The den at Graceland had become their sanctuary, a plush, shadowed world where the only scent that mattered was hers—that intoxicating blend of desert wind and power that made his head spin. To his omega soul, she was perfection, the answer to a prayer he hadn't even known how to whisper. Every instinct he possessed sang for her, a constant, thrumming chorus that this alpha was his destiny.

There was just one, glaring, infuriating flaw in this perfect picture: the bitch hanging off her arm.

The other omega was a pale, whining creature, all dark circles and a sallow complexion, her form soft in a way that spoke of indolence, not the lush, healthy curves a proper omega should cultivate. By any standard, but especially the exacting ones of the '60s, she was lacking. And she had the gall to be mean to his alpha. Elvis had seen it with his own eyes—the way she’d kiss her with a demanding, possessive bite, the way she’d sigh and complain until his alpha was fetching her drinks, adjusting her pillows, soothing her endless dramas. She was a leech, a burden, and she was in his rightful place.

The fact they weren't bonded was the only thing that kept him from screaming. His alpha, in her infinite wisdom, clearly hadn't claimed the hussy, obviously knowing her true, perfect mate was still waiting in the wings. Him. And he was going to make sure she saw it.

So, he launched a campaign of seduction so potent it would make his biggest Hollywood hit look like an amateur production. He charmed her with gifts—a gold-plated record player for her office, a silk scarf that matched her eyes, a vintage car he knew she’d admire. He was always looking his best, his hair perfectly styled, his clothes hugging his frame in just the right way, his movements a slow, confident strut designed to draw her eye. And most importantly, he poured his scent into the air around her, a needy, desperate, sweetly spiced perfume that screamed I want you, I choose you, I am yours.

He made sure to touch her at every opportunity. A lingering hand on her arm as he passed her a drink, brushing against her back as he moved through a doorway, leaning close to whisper something in her ear. He was rubbing his scent all over her, marking her as his in the only way he dared, and she never denied him. She never pulled away. She’d just look at him with those calm, knowing eyes, and his heart would stutter.

Now, they were in his den, the lights low. The other girl was thankfully absent, and the air was thick with the mix of his desperate perfume and her dominant, calming scent. He was stretched out on the couch, closer to her than was strictly proper, his body angled toward hers in a silent offering. He could feel the rightness of it, the tension of the unspoken battle. That other omega was just a temporary obstacle, a piece of furniture that needed to be moved. He was going to win. He had to.

His voice, when he broke the comfortable silence, was a low, honeyed drawl, laced with a possessive certainty that brooked no argument.

“Sure is a shame some folks don’t know a good thing when they’ve got it, darlin’.”