Claimed by the Lycan king

Katherine Ashford

The sound of machines. A steady beeping.

When I opened my eyes, the world was white. Not the white of moonlight or snow, but the blinding, sterile white of a hospital ceiling.

For a moment, I couldn’t move. I couldn’t even breathe. I thought maybe I was still dreaming — that this was some strange mercy from the Goddess.

But the sharp sting of a needle in my arm said otherwise.

I turned my head. A woman in pale scrubs stood nearby, checking something on a small metal tray. Her scent hit me next — human.

Not pack. Not wolf.

Human.

Panic surged through me. I pressed a shaking hand against my mouth, trying to steady my breath. I could not let them know. If they smelled what I was — if they suspected — I’d be dead before sunset.

“Easy,” the nurse said gently, thinking my fear was confusion. “You’re safe, miss. You were in an accident, but you’re going to be alright.”

“Wh—where am I?” My voice cracked.

“St. Vincent’s Hospital,” she replied. “You were brought in by a driver who said you ran into the road. Do you remember your name?” My heartbeat faltered. For a moment, I almost said it — Luna Katherine of the Silvercrest Pack.

But that name was dead.

“My name is… Katherine,” I whispered. “Just Katherine.”

The nurse smiled faintly, jotting it down. “Well, Katherine, you’re very lucky. You should rest. You’ve been unconscious for three days.”

Three days.

I stared at the ceiling again. Every breath hurt, but the air was clean. The sheets soft. The silence — peaceful.

Maybe the Goddess had heard me after all.

A week passed.

Slowly, painfully, I learned to walk again — first with trembling steps along the cold hospital floor, then a few paces more each day. My body was healing, but the hollowness inside remained.

The doctors said I had no ID, no record, no family listed. I told them I didn’t remember much. They didn’t press. Humans rarely wanted to look too deeply into mysteries that made them uncomfortable.

By the seventh day, they said Iwas fit to leave.

No home. No money. No past.

Just a thin hospital gown, a small donated coat, and the city stretching before me — vast, bright, and utterly foreign.

I wandered through the streets, half dazed, the noise of the human world crashing around me — cars, lights, voices, laughter. Everything so alive it almost hurt to look at.

Then, as I lifted my head toward a towering glass building, a screen flashed across its surface — bold letters, golden light.

“THE RUTHLESS GOD OF LYCANTHROPY SEEKS A WIFE.”

I froze.

A man’s face filled the screen — sharp features, cold eyes, power radiating from him like heat.

I knew that face.

Nikolai Kael Volkov— Alpha King of the Shadow Dominion.

The most feared Lycan in existence.

And I had met him once.

He’d wanted to invest in our pack years ago — to help us rise after the famine. But Dominic had refused, proud and foolish, claiming we didn’t need outside strength. I’d stood by him then, loyal and blind.

Now, watching Viktor’s image tower above me, something inside me shifted.

He was dangerous. Merciless. Untouchable.

But he was also my only chance.

I looked at the crowd gathered before the building, their chatter about the announcement filling the air — envy, curiosity, greed.

And there I stood — nameless, stripped, and forgotten.

“I’ll be his wife,” I murmured, almost laughing at the madness of it. “That’s how I’ll survive.”

The wind swept my hair across my face as I stared up at the glowing billboard, the city lights reflecting in my eyes.

It wasn’t love. It wasn’t destiny.

It was survival.

And for the first time since the night my world ended —

I had a plan.

The next morning, I found myself standing at the foot of the tallest building I’d ever seen. Glass, steel, and shadow — a skyscraper that touched the clouds and looked down on the rest of the city as if it ruled it.

The Volkov Empire Headquarters.

The place where women came to gamble with their lives for a chance at a crown.

Hundreds of them stood ahead of me — elegant, painted, perfect. Their perfumes mingled in the air, sweet and heavy. I could feel their stares grazing over me like cold fingers.

“Who let her in?” someone whispered.

“She looks like she crawled out of a shelter.”

Laughter rippled through the line.

I didn’t answer.

Didn’t flinch.

I was too tired for shame.

All I had was a name that no longer meant anything… and a heart still learning how to beat again.

The form in my hand was blank. I hadn’t filled a single space.

Because what would I even write?

Name: Katherine.

Occupation: None.

Background: Betrayal, death, loss.

Would they even let me breathe in his presence?

I turned away from the line for a moment, the noise blurring behind me, and touched the small moon-shaped pendant hanging from my neck — the last thing that tied me to who I used to be.

It was the only thing that had survived the fire, the dungeon, the blood.

My fingers trembled as I unclasped it. I stood in silence for a long time before stepping into a tiny pawn shop tucked behind the main street.

