Althea Nocturne is nothing but a wolfless omega rejected by her Alpha mate and framed for murdering his unborn heir.
With a pack baying for her blood and nowhere left to run, she flees into the one place no wolf dares tread: the Red Mist, where the Hellhound of the North makes his den.

Thorne Vargan is a creature of shadow and vengeance, the son of a Witch Luna burned alive by Althea's own mother. He swore to destroy everyone responsible and when Morgana's daughter stumbles bleeding into his hellish domain, he sees his chance.

He claims her as a captive. As the perfect tool to gut the pack system from within.

But the bond doesn't care about his plans for retribution. It doesn't care that she's the daughter of his enemy. It thrums for her with a fury that threatens to consume them both 

Her scent tempts the beast he's barely controlling, her fear feeds something he thought long dead while she bears secrets that could unravel everything he's built.

And while Thorne keeps her caged, the Alpha she fled is coming.
He wants his little omega back.
But Thorne isn't letting her go.

—

~Excerpt~

"Because," he said, his voice dropping to a husky growl that made my core clench, "my restraint is going to shatter if you keep touching me."
The words hung in the air between us.
I looked down, following his gaze, and saw it, the unmistakable bulge pressed against his pants, hard and straining.
My pheromones.
They were affecting him.
"I would like to take you up on your offer," he muttered, his voice rugged, tipping into ravenous.
Confusion whirled through me. "What offer?"
"The kiss," he whispered. "Not a peck, Thea."
My heart ceased beating, liquid fire filling my veins.
"I want tongue.”

—

Dark paranormal romance
Morally Grey ML
Forced proximity
Captor/Captive
ENEMIES to lovers
Fated mates
Angst
Smut

​My head throbbed and my back ached, but I wished that were the worst part of my body revolting against my will. But like everything else in my life, it could always be worse—and right now, it was.


​My core ebbed like it had its own heart, walls clenching rhythmically around nothing. It forced my pulse into a sprint that exhausted me before I even rose from bed. Like I had dreaded—and in a way, anticipated—my heat had come. It hit like a fucking club to the noggin.


​If food wasn't already unpalatable, now it just twisted my guts. The light from the windows had grown far too bright; the room swam before my eyes as if I'd downed a bottle of liquor.


Chapter 88 - Fever