Chapter 2

Griffin's Point of View

I sit in the shadows beneath the trees, perched on a thick branch like a predator waiting for the right moment to strike. The royal wing of the pack house glows faintly in the distance, four stories of arrogance and blood stained power wrapped in polished stone and gold trims. Every light that flickers on behind those high windows makes my jaw tighten.

Lycan King Alpha Jensen.

Even thinking his name tastes like iron on my tongue.

He took my father from me, ripped him away like he was nothing. I was eight years old, and I watched the king’s guards tear our home apart just because my father dared to say what no one else would: that werewolves should not be treated like equals. That they were no more than the Lycans' shadows. For that, he died screaming. I remember his eyes, defiant even as they dimmed.

Jensen calls it justice. I call it what it was: murder.

For fifteen years I’ve worn the mask. I've been loyal. Quiet. Controlled. I've trained beside his soldiers. I've bowed my head. Waited. Knowing one day, he’ll bleed. But it won’t be enough just to kill him. No, he needs to be broken. And now, I might finally have the key.

Her.

The rumors reached me months ago, quiet whispers, exchanged in breathless hushes when they think no one’s listening. The princess. The king’s disappointment. The werewolf girl born to royalty. I’d almost dismissed them as nonsense.

Until I saw her.

Aria.

She isn’t what I expected. Not at all. She's small, yes, but there's something wild and dangerous beneath the surface. Like a storm pretending to be a breeze. She doesn’t strut around the pack grounds like royalty. She barely lives here. She’s always watching everyone, never quite present, never quite one of them. I know that look. I’ve worn it too.

And every few nights, like clockwork, she vanishes.

I shift my weight slightly on the branch, my eyes locked on the fourth floor balcony across the clearing. The doors are open. The silk curtains stir in the night air.

Come on…

I wait a few more minutes, then there it is. Movement.

She steps out into the moonlight, climbing over the balcony ledge like it’s nothing, like she was born for this kind of escape. Her hair falls in waves around her shoulders, catching the light. And what she’s wearing, damn. A black dress so tight it looks like a second skin. So short it barely qualifies as clothing. She lands lightly, silently, barefoot, and stands there for a moment, her shoulders back, her chin high, like she owns the darkness.

My breath catches, just for a second.

She doesn’t even look around. She just runs.

Not out of fear. Out of freedom.

Her legs move with practiced grace as she disappears into the trees, fast and sure, vanishing down that same path I’ve seen her take before. Towards the human town. Towards the noise and the lights and the place where no one cares who her father is.

I stay still. Silent.

So that’s who she is. The Lycan king’s daughter, but nothing like him. Running from a life most would kill for. So beautifully, blissfully unaware of what she’s walking into.

I smirk.

Let them whisper about the rebellious princess. Let her keep sneaking off to her precious little club in the human town. Let her feel untouchable.

Because I’m watching now.

And soon, Aria won’t just be Jensen’s weakness.

She’ll be mine to use. To break. To turn against him in the one way he’ll never see coming.

I climb down from the tree slowly, quietly, my boots sinking into the moss.

Time to see how far the daughter will fall… before the king comes crashing down with her.

The forest air is cool against my skin as I step out from the cover of trees, moving with the quiet confidence of someone who’s been hunting all his life. My boots press into the moss covered ground without a sound. I glance once over my shoulder, back towards the pack house glowing in the distance.

No alarms. No guards. No one saw her leave.

Good.

I make my way down the back trail I’ve used more times than anyone would guess. It winds towards the old service road, half overgrown and long forgotten by the rest of the pack. That’s where I parked, far enough that no one hears the engine, close enough that I can follow quickly if I need to.

The truck waits in the shadows, matte black and quiet as death. I climb in, shut the door, and the engine rumbles to life beneath my hands. Low. Controlled. Just like me.

I don’t bother with music.

Instead, I drive through the winding roads that stretch from the edge of the territory into the outer limits of the human town. The headlights cut across the darkness like twin knives, illuminating signs and passing trees, then the first hints of civilization, dim storefronts, cracked pavement, the flicker of distant neon.

It doesn’t take long to find the club. I know the route by now.

Eclipse.

A pulsing heart in the middle of an otherwise forgettable town. Loud, chaotic, and crawling with humans who think the worst thing in the dark is a drunk driver or a broken heart.

Idiots.

I pull up across the street and kill the engine. And there it is, just where I expected it.

The motorcycle.

