Chapter 8: The Alpha's Cage
The air in the King's Corporation penthouse office was sterile, offering Kael no reprieve from the turmoil brewing beneath his skin. The silence was unnerving, broken only by the low, insistent hum of the denied mate bond. He had successfully exiled Anya for the rest of the week, but the distance only amplified the ache of her absence, a searing, constant reminder of his loss of control.
Eamon arrived precisely at the hour Kael had commanded, accompanied by a young woman whose steps were too light and whose smile was too bright.
"Alpha, this is Lauren Hayes," Eamon introduced, his voice strictly professional, though his eyes held a subtle, assessing tension. "She's stepping in as temporary Executive Assistant for the remainder of the week. Lauren, this is Alpha Kael."
Lauren, dressed conservatively in a new, slightly too-large suit, offered a nervous, eager handshake. "It's an honor, Mr. Kael. I'm prepared to handle any organizational tasks you might need."
Kael barely glanced at her. His attention was fixed on the digital report in his hand. "The honor is mine, Ms. Hayes. Eamon, ensure she has access to all necessary communication channels. I need total efficiency. Now, both of you are dismissed."
They exited quickly, recognizing the Alpha's strained mood.
Kael returned to his screen, pulling up the Q2 fund allocation document Dr. Varma had submitted yesterday. Her analysis was meticulously correct: she had denied Eamon's request for a 30% capital diversion into subterranean expansion, deeming it "financially unnecessary" and blocking a critical security measure for the Pack. Kael made a mental note, cold and sharp: Varma needed to be handled immediately before she compromised their finances further.
He reached out to hit the intercom, already formulating the commands in his mind.
"Anya," Kael snapped into the speaker, the name slipping out, automatic and smooth, honed by years of habit and the constant thrum of his wolf's possessive demand. "Set a meeting with Dr. Varma for—"
The intercom clicked. Instead of the digital confirmation tone, the door opened hesitantly. Lauren Hayes stood there, looking utterly confused.
"I apologize, Mr. Kael," Lauren began gently. "My name is Lauren. Anya… I believe Ms. Malik is excused for the rest of the week."
Kael felt a slow, terrible heat climb his neck. The slip was unforgivable. Not only had he betrayed the mate bond by calling out the name he swore to banish, but he had done so in front of a human employee, exposing the profound chaos simmering beneath his corporate mask.
"I am aware of her status, Ms. Hayes," Kael bit out, his voice sharp enough to draw blood. He leaned back in his chair, forcing his rage back into the glacial blue of his eyes. "My thoughts were elsewhere. Get out. And do not enter my office again unless I call you by your name."
Lauren fled, shutting the door softly.
Kael shoved the finance file away, the corporate world suddenly suffocating. The scent of her—faintly lingering on the air, mixed with the memory of the delicate curves of her jaw—was overwhelming. He saw the flash of gold in her eyes during the meeting, the subtle curve of her neck, and the phantom ache of his hands gripping her waist. He was losing control, paralyzed by denial and a depth of passion he refused to accept.
He stood abruptly, needing to burn the energy away. He needed noise, exertion, and the pure, raw hierarchy of the Pack to remind him who he was.
He grabbed his discarded suit jacket and headed for the private elevator. The office was too small for his rage.
The Training Ground
The transition from the sterile glass of Sterling City to the cold, damp earth of the Hearthlands was immediate. Kael stepped out of his black SUV, pulling the air deep into his lungs. The Packhouse was built into the industrial complex, a hidden den beneath a decaying facade.
Warriors and omegas working nearby instantly bowed, sensing the Alpha's unusually sharp, almost brittle aura.
Eamon met him at the entrance, his face grave. He had known Kael since they were pups, and he recognized the stiff posture and barely contained violence of a man who was moments from snapping.
"Alpha," Eamon greeted, his concern evident. "I thought you were scheduled to meet with the Elders."
Kael brushed past him, his eyes already fixed on the training grounds, a vast, dirt-packed arena humming with raw, suppressed energy. "Cancelled. I need a spar. Now."
The air in the arena was heavy with sweat, dust, and raw, shifting energy. Two elite warriors were sparring, but as Kael approached, silence fell. They instinctively straightened, muscles tensing.
Kael stalked the perimeter, his movements predatory. His wolf was thrumming, demanding a fight—any fight—to release the pressure of the mate bond.
