Page 3

Andros

The scent was unbearable.

Cloying sweetness, heavy and ripe, coated the air like too much perfume.

My wolf growled low in my chest, restless, irritated.

I sat up, the silk sheets sliding from my bare skin, and ran a hand through my hair, tugging slightly at the roots.

My head throbbed, not from the alcohol—I could handle that—but from the scent. Her scent.

Tanya.

She lay sprawled beside me, tangled in the dark crimson sheets, one perfect leg thrown over the edge of the mattress.

Mid-twenties, maybe younger. Glossy brown hair fanned out across the pillow like spilled wine.

Full lips, flushed from use. Dark eyes still closed in sleep.

She was beautiful. Of course she was. One of the Blood Night pack's prized Omegas.

Trained to please, bred to obey. But now that the night was over, she made my skin crawl.

The room was wide, high-ceilinged, cold.

Stone walls draped in tapestries, velvet too old to be rich anymore.

The hearth burned low, casting a dim orange light across the marble floor.

My armour hung on the chair, forgotten in last night’s haze, and the scent of wine, sweat, and sex clung to every surface.

I swung my legs over the edge of the bed, exhaling sharply. I should have sent her away last night.

But I had been drunk, distracted, riding the high of blood and power. She had been eager, pliant, everything I needed in the moment. But now?

Now I needed her gone. Her scent was in my sheets, on my skin, clawing at my lungs like a sickness. I stood, naked and unbothered by it, and walked to the basin. Cold water splashed over my face, a shock that cleared my head. In the mirror, I looked like myself again. Sharp. Controlled. Alpha.

Behind me, she stirred.

“Andros?”

I didn’t answer. Let her feel the silence. Let her understand what she was: temporary.

She sat up, the sheet slipping down to reveal the curve of her shoulder. “Do you want me to stay?”

“No.” I turned, slow and deliberate.

Her face fell, just slightly. She nodded and began to gather her things.

Good. Let her leave quietly. Let the scent fade. I needed air. And distance.

As I pulled the last strap tight, the scent of leather and steel wrapped around me like a second skin—familiar, grounding. But it was the memory of last night that truly stirred my blood.

Victory.

Not the hollow kind, not the tame declarations of banners raised or treaties signed.

No. This was conquest, raw and absolute.

The Crescent Moon alpha—Arlen—had finally broken beneath my heel.

For too long, that self-righteous mongrel paraded himself like some noble beast, cloaking weakness in tradition, hiding behind treaties and ceremony.

But his fortress burned last night. His men—his legacy—were reduced to mangled corpses and black ash.

We stormed his mountain stronghold like a divine plague.

My warriors howled through his halls, red with bloodlust, claw and blade ripping flesh from bone.

The stone walls still wept with the blood of his pack, and the fire hadn’t stopped smouldering.

I made him watch. Made him listen as I tore his legacy apart.

And now Arlen rots in chains in the deepest pit of my dungeon. Broken. Beaten. Silent.

His land is mine. His pack will kneel or die. But it wasn’t enough. He had four sons. Three of them I ended myself.

The first—oh, the arrogant little bastard—thought honour was a weapon.

He challenged me in the great hall, sword drawn, chin raised like some storybook hero.

I carved him open mid-sentence, spilled his guts across the marble while his own men watched.

They didn’t cheer. They didn’t move. They knew what I was.

The second lunged at my Beta in the chaos of the siege. Brave, I’ll grant him that. But bravery means nothing without power. I caught him by the throat and crushed his windpipe with one hand. He gurgled like a hog before he died, eyes wide, the scent of his fear sour in the air.

The third ran. Coward .

He tried to vanish into the forest, thinking shadows would save him.

But I am the shadow that stalks the trees.

I hunted him myself—felt his heartbeat from a mile away.

I waited until he thought he was safe, then took his head beneath the moon, bathed in silver light and fresh blood.

I left his body for the crows and brought his severed head back as a gift.

But the fourth…

The fourth slipped through the cracks. Too young. Too clever. Too lucky. No name on the wind. No scent on the air. A ghost.

Arlen refuses to speak of him. But I will tear the truth from his throat if I must. Bone by bone, I will break what remains of him until he begs to tell me.

This isn’t about territory anymore. This is about dominion. Legacy. Eradication. There will be no one left to challenge my claim. No son to avenge a fallen father. No name spoken in rebellion.

I will find him.

And when I do, I will make his end so absolute the gods themselves will avert their eyes.

The snow had painted the world white overnight.

From the high glass windows of the great hall, I could see it blanketing the stone courtyard below, fresh and untouched, save for the bloodied prints left by the guards returning from patrol.

It glittered in the soft morning sun like crushed bone under crystal.

The mountains beyond stood tall and merciless, their peaks slicing into the sky.

Inside, the warmth of the hearths and the scent of roasted meat chased away the cold.

Flames danced in the twin fireplaces that flanked the room, licking at carved stone wolves with ruby eyes.

The long table was set for two, draped in dark cloth, silver goblets already filled with warmed spiced wine.

Platters of smoked venison, fried duck eggs, thick slabs of bread soaked in butter, and baked apples filled the air with the rich perfume of power and excess.

My Beta arrived late, as usual. Garrick was a brute of a man—broad, scarred, and always smiling like he knew something no one else did. He dropped into the seat across from me without ceremony, snatched a drumstick from the tray, and bit in before offering a word.

“Well,” he said through a mouthful, “you look like shit.”

I poured my wine, slow and unbothered. “You reek like it. Balance.”

