past with silver trays of vintage bloodwine and gold-flecked hors d’oeuvres. Wolves mingled, flirted, and schemed. Their laughs were too smooth, their gazes too sharp. Predators are playing human. My pulse drummed like war in my throat. I wasn’t supposed to be here. But then again, I was never supposed to survive my sister’s death either. I gripped the tiny recorder hidden in my clutch. One name. One confession. That’s all I needed. And then I saw him. Lucien Thorne stepped onto the ballroom floor like he owned gravity. Midnight black suit. Crisp lines. No tie. Shirt undone just enough to expose the edge of a tattoo curling along his collarbone. His presence hit like static—dark, electric, undeniably Alpha. Everything around him dimmed. I knew better than to stare, but I couldn’t look away. His eyes—ice-gray and terrifyingly unreadable—swept the room once before landing directly on me. Shit. I turned fast, ducking behind a pillar, pretending to study a floral display like it was hiding state secrets. My heart kicked into panic mode. Had he scented me? Wolves had heightened senses, but I’d worn a synthetic neutralizer. He couldn’t have— “Excuse me.” I flinched. A waiter. “Restrooms?” I asked quickly. He pointed toward a side hallway. I nodded, murmured a thank-you, and fled. Once I slipped away from the ballroom noise, I exhaled. The corridor was quieter, colder. The scent of polished marble and expensive secrets lingered in the air. Time to find his office. According to blueprints I’d bribed from a drunk contractor, Thorne’s private study was two doors past the wine cellar. If I could get in, there might be files. Contracts. Anything that proved the rumors were true. I was halfway down the hallway when the hairs on my neck stood up. I wasn’t alone. Footsteps—slow, deliberate—echoed behind me. I quickened my pace. So did they. No. No, no, no— A strong hand gripped my elbow and spun me around, slamming me gently but firmly into the wall. My breath left me in a rush. Lucien Thorne. Up close, he was… lethal. Not just handsome—unfairly, savagely so—but wrong, somehow. Like a wolf wearing a human face. His scent coiled around me: crushed amber, storm winds, danger. His eyes locked on mine, narrowed. “You smell like nerves. Fear. Not pack. Not staff.” He leaned in. “Who are you?” My voice didn’t work. My body betrayed me—heat flushed down my spine at his proximity. Get it together, Vale. “I’m… I’m with the press team,” I lied smoothly, tilting my badge toward him. “Freelance coverage for the Chronicle.” He didn’t even glance at it. “Cute story.” His voice was low, rich, and cold enough to c***k marble. “But I know everyone who steps foot in this house. You’re not on the list.” He leaned closer—his mouth nearly brushing my cheek, his voice a growl against my ear. “You don’t belong here, little liar. Who sent you?” HIS BREATH grazed the shell of my ear, and I couldn’t breathe. I didn’t answer. Not because I was scared—though every instinct I had screamed to run—but because I didn’t know how. His presence burned too hot. I was the one caught in the snare, not the hunter. That realization sent a cold jolt through me. “I told you. Freelance press—” His palm flattened on the wall beside my head. “You’re wearing synthetic scent blockers. No wolf would get within ten feet of you without gagging. You’re human. And you stink of secrets.” My heart slammed against my ribs. “Security’s going to love this,” he murmured, reaching for the comm at his lapel. “No—wait!” I grabbed his wrist. Wrong move. In a blink, he had me flipped, pressed face-first against the wall, his chest firm against my back. My pulse rocketed. He was fast. And strong. And terrifyingly calm. “You break into my estate,” he said in that low, silk-wrapped-razor voice, “during a Council-sanctioned event, and think a press badge will save you?” I inhaled sharply. “Fine. You caught me. So what? You’ll have me arrested? Go ahead. But ask yourself how it’ll look if the public finds out the almighty Lucien Thorne tackled a journalist in the hallway and had her dragged out in cuffs.” Silence. Then— A low chuckle. Dark. Amused. “Bold,” he murmured, releasing me. “And dumb. But bold.” I turned around slowly, watching him with every ounce of defiance I had left. He studied me—eyes narrowed, lips slightly curled. Then he said something I never expected. “I’m not going to have you arrested.” That threw me. “You’re not?” He took a step closer. “No. You’re going to do something far more useful for me.” I blinked. “Excuse me?” Lucien paced once, hands in his pockets, as if mulling over chess moves. “My council wants me mated,” he said simply. “Publicly. Permanently. It’s the only way to cement my leadership and end the power challenges from smaller packs. A Luna by my side silences bloodline rumors.” I laughed, disbelieving. “You need a fake girlfriend?” He looked me dead in the eye. “No. I need a fake fiancée. Someone convincing. Temporary. Disposable.” My jaw locked. “You’re insane if you think I’m going to parade around as some glorified breeding prop for your political convenience.” “Maybe. But here’s the catch, sweetheart—if you don’t? I leaked the security footage. One call to the press, and you’re the story: stalker journalist caught trespassing on sacred werewolf land. That’s blacklisted at best, jail time at worst. Your career? Done.” I flinched, just for a second. He saw it. “Six months,” he said. “Just six. Long enough for a staged engagement, a few photos, and a couple of appearances at council gatherings. You smile, you wear a ring, and I keep your secret.” I hesitated. My entire body buzzed with fury and intrigue. Because what didn’t he know? Was this offer the key to unlocking everything I needed? Evidence. Access. Proximity. If I played along, I could dig deeper, gather proof, and finally connect him to the black-market blood oath network that had gotten my sister killed. He thought he was using me. He had no idea I was already plotting how to burn him down. I tilted my head. “And in return?” “I don’t ruin you,” he said, smiling. “And I’ll even throw in a press pass. A real one.” “How generous.” He stepped close enough that I could feel the heat radiating off his body. “What do you say, little fox? Want to make a deal with the devil?” My hand trembled slightly as I reached into his jacket’s inner pocket and pulled out the sleek leather folio he’d already prepared. Of course, he had a contract ready. Bastard. I scanned the terms quickly: No s*x, no real mating, no marking. Public appearances required. Must reside in the estate. God. He’d really thought this through. I clicked the pen open. Glared at him. “I’m only doing this because I have nothing to lose.” “I’m counting on that.” I signed. Lucien smirked—and leaned in so close his lips nearly brushed mine. “Hope you packed,” he said. “You’re moving in tonight.”