C6

Lyra Ashfang POV

"My Prince, the blood scouts just transmitted their tracking stones from the Crimson Noble Quarter," Royal Blood Steward Silas Duskmoor murmurs, stepping out from the dense, velvet shadows of the alpha's den inside the Nightbane Crimson Citadel. He drops to his knee, keeping his head bowed low to avoid meeting the fierce crimson eyes of his master. "The treachery of the Ashfang Moon Pack runs far deeper than we initially anticipated."

The thick, suffocating scent of fresh clove tobacco fills the dark room as I draw a deep breath, resting my heavy forearms against the carved armrests of my obsidian wheelchair. My left hand, encased in its signature black leather glove, tightly grips the smoldering cigarette between my knuckles. The single red cufflink on my right sleeve catches the faint, bloody glow of the fireplace, gleaming like a fresh drop of gore. I do not speak immediately. The silence stretches, growing so heavy and pressurized that Silas’s breathing turns ragged from the sheer weight of my royal vampire aura.

"Speak, Silas," I command, my voice a low, gravelly vibration that shakes the crystal decanters on the sideboard. "And ensure you do not waste my time with minor wolf politics."

"Alpha Garrick Ashfang intentionally substituted the bride, sire," Silas reports, his voice tight. "They fully calculated that your physical disability made you powerless to retaliate against their territory. They believed a broken, crippled prince would simply accept whatever leftover scrap they threw into your bed, so they kept the pure Alpha female, Freya, and forced the slim, four-foot-five Psi mutant into the covenant."

A dark, dangerous curl distorts my lips as I exhale a cloud of acrid grey smoke. The absolute audacity of those wet-nosed dogs is almost amusing. They truly believe that because my lower extremities are bound to this chair, my claws have been dulled. They have forgotten that the blood running through my veins is the very thing that keeps their entire pack from being slaughtered.

"What did the little mutant do when she was confronted in the marketplace?" I ask, flicking a stray bit of ash onto the stone hearth. "Did she weep and crawl back to her pack elders like a beaten stray?"

"On the contrary, Your Highness," Silas says, a distinct note of shock cracking through his formal tone. "Lady Selene Frostveil was publicly mocking your physical condition, calling you a useless, paralyzed beast who couldn't even claim his female. The second princess did not hesitate. Her skinny framework moved with lethal speed. She struck Lady Selene so hard she shattered her facial cartilage, and she threatened to bring a recording stone straight to the Crimson Royal Council to have the Frostveil bloodline systematically executed for treason. She explicitly told them she would rip their tongues out if they ever spoke of your disability again."

I freeze. The cigarette stays suspended right before my lips, the sweet smoke curling around my sharp jawline. For the first time in ten bitter winters, a strange, roaring heat sparks deep within my frozen, dead chest. A wolf—a tiny, frail, four-foot-five Psi freak who belongs to the very pack that insulted me—just drew royal blood to defend my honor. Nobody has ever protected me. They either pity my ruined legs or scheme to step over my wheelchair to seize the crown.

"Where is my little savior currently residing?" I demand, a sudden, dark possessiveness tightening my gut.

"She spent the entire afternoon inside the Moon Healers' Sanctuary, guarding the vegetative form of the Omega, Kaela Ashfang. The scouts report she returned to the Crimson Citadel only an hour ago, sire."

I nod slowly, crushing the remains of my clove cigarette into the obsidian tray with my gloved thumb. "And the hidden ambush from half a moon ago? The rogue vampires who tried to pierce my heart in the lower quarter?"

"The blood knights have cleared the sector, master," Silas answers, bowing his head even further. "The conspirators have been completely bled out and erased. The hour grows incredibly late, Prince Cassius. You should return to the royal quarters and take your rest."

"Prepare the path," I mutter, engaging the silent magical gears of my wheelchair.

We glide through the massive, echoing corridors of the citadel. When we enter the grand hallway of the residential wing, the heavy silence I am normally accustomed to is completely gone. I do not see Lyra's slim frame anywhere near the lower hearth, but the faint, melodic sound of a soft werewolf melody drifts down the winding stone staircase. She is singing. The raw, beautiful vibrations of her voice echo against the cold stone, completely unbothered by the terrifying reputation of this castle.

Silas blinks, completely stunned by the sudden warmth filling the space. "Shall I clear the upper floor for you, my Prince?"

"No," I cut him off, a rare, genuine smirk tugging at the corner of my mouth. "The little wolf adapts to her cage far better than I anticipated. Leave us. I will navigate the upper levels alone."

The entire citadel has been structurally altered with smooth, inclined stone ramps so my chair can move without restriction. I roll up the incline, pushing open the heavy oak doors of my private chambers. The moment the threshold clears, my eyes narrow in absolute disbelief.

The room is completely unrecognizable. For a century, this chamber has been a stark, lifeless vault of black marble and cold white slate—a reflection of my own deadened existence. Now, the heavy stone floors are covered in plush, thick rugs of deep crimson and soft rose wolf-silk. The massive grand bed is draped in warm, inviting furs that smell faintly of wild sage and sweet meadow grass.

