002

– Vuk Kael Lasković

I was watching three naked omegas grind against each other on my bed when the scent hit me.

For three hundred and fifty years nothing has made my cock twitch. I have taken every hole offered, broken every body that begged, and still woke up cold. Tonight was supposed to be the same mindless ritual: bare tits bouncing, slick dripping on black silk, moans rehearsed to perfection. I had one hand around a traitor’s throat and the other wrapped around a glass of infernal wine, already planning which omega I’d knot first and which one I’d let bleed out after.

Then it punched through the walls like divine violence.

Lunar blood.

Pure.

Untouched.

Mine.

The crystal glass slipped from my fingers and shattered into a thousand glittering pieces. Wine bled across the marble like fresh slaughter.

Every wolf in the room froze. The traitor at my feet pissed himself, hot urine soaking my boots. The omegas stopped mid-moan, thighs trembling, eyes wide with animal fear.

I stood slowly.

My cock thickened so fast the seams of my trousers ripped. Fangs punched through my gums, long and vicious, slicing my lip open. Blood—my own immortal blood—hit my tongue, copper and hellfire, and still it wasn’t enough to drown her.

Lunar blood.

Virgin.

Mine.

The omega closest to me—some pretty redhead who’d been riding another girl’s face a heartbeat ago—reached for my thigh, desperate little fingers trying to drag me back into the mindless fuck I’d been planning five seconds ago.

I backhanded her without looking.

She flew off the bed, spine cracking against the stone floor with a wet snap. A broken whimper, then silence. Blood pooled beneath her cheek, thick and perfect.

I didn’t care.

My wolf was screaming so loud the iron chains bolted to the walls rattled like church bells in an earthquake. The torches guttered. Shadows bled across the ceiling like living things.

I snatched the black robe from the chair. Didn’t bother tying it. It hung open, framing the obscene bulge straining against my stomach, the thick line of my cock already leaking through the ruined fabric. Shirtless, barefoot, veins glowing faint gold beneath the skin—Lucifer’s flaming brand burning hotter than it had in centuries.

I stepped over the traitor’s sobbing body and into the corridor.

The scent was everywhere and nowhere. It curled through the hallways like smoke, taunted me, then vanished the second I turned a corner. I followed it like a mad dog, claws shredding the silk wallpaper, carving deep gouges into solid marble. Statues toppled as I passed. A priceless tapestry ripped in half under my grip.

“Who the fuck is this?” I snarled to the empty air, voice echoing off the vaulted ceilings.

A maid rounded the corner carrying fresh linens. She took one look at me—eyes glowing molten gold, fangs dripping, cock jutting like a weapon—and dropped everything. The sheets fluttered to the floor like surrender flags.

She opened her mouth to scream.

I grabbed her by the throat, slammed her against the wall hard enough to spiderweb the stone.

“Where is she?” I roared, voice shaking the torches in their sconces.

She choked, eyes rolling white, legs kicking uselessly.

I squeezed until her neck snapped like dry kindling and let the body fall. It hit the ground with a dull, wet thud.

Still no scent.

It was gone again.

I punched the wall. Marble exploded into dust. My knuckles split, healed, split again.

Eryx—my beta—came running, boots skidding across the blood-slick floor when he saw the corpse.

“Alpha—”

“Touch me and I rip your arm off,” I snarled, claws flexing, dripping.

He froze three feet away, hands raised, throat bared in submission.

“The Hunt begins in an hour, my lord,” he said carefully. “The new stock is ready. The council is waiting.”

The Hunt.

Normally I lived for it: naked prey released into the snow, arrows whistling, claws raking flesh, screams echoing for miles beneath the frozen moon. I’d fuck the survivors on the blood-soaked ground while the rest watched and wished they were next.

Tonight the thought made bile rise in my throat.

But the scent was gone, and I needed to kill something before I tore my own fortress apart brick by brick.

“Move,” I growled.

We walked to the arena in silence.

The high seats were already filled—old wolves in silver masks, sipping infernal wine like this was theater. Torches hissed. The air stank of fear, gunpowder, and fresh blood.

Below, the cages opened with a screech of rusted iron.

Twenty naked bodies spilled out onto the white snow—new slaves, the ones who hadn’t sold tonight. They ran blind, screaming, slipping on ice, leaving bloody footprints.

I raised the crossbow without feeling it.

Bolt after bolt.

Bodies dropped. Blood steamed in the cold, painting the snow crimson. One girl tried to crawl back toward the cages; I put a bolt through the back of her skull. Another threw herself at my boots, sobbing, offering her body.

I kicked her away so hard her ribs caved in with a wet crunch. She lay gasping, pink foam on her lips.

Still nothing calmed the beast.

I was hard, aching, furious—knot throbbing with every heartbeat.

Then it hit me again, stronger this time.

Lunar blood, terror, and slick so sweet it made my mouth water.

She was here.

My head snapped toward the holding pens on the far side of the arena—the private cages reserved for the “special” purchases. Ten-million-gold toys.

A masked lord in silver stood there, coat open, laughing with his pack of sycophants. Expensive cologne and arrogance rolled off him in waves.

And draped over his arm, trembling in nothing but chains and his too-big coat…

Her.

The girl from the scent.

Silver-veined skin. White-gold hair spilling from the hood. Eyes wide with terror and something worse—recognition.

She was tiny against him, drowning in his coat, collar around her throat like she was already broken.

The masked bastard leaned down, whispered something filthy in her ear. She flinched, tried to pull away.

He dared touch what was mine.

I dropped the crossbow. It clattered to the stone.

The entire arena went silent. Even the dying stopped screaming.

I stepped off the platform.

Snow crunched beneath my bare feet as I walked straight across the killing field—past the corpses, past the blood, robe flapping open, cock jutting proud and leaking, knot visible to every wolf in the stands.

Every single one of them dropped to their knees. Heads bowed. Throats bared.

The masked lord finally noticed.

His smirk faltered.

I stopped one foot away.

The girl’s scent flooded me—moonlight and terror and slick—and my vision tunneled until only she existed.

I looked at the hand he still had on her arm.

Then I looked at him.

“Take your hand off my mate,” I said, voice soft as a lover’s, sharp as a blade.

I smiled, slow and terrible.

“Or I’ll wear it as a fucking necklace.”