The man behind the counter didn’t ask questions. He only looked at the pendant, then at me, and slid a few notes across the table.

Not much — barely enough.

But enough.

Outside, the city was loud again. I crossed the street to a vendor’s stall and stopped when I saw it — a simple silver ring, faintly glowing in the afternoon light.

I traded every coin I had for it.

As I held it in my palm, it felt heavier than it looked — cold, pure, like something ancient was watching.

“Moon Goddess,” I whispered. “If You’re still with me… give me strength, or madness. I’ll take either.”

By the time I returned, the line had shortened. Evening light spilled across the plaza as names were called in steady rhythm.

“Candidate 324!”

“Candidate 325!”

I filled out the form quickly — shaky letters scrawled across the paper. I wrote only Katherine. No titles. No pack. No past.

When they waved me forward, my pulse stuttered.

Inside, the air was colder — scented faintly with metal and cedar. Gold light washed over marble floors that seemed too perfect to walk on.

And at the far end of the grand hall, seated on a raised platform like a throne of glass and iron, was him.

Nikolai Kael Volkov.

The Lycan King.

The ruthless god of the new age.

He didn’t just sit there. He commanded the air itself. Every person in the room seemed smaller near him — shadows shrinking under a storm.

He was broad-shouldered, his eyes the kind of grey that cut through everything they saw. No smile. No softness. Just calm, cold authority — the kind that could silence a room without a word.

One by one, the candidates walked forward. He asked questions in that deep, unhurried tone. Some stuttered. Some tried to flirt. A few even cried.

None lasted more than a minute before being dismissed.

And then—

“Next.”

My name wasn’t even called. I just… stepped forward.

My heartbeat thundered in my ears as I approached him, the world narrowing until it was only us. His gaze found me the moment I entered the light — and stayed there.

For a long moment, he said nothing. His eyes swept over me — not cruelly, but sharply, like he was dissecting every piece of me without touching a thing.

I forced myself to breathe. My fingers tightened around the small silver ring hidden in my palm.

“What do you have to offer,” he asked finally, his voice low, resonant, dangerous, “that all these others don’t?”

The hall waited.

My throat burned, but the truth came out before I could stop it.

“I don’t have anything to offer,” I said softly. “Except myself.”

A flicker — something unreadable — crossed his expression.

The guards shifted uneasily. Someone at his side whispered for her to leave.

But before they could move, I stepped closer — just enough for him to hear the tremor beneath my voice.

“Marry me,” I said.

He didn’t move. His gaze only darkened, like thunderclouds forming.

I swallowed hard, feeling the silver ring warm against my skin.

“Marry me first,” I whispered. “Then decide if I’m worth keeping.”

The silence that followed felt endless — every eye in the hall fixed on me, waiting.

Then Nikolai leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees, his stare locked on mine.

A slow, dangerous smile curved his lips.

“Well then.” He rose from his seat — tall, composed, impossibly commanding. The low hum of the crowd vanished, swallowed by the sudden silence that fell over the hall.

Each step he took echoed against the marble floor, steady and unhurried, like a heartbeat that belonged to no one but him.

And mine.

Because somehow, as he drew closer, my chest began to ache — a strange, burning pull spreading through my veins. My breath hitched. The air thickened.

He stopped just inches away.

So close I could feel the faint heat of him, smell the clean, dangerous scent of cedar and smoke clinging to his skin. My body trembled, not in fear — but in recognition.

His gaze pinned me where I stood, and for a moment I saw something flicker in those storm-grey eyes — surprise, confusion, and then… something deeper.

Something ancient.

His lips curved into a slow, knowing smile. “How long,” he said quietly, his voice brushing against me like a touch, “did it take you to find the courage to say those words?”

I couldn’t speak. Couldn’t breathe.

He tilted his head, studying me as if seeing straight through every lie and scar I carried. Then, his tone shifted — softer, darker.

“Well done,” he murmured, a hint of wonder threading through the authority. “It is… a pleasure to finally meet my queen.”

The words struck through me like lightning.

My queen.

I stared up at him, wide-eyed, shaking my head before I could stop myself. “What… what did you just say?”

He leaned closer, his breath warm against my ear, his voice barely more than a whisper.

“My future bride,” he said. “My mate.”

The hall gasped — a ripple of shock tearing through the silence — but I didn’t hear them. The world tilted, my pulse roaring in my ears.

Mate.

The word felt like a curse and a miracle all at once.

Because the Moon Goddess — after everything — had bound me to him.

The ruthless god of Lycans.

The man I’d sworn I would never kneel to.

The one I had just asked to marry me.

And the one who, with a single word, had already claimed me.