On the dark cedar counter near the bath entrance, a collection of delicate glass vials containing sweet-smelling floral oils sits beside a single silver-framed portrait.

I roll closer, my large hand picking up the frame. I stare intensely at the image. The young female in the glass is completely bare-faced, devoid of the heavy royal cosmetics they plastered onto her dark skin at the altar. She looks agonizingly delicate, her slim collarbones pronounced, her dark features soft, and her wide, expressive eyes holding a deep, fierce intelligence that calls directly to my predatory nature.

Suddenly, the heavy glass door of the bath clicks open.

Lyra steps out into the bedroom, completely naked underneath a single, dripping wet white towel that she has frantically wrapped around her small frame. The cloth barely reaches the upper curve of her dark, slender thighs, leaving her smooth, skinny legs completely bare. When her eyes lock onto me sitting in my wheelchair right in front of the door, a sharp, gasped shriek escapes her throat.

"Why the fuck are you lurking in here?" she breaths out, her hands clutching the top of the wet towel against her chest, her dark skin flushing a delicious, hot pink.

"This is my royal sanctuary, little wolf," I say, my voice dropping into a dark, emotionless purr as my eyes deliberately track the slow drop of water sliding down her throat. "Why exactly shouldn't I be inside my own bedroom?"

She bites her lower lip, her small chest heaving rapidly as she tries to find a logical argument. She can't. My logic is entirely airtight, and she knows it.

I set the silver portrait back onto the counter, my gaze sweeping over the vibrant new colors suffocating my dark room. "Did your tiny claws orchestrate this entire disaster?"

"Yes," she stammers, her voice laced with a sudden, nervous tremor that makes her inner wolf feel incredibly vulnerable. "The marble felt entirely too monotonous and cold, so I brought some comfort from the lower markets. I am incredibly sorry I didn't seek your permission first, Prince Cassius. If the sight of these colors offends your nature, I will tear them down and restore the black stone immediately."

My face remains perfectly unreadable, a cold mask that leaves her trembling in her bare feet. She doesn't know me yet. She has heard the rumors that I am a volatile, bloodthirsty psychotic who rips his partners to shreds when the dark madness takes over. She is genuinely terrified I am about to snap her tiny neck.

"If the fabrics please your skin, keep them exactly where they are," I say, shifting my weight as I roll the chair directly toward the steeping pool of the royal bath. I stop right at the edge of the steam, tilting my head back to look at her over my muscular shoulder. "My flesh requires a hot wash to purge the filth of the royal council chambers. Come inside and scrub the tension from my spine after you dry your skin."

Lyra’s jaw drops, her wide eyes darting from my face to the steaming water. "Scrub your back?"

"You are legally bound to my blood as my princess," I growl, letting a dangerous, dominant flicker ignite in my eyes to test her boundaries. "Do you find it beneath your dignity to serve your master's body, wolf?"

She swallows hard, the words dying in her throat. They have stood before the Blood Moon Covenant Hall; they are recognized by the entire territory as mates. No matter what intimate act I demand of her, it is entirely reasonable under pack law. Yet, her internal monologue is clearly fighting against the raw, animalistic gravity pulling us together.

"I will be right in," she whispers, bowing her head.

I roll into the massive marble bathroom, pulling the heavy door shut behind me. I don't give her the chance to offer assistance as I shift my massive, heavy torso out of the obsidian chair and into the steaming pool, my dead legs resting uselessly against the bottom of the tub.

Outside, Lyra quickly dries her skinny body, sliding into a loose, thin white nightgown that clings desperately to her small curves. She rubs her hair with a fresh cloth, her heart hammering a frantic, explosive rhythm against her ribs as she hears the water shifting inside. She slaps her cheeks to force her composure back before gently pushing the bathroom door open.

I am leaning back against the marble ledge, my broad, heavily scarred chest fully exposed above the frothing water, my long dark hair damp against my neck.

The moment her eyes land on the raw, muscular expanse of my bare skin, she completely freezes, her gaze locking onto the jagged battle scars tracing my ribs. She stands there completely dazed, her mouth slightly open.

"What are you staring at, little wolf?" I mock, a low rumble vibrating in my chest. "Did I command you to enter my bath just to play the role of a stone statue?"

Lyra instantly snaps out of her trance, her face burning with an intense, fiery blush. But before she can take a single step toward the brush, a sudden drop of dark crimson fluid trickles out of her left nostril, sliding down her dark lip. She gasps, frantically clapping her hand over her nose as her eyes widen in absolute horror. "I am so sorry!"

Without waiting for a response, she turns on her bare heels and flees out of the bathroom like a scolded pup, slamming the door behind her skinny frame.

She actually developed a fierce, hot nosebleed just from looking at my naked torso.

I throw my head back against the marble ledge, a loud, deep roar of genuine, booming laughter ripping from my throat, filling the entire steaming chamber with a sound this citadel hasn't heard in a decade.