Alpha VS Omega' Twin VS Twin (A Dark Werewolf Romance)

POV: Callum BrennanLocation: Brennan Townhouse, KensingtonTime: New Year's EveI watch my brother work the room like he was born to it. Seven minutes older, and Cormac's never let anyone forget it.The Brennan townhouse looks Georgian from the street. Pale stone, black railings, the kind of old money elegance that makes humans assume we're bankers or barristers. Inside, it smells like pack. Fur and dominance and belonging. The New Year's Eve party is in full swing. Born wolves in designer suits, turned wolves serving drinks, Omega servants keeping to the walls where they belong.Tonight's the night. Father's officially naming Cormac as heir. Everyone knows it already, but pack tradition demands the ceremony. I'm fine with it. Cormac will be Alpha, I'll be his Beta, and we'll lead together the way Father and Uncle Declan did. The way twins are supposed to."Callum." My father's voice cuts through the noise. Alpha Ronan Brennan commands attention without trying. Sixty years old, built

POV: Callum BrennanLocation: Brennan Townhouse, KensingtonTime: Day After DeathI wake up on the couch in Father's sitting room. Sunlight cuts through the curtains. My neck aches from the angle I slept at. Sarah's asleep in the armchair across from me, still wearing last night's dress.The house is quiet. Too quiet for a building full of pack members.I stand carefully, trying not to wake Sarah. My phone says it's nine in the morning. New Year's Day. Father's been dead for nine hours.Voices from downstairs. The pack's still here. Some of them must have stayed all night. In times of crisis, wolves cluster. It's instinct. We need the security of the group.I find Beta Declan in the kitchen, making coffee. Uncle Declan's always been solid. Steady. The kind of wolf who doesn't panic, doesn't dramatize. Just handles whatever needs handling."Morning," I say.Declan looks up. There are shadows under his eyes. "Didn't sleep?""Some. You?""Not really." Declan pours me coffee without askin

POV: Madame VioletteLocation: The Crimson Room, SohoTime: Ten Days After Alpha Ronan's DeathI watch Cormac Brennan enter The Crimson Room for the third time this week. Young wolf, barely Alpha, trying so hard to look confident. Mordaunt was right. Ambitious and stupid is a delicious combination.The club's busy tonight. Twenty vampires feeding, twice that many humans offering themselves up like livestock. The smell of blood and venom hangs thick in the air. New converts always wrinkle their noses. Cormac's getting used to it. That's good. Means he's coming back enough to acclimate.I'm at the bar, exactly where Mordaunt told me to be. Red dress, expensive jewelry, looking like money and class. Cormac's eyes find me. Of course they do. I'm the only woman alone at the bar, and werewolves are predictable creatures.I let him approach. Don't look too eager. Men like Cormac need to think they're making the first move."Madame Violette." Cormac's voice is trying for casual. Failing sligh

POV: Multiple CharactersLocation: Various Rookeries Locations, East EndTime: Same WeekSILASI catalog bodies in my warehouse at three AM. Twenty-three corpses this week. Supernatural deaths the Veil keeps humans from noticing. Werewolves, vampires, fae, all ending up on my tables eventually.The Rookeries provide steady inventory. Packless wolves going feral get put down. Vampire disputes end bloody. Fae bargains go wrong. Everyone dies eventually. I profit from the dying.My warehouse is in Shadwell, near the docks. Far enough from human traffic that bodies coming and going don't raise questions. Close enough to supernatural activity that I'm convenient.The newest arrival is werewolf. Male, maybe thirty, dead two days. Silver poisoning from the smell. Someone stabbed him with a silver blade and left him to die slow. Packless, judging by the lack of pack scent. No one to avenge him, no one to claim the body.Perfect for my purposes.I photograph the corpse from every angle. Docume

POV: Isla ReidLocation: Council Estate & Isla's Flat, SouthwarkTime: Night of Attack Through Three Days LaterI wake up on concrete. Cold, wet, pain everywhere.My throat's on fire. I touch it. Wet. Blood. Fresh blood soaking through my fingers.The memories come back. The man. Marcus. Teeth. The bite.I'm still alive.That's wrong. The wound should have killed me. Torn throat, major blood loss. I should be dead or dying.I force myself to sit up. The world spins. Nausea hits hard. I lean over and vomit blood onto the pavement.When the heaving stops, I check my throat again. The wound's there. I can feel ragged edges, torn flesh. But the bleeding's slowing. Actually slowing, like my body's closing the wound on its own.That's impossible.I need a hospital. Need help. Need to report what happened.Except what did happen? A man bit me. Said something about turning, about tests, about forty percent mortality. None of that makes sense. Must have been drugged. Hallucinating.But the wou