Flash Marriage To The Hidden Alpha King

Isla Pacheco POV:

The man's wrist felt like solid steel under my fingers.

He slowly turned his head. Even in the dim ambient light filtering from the streetlamps, the sheer intensity of his gaze pinned me where I stood.

Water dripped from his pitch-black hair, tracing down high cheekbones and a jawline so sharp it looked carved from granite. His eyes were an icy, piercing blue, devoid of any warmth.

A rough black ring circled his left ear, and the collar of his damp trench coat hung slightly open, revealing a faded, jagged claw scar across his collarbone.

He wore no luxury crests, and his scent was suppressed so thoroughly that he smelled like nothing more than cold mountain rain. In our territory, only one kind of wolf looked like this: a Rogue. An unregistered, drifting stray working odd jobs in underground districts to survive.

"Let go," he said. His voice was a low, raspy rumble that vibrated through my bones.

Instead of releasing him, I tightened my grip on his wet sleeve and looked straight into his glacial eyes. "Do you need money? Or a legitimate residential status in this province?"

His icy blue eyes narrowed slightly. A flicker of dark amusement crossed his features as he looked down at me. "Are you proposing to a stranger on the street?"

"It's a business transaction," I said through chattering teeth, forcing my voice not to shake. "Walk inside with me right now. I will pay you a hefty compensation fee. We stay out of each other's way, and we dissolve the contract whenever you want. Yes or no?"

The man remained silent for two long seconds. Then, his large hand turned, his fingers wrapping around my wrist with enough force to steal my breath.

Without a single word, he pulled me through the double glass doors of the Pack Registry.

The fluorescent lights inside the lobby buzzed loudly. Behind the heavy wooden counter, the night clerk, Gary Kowalski, was slouched over a crossword puzzle. When we barged in dripping wet, Gary nearly knocked over his paper cup of coffee.

"What do you two need... a Blood-Oath registration?" Gary began, adjusting his thick glasses.

Then his eyes drifted toward the man standing beside me.

Gary's face instantly drained of all color. His jaw dropped, his hands began to shake uncontrollably, and he scrambled out of his swivel chair so fast it rolled backward and slammed into the filing cabinet.

I assumed the clerk was terrified of the man's intimidating, scarred Rogue appearance. Stepping slightly in front of my companion, I placed my hands on the counter. "Yes. We need an immediate provisional Blood-Oath contract."

The man remained standing directly behind me. He cast a single, freezing glance at Gary.

Gary swallowed hard, nodding like a broken bobblehead. "Y-Yes! Immediately! Right away, ma'am!"

Gary's hands trembled so violently that he dropped the silver lancing needle twice before laying two thick sheets of parchment and the silver tool onto the counter. In our world, silver was the sole lethal element capable of burning a wolf's flesh and neutralizing our healing, so even a tiny sterile draw needle carried a sharp, instinctive sting.

"Under metropolitan pack statutes," Gary recited in a trembling squeak, staring fixedly at the desk, "a provisional Blood-Oath is legally binding once blood is sealed onto the array, even without a physical bite mark or completed Marking."

I picked up the silver needle and pricked my index finger without hesitation, pressing a dark drop of blood onto the intricate gold-stamped circle on my parchment.

I turned to look at the man.

He didn't touch the silver needle. Instead, he raised his thumb and dragged his own sharp, elongated claw across his skin. A thick drop of dark crimson blood welled up and dripped cleanly into the center of his document.

The moment our blood touched the parchment arrays, a dull red light flared across the paper, pulsed once, and sank deep into the fibers. The legal bond was established.

"Names for the ledger," Gary whispered, his head bowed low.

"Isla Pacheco," I stated clearly.

"Cullen," the man muttered simply.

No surname. No family lineage.

I let out a quiet breath. A stray Rogue who didn't even have a registered surname was exactly what I needed—someone completely outside the corporate politics of the high packs who wouldn't dare interfere with my life.

Gary stamped both copies at lightning speed and shoved them across the marble counter with two hands, never daring to raise his eyes.

We stepped back out into the cool night air. The rain had finally stopped, leaving a chilling breeze that made me shiver violently in my damp clothes.

Cullen stopped at the bottom of the steps. He reached into the deep pocket of his trench coat, pulled out a matte-black keycard with gold trim, and held it out between two long fingers.

"What is this?" I asked, looking at the card.

"Our residence," he said flatly. "Crestview Heights, Unit 402."

I stared at him in utter disbelief. "Crestview Heights? That's the most secure luxury residential tower in the central district. Even Finley saved for five years just to rent a basic unit on the outer edge!"

I looked at his worn coat and the claw scar on his neck. "Where did you get this? Are you working as a night watchman there?"

Cullen didn't answer. He stepped forward and pressed the heavy card firmly into my cold palm.

The moment his warm skin brushed against mine, a strange, electric spark shot up my arm, making my heart skip a beat.

"Move your luggage in tomorrow," he said, his deep voice carrying an undeniable weight of authority. "Don't make me wait, Isla."

He turned and walked away into the shadows of the alley before I could utter another word.