Chapter 4

Leila

A corner of the velvet curtain in the second-floor box fluttered open in the night wind, and the chill of the full moon slapped my face. I twirled the cold paddle between my fingers, watching Lucas in the box across—he was bent low, listening to Josephine, his profile soft in the light. But I caught it clear: his fingers, draped over the armrest, were unconsciously rubbing at something. 

A nervous habit, that. Back in my last life, every time I'd wept and asked why he never came home, he'd rub the table like that, irritation plain in his eyes. 

Funny, isn't it? Now I couldn't be bothered to spare him a glance, and he was the one squirming. 

"Next item: Skagen Abode." The auctioneer's voice boomed through the speakers, laced with perfunctory enthusiasm. A map lit up the screen, a red circle marking an inland stretch—on its edges, half-built, abandoned structures. To everyone else, it was a forgotten backwater: no coast, no existing roads, not even the most reckless developers bothered. 

But I remembered. In my last life, this unassuming plot skyrocketed overnight, thanks to a sewage treatment project. Josephine, with her "keen eye," snapped it up for 30% below the starting bid. Flipping it lined Lucas's family pockets with billions—and cemented her as the "perfect helpmeet." 

A flash of last life's agony hit me: pregnant, locked in a cold hospital room, not even allowed near the window. Until the day I died in labor, delirious, hearing maids gossip—Josephine was the kingdom's most revered woman then. I snuck a look out the window. Lucas had his arm around her, watching the snow. 

"Starting bid: one billion dollars." 

The room was so quiet you could hear the chandelier sway. Front-row businessmen murmured; one scoffed. 

"Has the royal family lost their minds over money? Trying to peddle this garbage at a fortune?" 

"Probably scraping up dowry for that spoiled Lycan Princess' second marriage. Obviously, her husband and mate Lucas Alpha clearly can't stand her, or else he wouldn't take another girl to this event…" 

"Keep your voice down. Lycan hearing's sharper than ours." 

"Who cares? The Lycan King's long dead. The Court runs the kingdom now. She's powerless. No wonder—with all those voices in her head, how's she got energy for anything else? Ha!" 

I tapped the paddle. The cold metal brought back the taste of blood on the delivery table. Their jeers buzzed like flies—same as when they called me "that sniveling, useless Lycan Princess" before. 

Once, I'd have lunged at them, screamed, slapped them silly. Insult a Lycan's pride, and you die. 

But on my deathbed, I finally saw: without fighting for it, the Lycan name meant nothing. It didn't save me as I bled out. Lycan blood ran in my veins, but respect? You earn that. 

Not scared of me? Good. The ones you least fear were the ones you should. 

Think I couldn't do a thing? Perfect. Today, I'd surprise you. 

"Two billion." I lifted the paddle. My voice was quiet, but it hit the room like water on a hot pan. 

The crowd erupted. Flashbulbs zeroed in on my box, shutters clicking like rain. I felt a sharp stare from across—the shock, and… a flicker of anger. Lucas's wolfish aura exploded in the air, that Alpha pressure trying to make me buckle. 

Too bad he forgot. I was Lycan royal. My father was a king who tore rogue packs apart with his bare hands. This? Not enough to make me blink. 

My phone vibrated in my pocket. Lucas's name glared on the screen. Text: What are you playing at? This isn't a game. 

I hit the power button. No interest in replying. Playing? My biggest mistake last time was thinking love begets love. 

"Three billion." 

A low voice cut in from the right box, lazy and drawling, but it hit the silence like a boulder. 

I turned. The curtain there was half-drawn. A man in a black shirt slouched in his chair, sleeves casually rolled to his forearms, showing smooth muscle. Among all the well-dressed nobles, his simplicity felt almost defiant. He spun a paddle between his fingers, silver glinting cold in the light. His profile was sharp as a blade's edge—I'd know him anywhere. Darren Stockton. 

Rumors clung to him like smoke. Some said he clawed up from human black markets, a brute who made his fortune smuggling guns and who-knows-what. Others whispered he was a wolf-vampire bastard, blood impure. But no one argued with his money—from nothing to sitting at the table with old-guard Alphas in three years? That said it all. 

But what drew me was his scent. Strange. Not pure Alpha arrogance, not Omega deference—something wild and dangerous, like a hunter lying in wait. Stranger still: I caught faint wolf pheromones, but couldn't place the pack. In our rigidly ranked world, that was unheard of. 

What was he after? My wolf murmured, wary. My wolf was true aristocrat, couldn't stand my spoiled nonsense last life—hardly showed up till I died. But today, she spoke up for a stranger. 

"Beats me." I refocused on the paddle, my fingers warm with excitement. "But he picked the wrong fight." 

"Four billion." I raised it again, my voice laced with that Lycan bite. Murmurs died. All eyes locked on the sudden clash—Lucas Alpha's wife, and this rising mystery, battling over a worthless plot. 

Darren in the right box smiled, just a flicker. Light caught his lip, sharp and dangerous. "Five billion." 

Lucas stood up in the box across, his silhouette rigid behind the curtain. I could picture his face—scowling, cold, wondering what the fuck was going on with me right then. 

Poor thing. He would never get it. This wasn't madness. It was taking back what was mine. 

I didn't want Skagen Abode. I wanted them to see: Leila, the Lycan Princess—without a Lycan King father, without an Alpha husband—still stood at the top. 

I breathed in, feeling that royal fire in my veins. My finger pressed the paddle, clear as day, just before the gavel fell: 

"Ten billion." 

The air froze. Darren stopped spinning his paddle, lifted his head at last, staring straight through the crowd at me. His silver hair—vampire-pale—caught the light fully. His azure eyes glowed, eerie as will-o'-the-wisp, like some forest beast finally showing interest. 

Good. Let the game begin. 

You won't be the first man I run over in this life, Darren Stockton. And you certainly won't be the last.