Even kings bleed

Chapter 22

when his hand finally rested on my waist, it was slow, deliberate and Claiming. I forced myself not to flinch. I had learned long ago that resistance only amused men like him.

“You will stay tonight,” he said quietly.

It was not a question.

I nodded.

As he turned away, leading me deeper into the room, one thought burned through my fear, sharp and clear:

He had taken everything from me once.

And now, unknowingly, he had taken me too.

But war taught me one thing the pleasure house never could—

Even kings bleed.

***"

The first deaths did not happen loudly.

They never did.

Black Ridge moved the way shadows did—without announcement, without urgency. Wolves slipped past familiar paths and took routes even the mountain rarely remembered. Snow crunched softly beneath boots and paws, swallowed by wind before it could betray them.

The border lay ahead.

Sacred ground.

Bloodmoon had crossed it days ago, confident enough to mark trees, bold enough to leave signs of ownership. The marks were still there—fresh scratches in bark, symbols cut deep, careless and arrogant.

Black Ridge studied them in silence.

No anger showed on their faces. Only focus.

The Alpha did not lead from the front. He never had. He watched from higher ground, eyes sharp, mind already several moves ahead. This was not revenge. This was correction.

The outpost sat at the edge of the forest, small but well-guarded. Bloodmoon wolves moved around it with relaxed confidence. They laughed. They talked. They believed the land beneath their feet was already theirs.

That belief would kill them.

The first Bloodmoon guard fell without sound. A blade slid cleanly between ribs, precise and practiced. His body was eased to the ground, not dropped. Black Ridge did not waste energy on drama.

Another followed. Then another.

By the time Bloodmoon realized something was wrong, it was already over.

A scream finally broke the night—short, sharp, terrified.

Black Ridge let it happen.

Fear was part of the lesson.

Chaos erupted inside the outpost. Wolves shifted, half-formed, confused. Orders were shouted too late. Black Ridge struck with discipline, cutting through panic like it was soft flesh.

The fight did not last long.

When it ended, the ground was dark with blood, steam rising where warm bodies met cold air. A few Bloodmoon wolves lay breathing, wounded but alive. That was intentional.

One was dragged forward, thrown to his knees. He was young. Too young to be brave, too proud to beg. His eyes darted from face to face, searching for mercy he would not find here.

The Alpha stepped closer.

He crouched, studying the wolf as if assessing damage to a tool rather than a life. “You crossed land that was not yours,” he said calmly.

The Bloodmoon wolf swallowed hard. His hands shook.

“We were told it was unclaimed,” he muttered.

A lie. A weak one.

The Alpha rose slowly. “Tell your pack,” he said, voice cold as stone, “that Black Ridge does not share.”

The wolf was released. Pushed away. Allowed to run.

That was worse than death.

Because he would carry the message.

By dawn, Black Ridge was gone. No banners. No symbols left behind. Only bodies and fear.

When Bloodmoon reinforcements arrived hours later, they found devastation and confusion. The outpost had not been conquered. It had been erased.

Panic spread faster than any official word.

Whispers began almost immediately. Black Ridge was moving. Black Ridge was watching. Black Ridge was closer than anyone thought.

Back at the ridge, the Alpha listened as reports came in. Scouts confirmed what he already expected—Bloodmoon borders tightening, patrols doubling, tension thick in their ranks.

Fear made wolves sloppy.

Still, something unsettled him.

Bloodmoon had taken the loss too quietly.

No immediate retaliation. No reckless counterstrike.

That meant thinking.

That meant planning.

Which meant this war would not be quick.

That night, as Black Ridge wolves returned to their dens, a storm gathered over the mountain. Thunder rolled low and distant, echoing through stone corridors like a warning.

The Alpha stood alone again, staring into the dark.

Blood had been spilled.

The silence after his touch felt louder than words.

I stood where he left me, my skin still warm where his fingers had been. The fire cracked behind him, slow and steady, like it knew something neither of us dared to say. He didn’t rush me. That alone surprised me.

“Come,” he said at last, motioning to the low table near the window.

I hesitated only a moment before obeying. Not because I trusted him—but because I wanted to understand him. Monsters were easier to destroy once you knew their shape.

I sat across from him. The space between us was small, He poured wine into two cups, pushing one toward me.

“You don’t drink like the others,” he said.

“I drink when I want to remember,” I replied. “Not when I want to forget.”

That made him pause.

He studied me again, slower this time. Not like a man measuring flesh, but like one measuring thought. “You speak carefully,” he said. “As if words cost you something.”

“They do,” I answered softly. “Once spoken, they can never be taken back.”

A corner of his mouth lifted. Not a smile—something quieter. “You weren’t raised in a pleasure house.”

My fingers gotaround the cup. My mother’s face flashed in my mind—her calm eyes, her steady hands, the way she taught me to think before I spoke.

“No,” I said. “I wasn’t.”

He leaned back, gaze fixed on me. “Then why are you here?”

The question hovered between us like a blade.

I met his eyes. “Because some of us survive by bending instead of breaking.”

For a long moment, he said nothing. The fire reflected in his eyes, sharp and alive. I could feel his interest shift—not soften, but deepen.

“You don’t beg,” he said. “Most women do.”

“I don’t believe begging changes fate,” I replied. “Only choices do.”

That earned a low chuckle. “Careful. That kind of thinking gets people killed.”

My chest tightened, but I held my ground. “It also builds kingdoms.”

That stopped him completely.

He sat forward again, resting his forearms on his knees. “Who taught you that?”

“My mother,” I said before I could stop myself.

The word tasted like grief.

He noticed. Of course he did. His eyes darkened, not with pity, but with attention. “She must have been remarkable.”

“She was,” I said quietly. “She believed power was not only taken. It could be shaped.”

Something unreadable crossed his face.

“And what do you believe?” he asked.

I swallowed. This was dangerous ground. But something in his tone invited honesty—not mercy, just truth.

“I believe power reveals who we already are,” I said. “It doesn’t change us. It just removes the mask.”