Parked right out front, angled towards the curb like it belongs there. Sleek, black, and customized with just enough rust and character to scream Alaric. Her best friend. Her shield. The only one she ever seems to let close.

My fingers tighten around the steering wheel.

They’re already here.

I step out of the truck, lock it, and cross the street casually, my hood drawn up over my head. The bouncer barely glances at me. I’m tall, broad, confident, no fake ID or sweet talk needed. I give a nod, and the door opens. The music hits me like a wave.

Inside, it’s a different world.

Strobe lights slash through the dark, cutting the crowd into flashes of color and movement. Sweat and perfume and adrenaline mix in the air. People sway and twist on the dance floor, faces blurred by light and shadow. A thousand heartbeats thrum around me. But I only care about one.

I spot her instantly.

Aria.

She’s in the center of the chaos, dancing like the music is part of her bloodstream. That same tight black dress, clinging to every curve. Her hair wild. Her eyes bright, sharp even in the flashing lights. She moves with abandon, her body fluid and unafraid, lost in the rhythm. Alaric is close, of course he is, but not touching her this time. Not like the other times.

I keep to the edge, sliding between bodies without drawing attention. Shadow to shadow. Always watching. Just watching...

There’s something fascinating about her. She shouldn’t matter, just a girl born into power she doesn’t deserve. Just a werewolf in a Lycan’s world. But she does matter. Because she’s the crack in the armor. The loose thread in the king’s perfect legacy.

And I intend to pull it.

So I watch.

Patiently. Focused. Calculating.

The night is still young, and I’m just getting started.

The bass is pounding hard enough to shake the walls. Lights flash across the dance floor in jagged bursts, blue, red, white, like lightning caught in a bottle. I lean against a dark corner column, half-shrouded in shadow, my arms crossed as I track her through the crowd.

Aria.

She moves like a flame in a storm, untouchable, wild, alive. For someone born under the weight of a throne, she wears rebellion like it’s stitched into her skin. There’s a bite in the way she sways, like the world burned her and she decided to dance on the ashes.

And then he shows up.

Alaric.

He slides in behind her like it’s the most natural thing in the world. No hesitation. No doubt. His hands find her waist. Her arms loop around his neck. They move together, like they’re one rhythm, one heartbeat.

He's too close.

My jaw tightens.

I tell myself it’s because she’s important, a key piece in the plan, a pawn with royal blood and a mind sharp enough to use. But that doesn’t explain the heat rising in my chest, or the fact that I can’t look away. It doesn’t explain why I suddenly want to rip him off of the dance floor, off of her and remind him that proximity doesn’t equal possession.

What the hell is this?

I shift my weight uncomfortably, my arms still folded, willing the flicker of emotion to die before it turns into something dangerous.

“Hey, handsome,” a voice purrs beside me.

I glance to my left.

A girl, blonde, tall, legs that go on forever, squeezed into a neon pink dress so tight it looks painted on. She gives me a smile like it’s a weapon. One manicured hand rests on her hip; the other trails her fingertips up my arm like she thinks she’s already won.

“Why are you hiding in the dark?” she asks. “Someone like you should be out there, leading the party.”

I don’t answer.

My eyes flick back to the dance floor. Aria’s laughing at something Alaric said. Her head tilts back, and that sound, genuine, raw, unguarded, cuts through the music like it was meant only for him.

The blonde presses closer to me. “You don’t talk much, huh? That’s okay. I like a challenge.”

My hand lifts without thought, catching her wrist just before it lands on my chest. Not hard, but firm enough to make her blink.

“I’m not interested.”

She huffs. “You don’t even know my name.”

“I don’t need to.”

My tone is sharp. Cold. But I never take my eyes off Aria, not for a second.

The blonde lingers, hesitating, maybe thinking I’ll change my mind. I don’t. After a beat, she mutters something under her breath and saunters off, her heels stabbing into the floor with a little more force than before.

Good. One less distraction.

I exhale slowly, dragging a hand down my jaw.

What is it about her?

She’s nothing like the others. Not polished. Not predictable. And yet, even surrounded by noise and light and movement, she commands the space like a queen in exile, unaware of the power she radiates. Or maybe she knows, and just doesn’t care.

That makes her dangerous.

It should make her expendable.

But as I watch her smile at him, as something hot and irrational coils tighter in my chest, I realize I’m not just watching anymore.

I’m feeling.

And that’s a problem.

Because feelings complicate plans.

And I don’t have room for complications. Not when the king still breathes.