Alpha Jacobs POV
Astonishment seized Jennifer and Thomas upon entering the office; their father's presence was utterly unexpected. A strained, artificial smile plastered Jennifer's face as she embraced him, her words of affection—a professed longing for his company—ringing hollow. He responded with a paternal pat to her head, a curt "Me too, kiddo," betraying a veiled emotion. His gaze, weighty with unspoken meaning, commanded them to be seated. A momentous conversation, he declared, awaited them.
The words hung in the air, thick and acrid, like the stench of stale incense in a forgotten temple. "I hear whispers," the father rasped, his voice a gravelly whisper that slithered into Jennifer's ears, "that you and Thomas… are *mates*." Jennifer's response was a grotesque parody of grief – a choked sob, a shuddering breath, her eyes, usually glittering with ambition, now veiled in a manufactured mist of sorrow. A single, slow nod, like a viper acknowledging its prey. "First," he continued, his gaze boring into her, cold and sharp as shattered glass, "you must reject each other. Only then can you marry my son." A manic gleam replaced the false sadness. Jennifer's laughter, high-pitched and brittle, shattered the suffocating silence. "Of *course*, sir," she shrieked, the words tasting of triumph, of victory snatched from the jaws of deceit. The scent of her perfume, usually delicate and floral, now seemed cloying, sickeningly sweet. Thomas's roar ripped through the room, a primal bellow that shook the very foundations. His face, usually handsome and charming, contorted into a mask of furious betrayal. "That is *not* going to happen," he snarled, his voice laced with a desperate, possessive fury. The muscles in his jaw clenched, a vein throbbing like a frantic pulse at his temple. "She is *mine*."
"She was yours, boy," my father snarled, the words a venomous spit in the stale air, thick with the scent of woodsmoke and fear. "But she's contracted to my son. And that contract will be *honored*. Try anything, and I will personally tear you apart. Piece by fucking piece." His eyes, usually the steely grey of a winter storm, blazed with a feverish light, the veins in his temples throbbing like angry worms beneath his skin.
He spun on his heel, his heavy boots thudding against the rough-hewn floorboards, the sound a brutal percussion against the suffocating silence. "Jacob," he barked, his voice a raw rasp, "I've heard enough. This ends now." The taste of bile rose in my throat.
"A rogue attack? *Why*?"
I roared, the question a desperate cry ripping through the sudden, suffocating tension. The air hung heavy with the metallic tang of blood – a phantom smell, a premonition. My father's laughter was a chilling thing, devoid of humor, a sound that clawed at my sanity. "We need a reason to keep the Alpha here longer. I need… *time* to finish my plan." Terror, cold and clammy, gripped us all. My freinds, usually so boisterous, stood frozen, their faces pale masks in the flickering firelight. Had madness finally claimed my father? Had the weight of his ambition crushed his soul? He stood, a towering figure silhouetted against the dying embers, his form radiating a terrifying stillness. The silence pressed down, suffocating, punctuated only by the erratic thump-thump-thump of my own heart. "We will talk more tomorrow," he said, his voice a low growl. "Tonight… prepare for the rogues."
"My dear Jennifer," her father purred, his voice thick with a potent blend of command and desire, "would you be so kind as to guide this elderly gentleman to his chambers?" Jennifer rose, a subtle tremor of anticipation in her posture. "It would be my distinct honor, Alpha," she replied, her tone a silken counterpoint to his demanding whisper.
Thomas looks at me, his eyes blazing with a mixture of anger and hurt, and spits out, "What the hell is going on?" My neck burns where my fingers rub, the gesture a pathetic attempt to soothe the turmoil inside me. A minute stretches into an eternity. The silence screams with unspoken accusations. I don't want to talk to Thomas. After what he did—betraying me with *her*, trusting her venomous lies—I should walk away. My pride, my wounded honor, screams for vengeance, a satisfying, brutal severing of ties. But he's my only hope, my last, desperate lifeline in this nightmare. He's my only chance to unravel this twisted web of deceit before it consumes me entirely. His throat clears, the sound brittle and strained.
"I'm sorry," he begins, his voice barely a whisper, "I didn't tell you… she promised she would. She said she didn't want to be with you anymore. She lied. She told me you weren't together either, after she found out I was her mate."
The confession hangs heavy in the air, a suffocating weight. The words tear at something deep inside me, a raw, exposed nerve. He loved her, believed her, even when the signs should have been screaming. My own foolishness feels like a betrayal. "I believed her," he continues, his voice cracking.
"Because I love her. She's my mate." The confession is a knife twisting in my gut. He's hurting, I can see it in the brimming tears, the tremor in his hands. He's hurting as badly as I am, but that doesn't erase the bitter taste of his betrayal. The image of them together—laughing, touching, sharing secrets—haunts me, twists the knife deeper. A cold, calculating voice whispers in my ear: *Use this. Use his pain. His vulnerability.* It's a path to revenge, a chance to exact justice for the agonizing pain she's inflicted. But that voice, that insidious suggestion, violates everything I believe in. It's a path paved with darkness, a descent into the very ugliness I despise. I look at Thomas, at the raw vulnerability etched on his face, and know I'm facing a choice that will define me. I can leverage his pain, exploit his weakness, manipulate him for my own ends. I can use his trust to achieve my own selfish goals, to get my revenge, to reclaim what's been stolen from me. But in doing so, I'll become something I hate. And even if I succeed, I will be irrevocably tainted. This is the terrible choice I face – and I know, deep down, I'm going to make the wrong one.
"I won't marry Jennifer," I spat at Thomas, the words tasting like ash in my mouth. The stench of betrayal clung to the air, thick and suffocating as I recounted my father's venomous pronouncements. His words, a viper's strike aimed at River, echoed in my ears – the King's wrath, a storm brewing on the horizon. Thomas's gasp was a strangled bird, his eyes wide with a terror that mirrored my own. "The King…he'll kill him," he choked out. A grim smile twisted my lips. "I'm counting on it," I hissed, the words a cold promise. "Then I'm free. Free from Jennifer, and you can have her. Keep her." The image of her, her cold, calculating gaze, burned into my retinas; a vision as sharp and painful as a shard of ice. Thomas shook his head, his face a mask of grim determination. "I don't want her either. This forced union is a festering wound. I will reject her. Mate bond or not, her disdain for me is a palpable thing. I can feel it; a suffocating pressure on my soul." The weight of his unspoken words hung heavy between us, a shared burden of defiance against a fate as cruel and inescapable as a death sentence.
Thomas and I shared a laugh, the kind that bubbles up from deep within, our eyes crinkling with mirth. Oh, the irony of it all! We knew Jennifer, the queen of manipulation, was about to get a taste of her own medicine. "She's going to love losing us both," Thomas chuckled, and I couldn't help but agree. "Jennifer deserves everything she's about to get," I added, feeling a sense of mischievous satisfaction.