"You're all slow today," Kael said, his voice cold and minimalist, cutting through the tense air. "Embarrassingly slow. Your complacency will get the Pack killed."
The fighters exchanged nervous glances, recognizing the Alpha's irrationality.
Kael shrugged off his expensive suit jacket and tore the charcoal grey shirt over his head, tossing it aside. He stood bare-chested: a testament to contained werewolf power. His pacs were defined, hard knots of muscle, and his abs were etched into his powerful torso, barely contained by the tension in his stance.
He pointed a commanding finger at three of the strongest wolves: Rowan (the brutal, tactical fighter), Jace (the fast, impulsive scout), and Theo (the heavy-hitter).
"All of you. Now."
They hesitated, knowing that Kael in this state was seeking not a challenge, but a sacrifice. Kael's voice dropped to a low, dangerous command: "Shift if you need to. I don't care."
Wolf vs. Alpha Monster
The fight began human-to-human. Kael was a blur of motion, powered by his rage. Rowan lunged first, a flurry of trained fists; Kael blocked with his forearm, the impact barely shaking him. Jace tried to sweep Kael's legs; Kael countered with a vicious heel smash to Jace's knee. When Theo charged, Kael dodged, pivoting with the grace of a predator, and slammed a precise, vicious elbow into Theo's jaw.
Kael was faster, his blows fueled by the buried guilt of striking Anya—a guilt he was now transferring to these three men.
Rowan, blood trickling from his lip, growled, "He's not fighting normal! Shift!"
All three men transformed instantly, their bodies exploding into massive, powerful wolves—a brown coat for Rowan, a sleek black for Jace, and a bulky grey for Theo. The air thickened with the raw musk of their aggressive shifts.
Kael stood alone, chest heaving, his eyes already beginning to glow a fierce, feral gold. He didn't need to fully shift. He let his wolf bleed through just enough to become a monster. His claws extended from his fingertips, sharp and lethal, and the air around him became thick with absolute Alpha dominance.
Rowan's wolf was the first to attack, leaping high at Kael's throat. Kael met him mid-air, grabbed the scruff of his neck, and slammed the heavy wolf body down into the dust. Jace tried to go for Kael's side; Kael spun, his extended claws grazing black fur, ripping a loud whine from Jace.
Theo lunged, teeth snapping, but Kael caught him by the head, throwing the massive grey wolf across the ring where he hit the perimeter wall with a sickening thud.
Rowan's wolf, desperate, managed to snap down on Kael's bare forearm. Kael didn't flinch. He let his jaw shift slightly, exposing the elongated canines of his wolf form, and bit down harder on Rowan's neck. The pain, the taste of Pack blood, was a necessary anchor for the rage. Kael was vicious, graceful, and utterly lethal.
He knocked them down one by one, pinning Rowan under his clawed hand, leaving Jace dazed and panting, and Theo rolling onto his back in submission.
The entire ring was dead silent. Kael's voice was a low, dangerous growl that commanded the very air they breathed.
"Again."
The warriors, terrified and bleeding, didn't dare move.
The Truth of the Rage
Eamon, whose face was etched with deep concern, stepped forward, breaking the terrifying tension.
"Kael, stop. They're done. You proved your point."
Kael's eyes flashed gold, still deep in the wolf's grip, his muscles straining against the human skin. He slowly released Rowan, whose wolf immediately scrambled away, tucking its tail.
Kael straightened, the gold fading back to icy blue, the claws receding. Sweat and a fine mist of blood dripped from his forearm. He wiped his jaw, and the subtle, persistent memory of Anya's warm skin against his, her breathless voice from the night before, flooded his senses. His mate. His salvation.
Get her back, the wolf whispered, not in command, but in agonizing need.
Kael clenched his jaw, the rage returning, this time aimed squarely at himself. He had almost killed three loyal wolves because he couldn't handle the truth of his mate.
He turned to Eamon, his voice now entirely cold, void of all emotion.
"Pull every satellite image, every financial transaction, every scrap of intelligence on Malik's movements near the Hearthlands industrial site," Kael ordered.
Eamon tensed, recognizing the sudden pivot from self-destruction to strategic focus.
"Is this about the Code, Kael?" Eamon asked, risking the question. "Or is this about Anya?"
Kael didn't answer. His silence was colder, more condemning, than any truth could have been. He only waited for Eamon to nod in obedience before turning his back on the devastation he had wrought. He had to replace his internal chaos with external war.