The Lycan King's Werewolf Daughter

Aria's Point of View

The pack house is finally silent, after what feels like forever.

I stand in front of the full length mirror tucked into the corner of my room, the moonlight pouring in through the open balcony doors behind me. My reflection stares back at me: bold red lipstick, smoky eyes, dark curls tumbling over my bare shoulders. The black mini dress hugs my every curve, it's short enough to scandalize, and snug enough to provoke an argument if any of the Lycans saw me. I grin at the thought.

The heels in my hand dangle like a challenge. I’ll put them on once I’m off the pack grounds. No need to announce my escape with every click across the marble floors.

The fourth floor of the pack house is reserved for family, royalty, technically. My room has gold trim around the door and silk curtains that match the crest of my father’s bloodline. It’s supposed to be a place of pride, a reflection of status. But to me, it’s just a gilded cage with a beautiful view. A constant reminder that I don’t belong here, not really. Not when everyone looks at me and sees “just a werewolf” and wonders how Jensen the Lycan king ended up with a daughter so… ordinary.

Except for my eyes, of course.

Even in the dark, they burn back at me in the mirror. Unnatural, bright blue, glowing faintly when my wolf stirs beneath the surface. A gift from my mother, or maybe a curse. Either way, they’ve always made me different, and tonight, that difference feels like power.

I grab my leather jacket off the chair, stuff my heels into a small bag, and quickly cross the room. The balcony door is already cracked open, letting the night breeze tease the hem of my dress. I slip out quietly, my heart racing with adrenaline, and climb onto the stone ledge. It’s a long drop, but I’ve done this before.

I swing my legs over, grip the ivy covered trellis, and begin to climb down, careful and quick. The vines have held me for years. They’re stronger than they look, just like me.

The moment my feet hit the grass below, I take off barefoot, moving through the outer gardens and across the back lawn. The Lycans don’t patrol this late near the royal wing; they assume we’re asleep or locked in meetings. No one expects the king’s daughter to be sneaking off in a dress better suited for flashing lights and loud music.

I cross the clearing and slip into the tree line where the shadows welcome me like an old friend. My bare feet are silent on the forest floor, my breath light, steady. This path is muscle memory, twisting between trees, ducking under low hanging branches, brushing past ferns and familiar stones. I’ve taken this route too many times to count.

I know exactly where he’ll be.

The trees thin out, the scent of the pack grounds fading behind me, and there, at the edge where the forest meets freedom, he waits for me.

He leans against his motorcycle like he belongs there, like the night bends around him. His leather jacket is unzipped, his helmet resting on the seat beside him, and his dark eyes lock onto mine the moment I step into the clearing.

“You’re insane,” he says, grinning. “That dress is gonna start fights.”

I smirk as I step closer, swinging the bag with my heels over my shoulder. “Good. Let them try.”

He shakes his head, clearly amused, and holds out his helmet. “Your dad’s going to kill me one day.”

“Only if he catches us, Alaric,” I say, slipping it over my head.

I swing one leg over the back of the bike, pressing close behind him, my heart pounding, not from fear, but from the thrill of being me, completely, even if just for a night.

He revs the engine, and the forest behind us disappears in a rush of wind and light.

The wind hits me like a wave the moment we speed out of the forest. Cold, sharp, alive. I tighten my arms around Alaric’s waist, pressing my cheek to the back of his leather jacket as the roar of the engine drowns out everything else, every thought, every rule, every voice in my head that says I shouldn't be doing this.

The pack grounds fade behind us, swallowed by darkness and trees. Ahead, the soft glow of the human town rises like a promise. Streetlights, neon signs, laughter carried on the air. A place where no one knows I’m the Lycan king’s daughter. No one cares that I’m not “powerful enough.” No one watches me like I’m a disappointment just waiting to happen.

Here, I’m just Aria.

The ride is fast, too fast, maybe, but that’s the point. We cut down winding roads, through the thinning forest, then onto pavement where the tires hum against the concrete like a heartbeat. The town is close, familiar in the way only a secret escape can be. I see the glow of shop windows, the blur of headlights, and that little thrill in my chest expands.

We roll up to the club and already the bass is pulsing through the ground like thunder. Our place. Hidden in plain sight on a side street lined with graffiti and old brick, the entrance is marked only by a flickering neon sign: Eclipse.

