Is people’s life a joke to you?

Taehyung’s POV

The whiskey burned.

That was the point. Let it sear my throat, fill my gut, dull the ache woven into my muscles since before dawn. I craved the burn. Welcomed it. The glass was heavy in my hand—heavier than the memory of last night, heavier than my own fists.

The lounge was alive with shadows; all that laughter and light was just a mask for something cold and ugly. My men—the bravest, most ruthless sons of bitches the South had ever bred—lounged around, careless, drunk on the high of violence after last night’s hunt.

Sometimes I forgot what fear smelled like on a man. Tonight, I remembered.

I was on my third glass, maybe fourth. My head buzzed, but nothing took away the images. The blood. Her face. The way my mark looked on her throat, angry and red. She haunted even my moments of calm, that little beast. Clara.

I closed my eyes for a split second—just to remember the sound she made when she cried out, when I sank my fangs into her fair skin. That sound did things to me I didn’t know how to name.

“…Can’t believe Alpha actually married her,” a voice slurred behind me. One of the young wolves, new to my circle. Choi, or maybe Park. Didn’t matter. “The Omega he hates the most.”

I didn’t turn around. Not yet. That would be too easy.

There was a pause—a rustle of glass on wood, the lazy shuffle of boots on expensive carpet. Then the other one, voice thick with lust and cruel curiosity:

“But she’s so fucking beautiful. You should see her when she’s not crying, Min. All that soft skin—those lips. Like a doll. Or a saint you want to destroy.”

Heat crawled up my spine—ugly, murderous.

“You think she’s soft? I swear to god, I wanted to take a bite out of her at the table this morning. She bent over…” His voice hitched, dirty laughter spilling out. “Fuck. She’s got an ass for days. I’d bend her over Alpha’s desk and—”

That’s when the whiskey glass cracked in my hand.

Just the sound made them freeze. Silence cut through the lounge. Shards dug into my palm, blood pooling under my thumb as I set the mess down, glass jagged and red. I didn’t even feel the pain at first, only cold clarity.

I stood up. Didn’t say a word.

Let them squirm. Let them pray.

Their scents soured, fear and sweat clouding the musky air, undercutting the cologne and cigarettes.

Slowly, I crossed the room. My boots thudded. Each step rang with threat.

The first wolf—Min, now I remembered—barely had time to flinch before my fist collided with his jaw. The snap was audible, satisfying. His mouth filled with blood, teeth skittering onto the floor as he crumpled sideways, back slamming into the armrest.

Park, the loudmouth, tried to scramble away, but I was on him in a breath. My hand laced in his collar, I slammed him into the stone wall with enough force to rattle his bones.

“You like talking about what’s mine?” My voice was smoke—cold, deadly. Years of rule, of brutality, gave every word weight.

“Alpha—please—” he whimpered, eyes wide as moons, skin pale.

I drew my gun.

One smooth, unhurried motion.

Pressed it against his boot, the barrel hot from my hand.

Pulled the trigger.

A single, deafening shot.

The bullet shredded leather and bone. His scream was unholy, thick with agony, echoing down the corridor. Blood poured, bright and shocking, over my expensive rugs. Worth the cleaning bill and more.

Min groaned, trying to lift himself. I stalked over, all easy violence, and kicked him in the ribs so hard he rolled off the couch, whimpering. I circled him, grip tight on the gun, not even winded.

“Both of you,” I spat, voice almost calm now, “are trash. Nobody talks about my Luna that way. Nobody.”

I watched fear crawl up Min’s body, watched Park hunch in on himself, still clutching his ruined foot. The rest of the room had gone silent, every man frozen in disgust and admiration. Some would call it excessive.

I called it necessary.

“You want to fuck something?” I grinned, showing teeth. “Try the afterlife.”

No one spoke. The stench of fear was sharp, satisfying.

“Alpha—mercy—” Min choked, blood foaming his lips.

I cocked the gun, ready to end both their miserable little worlds.

That’s when I heard her.

---

“STOP!”

The door crashed open, wood hitting stone. Her voice wasn't loud, but something about it carried—cutting through the carnage like a blade.

Clara.

She stood framed by the light, bare feet, hair tangled—no makeup, no royal robes—just hauntingly beautiful and alive with defiance. She looked at the blood, the gun, the men writhing, then right at me.

I felt it.

Felt my power slip for a heartbeat.

She stood like a challenge, her anger a live thing—her fear, secondary. That did something to me. Something primal. Something territorial.

“Have you lost your mind?” she shrieked.