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Riguel’s POV 

I am perfection incarnate. That’s the first truth anyone should know about me. The second is that perfection like mine was destined for the throne. Every she-wolf in the Northwest has desired me, even when they swore their loyalty to their weak little mates. Every male has envied me, their snarls, their whispers, their impotent rage only ever proved how much smaller they were compared to me. I never had to prove myself; the proof was in my blood, in my power, in the way eyes followed me when I entered a room.

And now here I stand, in the aftermath of the greatest humiliation anyone has dared to stage. Elsa, my Elsa, thought she could ruin me before the entire supernatural community. She thought she could spit venom and strip me of my crown, as if words could undo what I am. I might have lost it now, but I will get it back. 

The sacred circle still stinks of the smoke and incense of the aborted ceremony. The gasps of the crowd echo in my skull. Their eyes, wide and full of doubt, haunt me like knives pointed at my back. They dared to look at me with suspicion, with pity even. Me. Riguel.

Elsa’s voice still rings in my head, clear, cold, slicing through everything. She stood there like some avenging goddess, speaking of betrayal, of impotence. Impotence! The audacity. The crowd believed her, or at least hesitated. That hesitation was enough to undo me. Years of careful positioning, of silencing rivals, and what was remaining was to present my sons as heirs, all of it shattered with a single lie.

I should be raging about her cruelty, but no… I rage because the pack faltered. Because they listened. Because they dared to question me.

Elsa was always clever, far too clever for her own good. That was why I kept her close, why I chose her above the others who would have groveled at my feet without question. She was useful once, sharp, beautiful, a worthy display beside me. I never loved her, not truly, but I admired her in the way a hunter admires a sleek, dangerous wolf. And yet she betrayed me, she bit the hand that elevated her.

She humiliated me not just as a man, but as a king.

The truth? I don’t care if she walks away. She can rot in the shadows for all I care. But she took something that is mine, my sons. My blood. My legacy. She claimed they are not mine, spat poison about my virility before the elders and the gathering of clans. That is what I cannot forgive.

Those boys were supposed to secure my throne. They were supposed to silence the whispers that I had no rightful heir. Without them, the vultures circle. Every ambitious Alpha smells weakness now. They’ll test me, prod at the cracks Elsa created, and if I let it stand, I’ll be torn apart like prey.

All because she couldn’t keep her place.

But let me be clear, I am not broken. I am not defeated. A king doesn’t lose because of one woman’s tantrum. This is a setback, nothing more.

Mira slinks into my chambers like she always does, perfume heavy, lips parted in that practiced pout she thinks makes her irresistible. She presses her hands against my chest, whispers sweet assurances, tells me she believes me, tells me the others will fall back in line. I almost laughed in her face. She thinks I care for her loyalty. She is nothing more than a convenient distraction, a warm body when the nights stretch long. She is not my queen; she never will be. She is a vessel for my ego, and she knows it, though she buries that truth beneath her painted smiles.

She asked me if I missed Elsa. I told her no. That was true enough. I do not miss Elsa the woman. I miss Elsa's possession. The one who stood at my side, who bore my heirs, who reflected my power like a polished mirror. Without her, the image is cracked.

And the boys, my boys. I refuse to believe otherwise. They are mine. Elsa can claim what she wants, but I know the truth. I see myself in them: the sharp eyes, the arrogance already budding in their posture. They belong to me, and I will take them back. Not because I crave their love, I do not fool myself with such sentiment, but because they are mine by right. They are my property. My legacy, carved into flesh and bone.

Elsa thinks she’s clever, spinning her lies before the elders, invoking that archaic law about disputed paternity. She thinks she’s locked me out, cut me off from succession. But law is nothing compared to will. I’ve bent laws before. I’ve bent people. I will do it again.

What she doesn’t understand is that she has only delayed the inevitable. She believes she has won time for herself and her sons. What she has really done is paint a target on her back.

I pace the length of my chamber, fists tight, nails biting into my palms. Rage burns through me, but beneath it simmers something sharper: resolve. I will not be remembered as the Lycan King who was undone by a woman’s tongue. I will not be reduced to whispers of impotence and betrayal.

I will hunt her. I will drag her back before the pack. I will make her kneel, make her retract every poisonous word. I will hold the boys in front of the elders and force them to acknowledge my blood. And if she resists, if she dares spit defiance in my face again, well, the Moon Goddess does not forbid kings from pruning treachery from their lives.

The pack must see strength. They must see a man who cannot be humiliated, who cannot be stripped of his claim. And I will give them that show. Elsa thought she could burn me with her revelation. She forgot that I burn hotter than anyone alive.

I am Riguel. Perfection incarnate. Desired by all, envied by all, feared by all. No woman, no mate, no betrayal will change that.

The hunt begins tonight.