Garrick chuckled, licking grease from his fingers. “Heard you kicked Tanya out before sunrise.”

I didn’t answer. Just raised a brow and took a long sip.

He smirked. “Was she too much for you, old wolf?”

I leaned back in my chair, stretching my legs, letting the fire warm the ache still lingering in my bones. “She was... fine. Until she wouldn’t leave.”

“She’s still scenting your rooms. Poor girl probably thought she’d wake up mated.”

I grunted.

Garrick leaned in, dropping his voice with mock seriousness. “You know... she wouldn’t be a bad choice. Omega like that—trained, loyal, sweet as summer fruit. She’d give you strong pups.”

My jaw tightened.

“I need heirs,” I admitted. “But I need more land first. My name should be carved into stone from the Frostfang coast to the burning gates of the East. A child now would slow me.”

He raised his goblet. “And yet... you’re not getting younger.”

I gave him a sharp look, but he didn’t flinch. He never did.

“I have time,” I said flatly.

“You do,” he agreed, nodding. “But not forever. You want a legacy, Andros? You’ll need blood to carry it.”

My gaze drifted back to the snow-covered world beyond the window. I would build an empire soaked in blood and crowned in ice. There would be time for heirs once the world knew my name in fear. For now, I only needed war.

The cold bit deeper as we descended into the belly of the castle.

Stone gave way to older stone, slick with damp and shadow.

The torches flickered violently, their light dancing over iron rings, dried blood, and chains that had never known rest. The dungeon was old, built by the first alphas of Blood Night—long before I took the title.

But it had always served the same purpose.

Fear.

The air reeked of it. Faintly copper, mixed with rot and piss. Garrick walked beside me, silent now, his earlier humour gone. He knew what I was like down here. Everyone did.

The guards stepped aside as we entered the last chamber.

The iron door groaned open, and there he was—Arlen, or what remained of him.

The former alpha of Crescent Moon slumped in chains, his body barely holding itself upright.

Strips of skin hung from his back like shredded cloth, and one of his eyes had swollen shut.

Blood crusted over his mouth, his chest, the floor beneath him.

My men had done their work. I stepped into the cell, boots echoing, slow and heavy. He raised his head with great effort, the one good eye glassy but aware.

“Didn’t think you’d last the night,” I said, voice like a growl soaked in ice.

He coughed—wet, broken—and spit blood onto the stone. Garrick crouched beside him, fingers tapping the hilt of his blade.

“You ready to tell us where your little pup ran off to? Or shall we keep peeling?”

Arlen wheezed a laugh. “You’ll… never find him.”

I slammed my fist into his jaw. Bone cracked. He slumped but didn’t fall.

“Try again,” I snarled.

He blinked slowly, the pain dragging truth from his mouth. “A village… south. Coastal. Human-run. Fishing port. He… he’s hiding there.”

A grin crept over Garrick’s face. I could feel my own wolf pressing at the edges of my skin, snarling beneath my flesh.

“What’s the name?” I snapped.

“Didn’t… catch it,” he muttered. “Just… told him to run. Disappear. Might not even be there anymore.”

I leaned in, my breath hot against his ruined face.

“Don’t worry,” I whispered. “I have trackers. The best. Wolves who can follow a scent through flame and ocean wind. We’ll find him. Drag him out by the spine if we must.”

His shoulders sagged. There was nothing left in him now. Not defiance. Not pride. Only pain.

I stood tall, looked him over one last time. This was the alpha who once dared to challenge me. Who called himself my equal.

What a joke. I grabbed him by the throat and lifted him to his feet. His body was nothing but blood and bones, but I wanted to see the light leave his eyes.

“This is for wasting my time.”

I crushed his throat. His neck cracked like dry wood, and he went limp, his final breath a soft rattle in the silence. I dropped him. The wolf inside me howled in triumph, clawing at the surface. I let him rise, just a little—enough to feel the heat in my blood, the madness in my grin.

Garrick didn’t speak. He didn’t need to. We had a scent to chase. And soon, we would have a body to bury.

We emerged from the darkness like revenants.

The door to the dungeon slammed shut behind us, the echo ringing through the stone halls like a war drum.

My men stood waiting—silent, disciplined, blood still crusted on some of their hands from the night’s work.

They straightened the moment they saw me, heads bowed in deference, eyes burning with expectation.

I stopped at the top of the stairs, the cold wind rushing in from the open corridor beyond, sharp with the scent of snow and steel. My voice was low, but it carried like thunder.

“We have a lead.”

Their attention snapped tighter.

“There is a boy. Seventeen, maybe nineteen. Blonde hair. The last son of Arlen, the only stain left on my claim.”

A ripple of growls echoed through the gathered wolves.

“He’s hiding in a coastal human village somewhere in the Crescent Moon territory.

We don’t know the name—but that won’t matter.

You will search every village on the coast. Every fishing town, every port, every rotting hut clinging to the rocks.

You will tear them open if you must. No stone left unturned. No door left unopened.”

They nodded, fists clenching.

“Be careful,” I added. “There are still loyalists. Humans who bent the knee to Arlen or suckled from the scraps of his table. They may try to help him—smuggle him out, hide him, ferry him to foreign lands.”

My wolf surged beneath my skin, sharp and hungry. I let that violence show.

“Any human who smells of wolf is to be questioned. If they lie—break them. If they resist—bleed them. And if any of them dare hide him… Burn their homes to ash.”

The pack saluted, fists over hearts, ready to obey. Blood would flow. Screams would echo. And soon, the last of Arlen’s line would lie dead at my feet.