PROLOGUE

Equality? What a fucking delusion. 

In the werewolf world, it was almost an abomination to speak of it. In fact, contemplating the possibility of it was completely futile. 

Why? 

Because it simply could never exist. 

There were only two factors that governed the system they called life: the superiority of the powerful beings, and the oppression of the weaklings. 

Only that in this world, there was only one superior. One ruler. One sovereign. 

And every other entity was meant to bow flat at his feet. Lest, they taste his fiery wrath. 

The only one called the most powerful. 

The only one called the most mighty. 

The only one called the most ruthless. 

He was known as the 'Veil Of The Shadow Moon'

He wasn't just any ordinary alpha; he was Ragnar Alaric Dreadmore, the king of all kings, the ruler of all rulers, the alpha of all alphas. 

A name that commanded respect. A name that prompted every knee to fall to the floor and reverence his authority. A name that pulsed dread in the veins of foes. 

He was the Supreme Lycan King.  

A powerful man who did not only rule the Grimhowl Moon Pack, but the entire werewolf world. 

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PROLOGUE 

He scrubbed and scrubbed, yet, he couldn't seem to get the bloodstain off his white shirt. 

It seemed to be permanently embedded in the fabric. Just as the image of her lifeless body sprawled on the floor, gutted and torn open, was etched into his memory. 

And despite how much vodka he had consumed in the past two hours, despite how many of the empty bottles he had smashed on the wall, he had not been able to wipe her bloodied face away from his mind. 

His wife was dead. 

Cold, breathless and kept in the morgue. 

It was hard to erase such a gruesome sight—especially when he was the one who had found her dead body in a pool of blood. 

Literally. 

…

She had been murdered in their bathtub, naked, and she bled out into the water. Her body had already begun to stiffen when he had found her, meaning it's been a while since the scoundrels had struck. 

He himself had taken her out of the bathtub, laying her mutilated body on the floor. The splashes of blood had stained his white T–shirt, and it had also stained the pristine, white tiles with crimson. 

He remembered that he had changed the tiles just last week—his wife had wanted white ones as opposed to the browner ones that were there. 

Now, the tiles mocked him. 

His jaw had tightened as he saw the extent of her injuries, those bastards had cut open her body like she was a pound of slaughter meat. And despite how hard he had tried to remain expressionless, a flicker of anguish passed in his eyes as he stared down at her corpse. 

He had taken a step back, away from the body, hoping to distance himself from the emotions he was feeling in his heart. But no. They were there. 

Ragnar desperately wished not to feel them. He hated to feel. But he couldn't help it, the emotions were coming from a source he couldn't stop. A source so great that even he couldn't control. 

For a cold–hearted and ruthless man like Alpha Ragnar, one would expect that he would be incapable of expressing emotions. 

But Francia was his mate—his fated mate—and the mate bond was the only force potent enough to bring Ragnar to his knees. 

It was his weakness. 

And, the severing of the mate bond due to her death was going to drive him to madness. 

He was on the verge of leaving the bathroom to inform his Beta about the unfortunate incident, when his attention was arrested by an unusual sight. 

His gaze moved upwards, focusing on the foreign object he had spotted on the bathroom ledge. 

A cigarette stick. 

It bore marks of the bloody water, most likely pulled up as he had moved her body out of the tub. It was not the brand that he smoked, but an unfamiliar brand. 

Certainly, it wasn't his. 

His gaze fell to his bloody shirt, then to his bloody palms spread before him, before returning to the cigarette stick. Ragnar's brow furrowed as he stared, his nostrils flaring in anger. 

The fucker who had killed his wife even had the guts to taunt him, leaving behind their cigarette stick. 

It was done on purpose, just to agitate him even further. He knew this—those bloody rogues were fond of taunting him. 

Now, was he supposed to blame himself for her death?

Well, one could say that he was responsible for her death—

After all, it was his fault for leaving her unprotected and all alone. It was his fault for leaving her defenseless, not even bothering to have some guards stationed by her. 

She was his Luna. She was an asset to the feared and envied Alpha Ragnar, who had enemies as uncountable as the stars in the night sky. 

Of course, she would be targeted. 

And leaving his pregnant wife alone was completely dumb. 

Stupid, he knew. 

Careless, Damn right. 

Reckless, definitely. 

But regardless, he wasn't responsible. 

In fact, he won't blame himself for it.  

It was those fucking rogues. Those god-damned menances who had murdered his wife. 

The only set of people who seemed to not be terrified by him. 

And it seemed as though he had given them too much liberty – that was why they had the effrontery to evade his private abode and murder his wife.  

Ragnar's veins pulsated on his forehead in rage as his fists balled at his side. The mere thought of those delinquents was infuriating. Each and every one of the Viper Rogues would pay in spades for killing his pregnant wife. 

Starting with the very one who had struck the knife into her. 

Whoever that person was—be it male or female—he would find the bastard, and make sure they suffered a thousand times for what they had done. 

He would make sure they were subjected through the exact same pain they had caused Francia, but in a hundred–folds. 

He would make sure that they gritted their teeth in pain and taste the bitterness of remourse. 

So that in their next fucked–up, miserable life, they wouldn't dare touch the anything or anyone that belonged to him, Alpha Ragnar Dreadmore. 

Be it male or female, he was going to find them. And the unlucky bastard was going to fucking pay. 

Mark his words.