Divorced by the Alpha, Claimed by the Rogue

Lucian’s pov

The whiskey burned a familiar trail down my throat, but tonight it did nothing to dull the static in my head. I stared into the amber liquid, swirling it slowly in the glass, lost somewhere between Alina’s face and the weight of everything else pressing down on me. The silence in the room felt heavier than usual.

The door slammed open.

Ragnar strode in, boots heavy on the wooden floor, his usual smirk missing. "Operation went smooth this time. We moved everything."

I lifted my head. "But?"

"But the cops might be onto us. We sold way more than we planned. Word spread too fast."

A jagged laugh tore out of me before I could stop it. Sharp. Bitter. "That’s good news, Ragnar. Means we all eat well this month. Profits are profits."

He didn’t laugh with me. Ragnar crossed his arms, watching me like he was weighing his next words. "I want to be happy about it, Lucian. I do. But it’s a big risk. And... a couple of teenagers died from the last batch. Their bodies couldn’t handle it."

My eyes widened. The glass froze halfway to my lips. "What the fuck did you just say?"

Ragnar shifted uncomfortably. "Fake IDs, man. A lot of them. Kids are getting smarter about it."

I pushed my hair back roughly, fingers digging into my scalp. Of all the things I hated in this fucked-up world, watching teenage kids throw their lives away sat at the very top. They had futures. Packs. Families. And here we were, feeding them poison disguised as freedom.

"It wasn’t good," I said quietly. My voice came out colder than I intended. "I’m coming to the next operation myself."

Ragnar opened his mouth, probably to argue, but I shot him a look that shut him up.

The night air was thick with smoke and the low thump of bass when we set up the next operation. People moved like shadows under the dim lights—buyers, runners, watchers. I stayed back at first, observing. Then one kid stepped up to the table.

He handed over his ID with shaky fingers. Twenty-one, it claimed. But when I looked into his eyes, I saw the fear. The lie.

"How old are you?" I asked, voice low.

"Twenty-one," he mumbled, but his scent screamed otherwise.

I grabbed his wrist, squeezing just enough to make my point without breaking bone. "I’ll kill you if I find out you’re underage. Right here. No hesitation."

The boy’s face crumpled. "F-fifteen... I’m fifteen."

Rage and something heavier—disappointment—twisted in my chest. I growled, deep and menacing, letting the sound rumble through him. "Bring out your friends. Now. I know you’re not alone."

Trembling, he waved over two other boys hiding near the edge. I dragged all three into the back room, away from the noise. The door slammed shut behind us. They looked small under the single bulb, eyes wide with terror.

I towered over them, letting the intimidation do half the work. "If your parents found out about this, they’d be disappointed as hell. You’d have no pack. No respect. Nothing."

One of them lifted his chin, trying to act brave. "I want to be a rogue. Like you guys. Free. No family controlling me."

I laughed. It came out harsh, echoing off the walls. "If you had a good family, kid, you’d be grateful. Don’t throw that away just because you want to feel ’free.’ Being a rogue sounds romantic until you’re bleeding out alone with no one who gives a shit."

They stayed silent, staring at their shoes.

"People have died from this stuff," I continued, voice quieter now. "Their bodies can’t take it. You won’t either. I don’t want to see your faces here again. Ever. Live a respectable life. That’s the only advice I’m giving you."

One of the boys looked up at me, eyes shining with something like awe. "You’re the coolest person. If you had a pack... I’d definitely join it."

The words hit like a silver bullet.

I cleared my throat and stepped back. "Get out of here. Don’t come back."

They nodded quickly and scrambled out.

The boys’ footsteps faded into the night, but their words stuck to me like fresh blood.

You’re the coolest person. I’d join your pack.

I lit a cigarette and leaned against the cold brick wall outside the warehouse, the smoke curling up into the dark sky. Ragnar was still watching me, that knowing look on his face that always pissed me off. He knew too much. Knew the old scars. Knew why I laughed it off.

"Boss," he started again, voice lower. "You don’t have to keep living like this. Exiled. Rogue. We could—"

"Drop it," I cut him off, sharper than I meant to. The whiskey from earlier mixed with the nicotine, leaving a bitter taste. "I meant what I said. I’m good with this life."

But was I?

As Ragnar walked back inside to handle the rest of the operation, I stayed out there, staring at nothing. The image kept flashing—me at the head of a real pack. Strong walls. Loyal wolves. A mate by my side. Kids who looked up to me instead of running from me. Then the memory twisted, same as always: the betrayal, the casting out, the cold nights with no one at my back. I crushed the cigarette under my boot.

Fuck that dream.

My phone buzzed in my pocket. I pulled it out fast, heart kicking up when I saw her name. Alina.

Can’t stop thinking about you. Be careful.

A small smile tugged at my lips for the first time all evening. She was still there. Still mine, even if Aiden’s shadow hung over her like a noose. I typed back quickly.

I will be. I love you.

I slipped the phone away and headed back inside. The operation was winding down, but the air still reeked of sweat, cheap cologne, and that sharp chemical edge of the product. My people moved efficiently—packing, counting cash, watching the perimeter. They respected me. Feared me a little. But it wasn’t a pack. It was survival.