Double Alphas, Triple Secrets

Eight Years Ago

My fists hammer against the solid wood of my bedroom door, the impact reverberating up my arms until I feel the sharp sting of my nails threatening to splinter. Crimson smears streak the pristine white paint—a violent contrast to the sterile perfection my family upholds. Absurdly, this frantic struggle is the most normal part of my entire evening.

My mother’s voice, cold and detached, filters through the barrier. “The Alpha and his heirs are our guests tonight. We cannot risk them detecting your… condition while we secure our family’s standing.”

Naturally. Because what better exemplifies familial devotion than locking your nineteen-year-old daughter away during her first heat while you wine and dine pack royalty?

The Roscente family: masters of dysfunction, proudly upholding tradition since… well, forever.

My legs buckle, and I slide down the door’s surface as another scorching wave of heat engulfs me. It’s as if molten lava has been poured directly into my bloodstream, accompanied by a gnawing, primal hunger no one ever warned me about.

From below, the sounds of the formal dinner party drift upward—a symphony of cultivated laughter, the delicate chime of fine china, and my father’s authoritative baritone, playing the consummate host. I can picture my sister Olivia’s practiced, tinkling laugh as she undoubtedly clings to Benjamin, the impeccably groomed Alpha heir she’s claimed as her ultimate accessory.

And I’m here. Trapped. Drowning in a feverish prison of my own flesh.

My thighs press together instinctively, seeking a relief that remains agonizingly out of reach. Every nerve is alight, hypersensitive; the brush of my sweat-dampened sheets against my skin feels simultaneously like a caress and a scourge. A deep, rhythmic ache pulses at my core, syncing with my frantic heartbeat—insistent, degrading, and utterly inescapable.

This first heat ravages me with a brutality I was never prepared to face. Why would I be? Daughters without wolves don’t receive the talk. Our bodies aren’t supposed to betray us like this, hijacking every coherent thought and replacing it with raw, feral need.

My gratitude is boundless, Universe. Truly.

I crawl back toward the bed, each movement a fresh agony. My thin camisole is plastered to my skin, soaked through with perspiration that carries a cloying, desperate scent. The faintest graze of fabric over my peaked nipples sends electric jolts straight to that hollow, aching place between my legs, and I bite back a whimper that would surely travel straight to the dining hall.

This is heat. Not the flowery, romanticized version from pack legends where a noble Alpha arrives to soothe it all away.

This is a biological siege. My own physiology has mounted a coup, flooding me with hormones that shriek mate, now, need, while my conscious mind fights a losing battle for scraps of dignity.

Then, as if summoned by my torment, his scent invades the room through the vents. Rich, dark amber and woodsmoke—Benjamin.

My body betrays me instantly, igniting as if his hands are already on me, his mouth tracing paths across skin that burns for his touch. Every fiber of my being screams for something I cannot, will not, allow myself to want.

But my imagination, fueled by this fever, runs wild without consent.

I envision those hands—calloused from privileged Alpha training—gripping me, pulling me close as he murmurs apologies against my throat for every cutting remark he’s ever thrown my way since Olivia made him my personal tormentor back in high school.

I dig my fingernails deep into my own palms, the sharp pain a fleeting anchor.

Stop. Don’t.

The fantasy is merciless. In it, he looks at me with a reverence I’ve never seen, a desperate hunger as if I were a prize to be won, not the pack’s favorite object of ridicule.

It’s humiliating. I am humiliating.

A memory slices through the haze—Olivia, perched on a cafeteria table, my private journal held aloft in her perfectly manicured hand, reciting my clumsy, heartfelt poetry about Benjamin to a roaring crowd. “Can you even imagine an Alpha heir wanting a broken, wolfless thing like you?”

The pack had always looked down on me. But after that spectacle? I became a ghost when it suited them, a target when they needed amusement.

Olivia’s obsession with Benjamin began years ago, a campaign of conquest plotted since we were children. When she discovered my pathetic crush, she didn’t just humiliate me—she weaponized him. She made sure he understood my supposed repulsiveness, then paraded him as her trophy while orchestrating my social annihilation with chilling efficiency. The cruelest part? Her strategy succeeded.

Benjamin’s indifference transformed into active cruelty almost overnight. I was forced to watch the boy I’d foolishly adored become the one whose presence made my stomach clench with dread in every school corridor, at every pack event, at every agonizing family dinner where I had to witness them together.

A second scent washes over me then—crisp, wild pine and fresh rainfall. Alexander.

My body clenches around a devastating emptiness. A treacherous image flashes: pressed between them both, filled, claimed, utterly consumed—

Damn it. The heat doesn’t discriminate. It doesn’t care about past hurts or potential saviors. It only wants, with a wild, mindless desperation.

The evidence of my need slicks my inner thighs, my body preparing for an act that will never come to pass.

I remember those weeks after Benjamin turned, when Alexander started offering quiet smiles and lingering looks. A fragile hope had sparked—until the day I overheard him joking with his friends, my public mortification serving as prime entertainment.

His kindness? Likely just a bet. A wager on whether the desperate, wolfless girl was gullible enough to believe an Alpha heir could ever truly desire her.

Their combined scents—amber-smoke and pine-rain—make my skin feel too tight, like it might split apart. I crave friction, fullness, anything to silence the violent emptiness tearing me open from the inside.

Another crushing wave hits, and I shove my face into the pillow to muffle a broken sound. Rolling onto my side, I wedge my hand between my thighs, seeking just the pressure, past caring about the depths of my own pathetic state.

My father’s booming laughter vibrates through the floorboards, full of political maneuvering and power, while I’m sealed away upstairs like the family’s shameful secret.

My internal temperature spikes until I’m certain my skin will crack and blister. No one survives their first heat alone, they say. But asking for help means letting them scent me—desperate, soaked, and completely undone.

My fingers, trembling, find the window latch I’ve practiced unlocking since I was a girl. On the third try, it gives. Icy night air rushes in, a shock against my fevered skin as I tumble out barefoot onto the dew-slicked lawn, my legs nearly buckling.