The Rejected daughter chosen by the Alpha (Maya and Atila) novel Chapter 2

CHAPTER 2

~ ÁTILA

I came back to myself with two warm bodies draped over mine.

The room still smelled like sex—thick, sharp, impossible to pretend it hadn’t happened. My hand slid over the blonde’s flawless curve, her skin soft and yielding under my fingers.

She whispered against my chest, voice rough and satisfied.

“None of the Alphas are like you. None.”

A slow smile tugged at my mouth.

“And how many did you have to try before you figured that out, sweetheart?”

“Enough.”

Before I could say anything else, the brunette shifted. Her red nails dragged down my chest—half warning, half promise—while her other hand slipped under the sheet like she owned me, finding me already halfway hard.

“You even control the air we breathe,” she murmured, her lips so close to mine it felt like she was stealing my oxygen on purpose.

I caught her chin and made her look at me.

“That’s what you like,” I said, low and sharp. “Being told what to do.”

The blonde buried her face against my thigh, her answer a muffled moan.

“Only when it’s you.”

The brunette’s grip tightened and a rough sound ripped out of me before I could stop it.

Sometimes I forgot what it felt like to breathe without the whole damn world strapped to my spine.

Being Alpha wasn’t just ruling.

It was carrying.

Land. Treaties. Bloodlines. Names powerful enough to start wars if someone said them wrong.

While everyone else slept, I was thinking about the young wolves itching to prove themselves by tearing throats open. The old councilors who still believed they had a vote. The borders that needed guarding. The families who expected protection like it was as easy as breathing.

Everything ran through me.

Every dispute. Every mistake. Every drop of blood spilled for loyalty or pride.

And in the end, nobody saw what it cost.

The omegas in my bed weren’t indulgence. They were survival.

Every day I went without one, my body started to break down—like something inside me was slowly rotting out. It wasn’t a choice. It wasn’t a craving.

It was instinct.

Only after I fucked did the strength come back. And the rougher it was, the quieter the beast inside me got.

It was the only thing that kept me from snapping.

The only way to cage the chaos living under my skin.

That was why, that morning, I refused any reception.

I didn’t want fake smiles.

Didn’t want rehearsed compliments.

Didn’t want to stand there while families bowed and tried to look useful.

And I sure as hell didn’t want to see the Melrose daughters.

Too sweet on the outside. Too hungry underneath. Always polished, always smiling like they could already feel a crown settling on their heads.

I knew the game.

I knew what hid behind every bow and every expensive gift.

Ambition.

They wanted the Volkov name. They wanted the power.

But not one of them had the faintest idea what it meant to carry an entire pack on your back and still keep walking.

I got out of bed, peeling the two women off me and leaving them tangled in the sheets. One of them reached for me, trying to pull me back.

I didn’t even slow down.

The stone floor was ice under my feet—cold enough to drag me straight back into reality.

I stepped onto the balcony and filled my lungs with Moonville’s heavy air. Even in the morning, the sky stayed dark, smothered under clouds that never seemed to break.

Here, the sun didn’t win.

Night always did.

I pulled on my pants and headed downstairs. My footsteps echoed through the marble hall, the sound slicing clean through the silence.

“Miss Langford,” I murmured when I spotted her waiting on the first floor.

My housekeeper. My Beta. The woman who kept this home—and this pack—from falling apart.

Langford was made of iron and patience, and she was the only living soul who still dared to look me in the eye without shaking.

“What’s with that face?” I asked, my voice low but edged.

“Nothing, sir,” she said, lowering her gaze just enough to show respect. “I only wanted to inform you the Melroses’ maid came by. She delivered a family relic.”

“Great.” I didn’t stop walking. “Another gift from people who think flattery is currency.”

The double doors opened before I could even ask why.

Lavender hit me first—sweet, old-fashioned, unmistakable.

Mrs. Volkov.

My mother.

She appeared in the corridor like she belonged to the shadows themselves. A gray velvet cloak swept the floor, her white hair braided with perfect precision, and her eyes—

Those eyes had watched centuries pass without blinking. Without fear.

And somehow, she still saw everything.

“Átila.”

“Mother.”

Langford dipped into a small bow.

“Mrs. Volkov. Would you like me to prepare tea?”

“No, Beatrice.” My mother’s tone softened, but only slightly. “Go rest. Your body knows it’s past midnight, even if the clock insists on lying.”

Langford nodded and slipped away, leaving only the distant moan of wind against stained glass.

“So,” I said, folding my arms, “you decided to visit at the crack of hell. I’m honored.”

“Don’t waste sarcasm on me, son,” she said calmly. “I carried you. I know exactly what you sound like when you’re lying.”

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