Alaric kills the engine and I slide off the bike, tugging off my helmet. My curls fall loosely around my shoulders, a little wild from the wind. Perfect. I pull on my heels, one after the other, and toss the bag back onto the bike. Alaric looks me over with that crooked smile of his, half amused, half impressed.

"You’re gonna make trouble tonight, huh?"

I raise an eyebrow. "Only if someone starts it."

He laughs, and together we head for the door. The line out front parts when the bouncer sees us. We’ve been here enough times that we don’t wait anymore. Aria and Alaric, always together, always a little too intense for a couple of small town misfits. He nods at us, and the door swings open, spilling music and heat into the cool night air.

Inside, it’s everything I need it to be.

Dark and loud and blindingly alive. Colored lights flash over the crowd, blue, red, violet, casting strangers in shifting shadows. The beat shakes the floor, climbs into my bones, and starts to burn away everything I’m tired of carrying. The judgment. The silence. The weight of being someone I never asked to be.

Alaric leads me to the bar first. He knows the drill. I need something cold and sweet and strong enough to wash the pack out of my bloodstream, at least for a few hours. He orders for us like he always does, leaning close so I can hear him over the bass. His presence is grounding, familiar in the best way. Like no matter how far I spiral, he’ll be there, steady, unafraid of the dark parts of me.

I take the drink from his hand, down half of it in one go, and then, without asking, I grab his hand and pull him towards the dance floor.

This is where I breathe.

Bodies move around us, lost in the rhythm, and I let go. Let the music drag me under. Let my hips sway, my arms rise, my heart beats to something that doesn’t ask me to prove myself. I can feel Alaric behind me, moving with me, matching my pace like he’s part of me. We don’t speak. We don’t need to.

Tonight isn’t about words. It’s about forgetting.

Forgetting that I’m Aria, daughter of the Lycan king.

Forgetting that I’m not enough, not fierce, not them.

Forgetting that home never really feels like home.

Tonight, I’m just a girl in a black dress, dancing with her best friend, chasing a moment of freedom before the world crashes in again.

And for now, that’s enough.

I push through the crowd, my skin slick with sweat and the heat of too many bodies pressed too close. The music throbs in the floor beneath my heels, sharp, aggressive, relentless. I need a break. My heart’s racing, my dress clinging to me in all the places I don’t have the energy to care about right now.

I glance behind me once, but Alaric’s not there.

Figures.

I turn towards the bar, weaving through the moving bodies with the ease of someone who’s done this a hundred times. When I finally get there, I prop my elbows against the cool surface, breathing a little deeper, letting the bass settle somewhere in the background.

And then I see him, Alaric.

He’s still on the dance floor. But now, he’s not dancing with me. He’s got some girl draped on him, arms around his neck, grinding against him like they’ve known each other more than fifteen minutes. She’s tall, legs for days, dark hair that gleams under the club lights. Laughing at something he says, even though I doubt it was that funny.

I wave the bartender over and order another drink, something stronger this time. When it lands in front of me, I take a long, slow sip, letting the burn distract me.

“Now that,” a voice says beside me, all confident swagger and cologne that’s trying too hard, “is a dangerous drink in the hands of a woman like you.”

I don’t even look at him. Not right away. I keep sipping, slow and deliberate, letting the silence answer for me.

But he doesn’t take the hint.

“You know, I was watching you out there. You move like you’ve got something to prove. Or maybe something to forget.” He leans closer. “Lucky for you, I’m very good at helping with both.”

I finally turn to him, tall, gym-fit, probably human, but trying to act like he’s the alpha of the universe. He gives me a practiced smile, like he thinks it’ll melt me. Like he hasn’t seen what real dominance looks like.

I meet his gaze, dead-on, and say flatly, “If I wanted a lecture and a bad cologne headache, I’d go home.”

He blinks. Smiles again, but it’s a little tighter now. “Feisty. I like that.”

“Try ‘done talking.’”

He opens his mouth again, but I’m already turning away, drink in hand. I down the rest of it in two swallows and set the glass back on the bar with a clean, satisfied clink. The burn in my throat is nothing compared to the one under my skin.

Without another word, I disappear into the crowd.

The music swells again, and I dive back into it, head first, heart numb. The beat is my escape. My armor. I don’t need Alaric. I don’t need some random guy with bad lines and even worse instincts. I don’t need anyone.

Just this moment. Just this fire. Just me.

And I dance. Alone. Fierce. Unapologetic.