Page 17 of Sold to Three Alpha Kings

“She’s shiftless,” the mean King says, voice flat. “I sense no wolf in her at all. Whatever she is, she’s of no use to us. Kill her and be done with it.”

“She’s of no use to us.”

That’s an anthem I’ve heard my whole life. From my father. From Elena. From that spoiled brat, Ricky. From half my village, muttered just quiet enough that they could pretend I hadn’t heard.

But there’s something about hearing it here, from a King who has never met me, who decided it within seconds of looking at me, that lands differently. Harder. Like it’s not really about me at all, like I’m just the latest surface he’s bounced the same old verdict off of.

And something in me, something that’s been swallowing insults for two and a half decades, finally cracks.

“I didn’t ask for any of this!”

The words are out before I fully decide to say them, hoarse and shaking but clear enough to cut through the room.

Every eye turns to me. I feel the mistake the second I’ve made it; I feel it land in my stomach like a stone dropped in still water, but it’s already loose in the air, and I can’t take it back.

“You—” The mean King’s head turns, slowly, and the temperature in the room seems to drop several degrees along with it. “A slave dare speak in front of her Kings without leave?”

I’m about to apologize when his pheromones hit before I even register what’s happening.

Pheromones? But I’ve never felt pheromones before…

A wave of something so cold and dense it feels physical, pressing against my skin. I stumble, catch myself against nothing, my whole body flinching from the sheer weight of it.

And then the sarcastic King answers it, hot where the other’s was cold, a rolling burn that fills the space behind my ribs and makes my knees threaten to give out entirely.

Sinth’s follows a half-second later—at least I know his name now—more controlled but no less overwhelming. All their pheromones collide in the air until I can barely tell where one ends and the next begins. The Kings start arguing amongst themselves; however, at this point, I’m too disoriented to focus.

I should be terrified. I am terrified. But underneath the fear, something else is happening, something worse, something I don’t have a name for yet.

My skin is on fire.

Not the sick, chemical burn of the drugs anymore. Something else, something that starts low in my belly and spreads outward fast, curling through my blood.

I can almost swear that it’s been waiting for exactly this moment to wake up. My breath goes ragged. My bloodied hands find the fabric of my tunic and grip it, knuckles white, because I need something to hold onto and there’s nothing else in this room that will have me.

The arguing stops.

All three of them go still at once, as though something’s reached out and grabbed hold of their attention mid-sentence. By the time I manage to lift my head and look at them properly, they’re already staring at me.

Not the way they were before. This isn’t assessment or disgust. No. It’s something else. Something raw and startled, cracking through all three of their expressions at once.

And I feel it too. Goodness me, I feel it. A pull. Strong, deep and instant. Terrifying. My whole body turns toward them, my heart racing with what feels an awful lot like an insatiable need.

I know what this is. I’ve heard the stories, whispered by girls in my village, giggled about like it’s the height of romance.

It’s the scent-match. A rare, cruel thing that happens between an Alpha and an Omega whose bodies recognize each other before their minds get any say in the matter.

My heart stops as the realization hits me hard.

These three are my fated mates.

But I’m not an Omega.

The horror of it lands somewhere underneath my ribs, sharp enough to steal what little breath I have left.

For one suspended moment, none of us move. None of us speak. The silence is deafening, and I can almost hear the sound of my heart hammering in my chest.

It’s clear as day. They know. They know I’m their fated mate—the reason for this whole selection ceremony.