what do you think you're doing?

Prince Fenrir stepped even closer, and then… he sniffed Lylah.

Her heart stopped for a second.

“You see,” he mumbled, his voice thick with liquor, “when you came to this palace… it was to help groom my sister. Since she’s never left that room of hers… she has no royal manners. No attitude.”

He paused and stared at her, his eyes unfocused but burning with something strange.

“I hate how close you are to her,” he said, his breath heavy against her cheek. “It gives me the creeps.”

He was drunk. Too drunk.

She tried to step back, but before she could move, the bottle in his hand slipped and crashed to the floor. She flinched.

Suddenly, his arms wrapped tightly around her waist, pulling her hard against him. Her body stiffened.

“You’re… squeezing me, Fenrir,” she said, stammering, trying to push at his chest. But he didn’t budge. He was too strong.

Her hands kept pushing, but it was useless. He was holding her like she belonged to him.

That’s when it hit her—this plan… this wasn’t going to be easy at all.

She tried again, pressing harder against him, hoping he’d snap out of it. Instead, he let go, only to grab her hand roughly and yank her toward the bed.

“Wait—” she panicked, her voice breaking.

This wasn't part of the plan.

She wanted control. She needed it. But right now, she had none.

“Fenrir, let go!” she cried, trying to pull free.

But he didn’t listen.

He dragged her down on the bed and pinned her there, his legs on either side of her, trapping her. His eyes stared straight into hers.

“Tell me,” he whispered, his face so close, “tell me you don’t like me, Lylah.”

She felt her throat tighten. Her heart was racing so fast it hurt.

She looked at him—right into his eyes—but she couldn’t speak.

She just swallowed hard… and stayed silent.

Before Lylah could say anything, Prince Fenrir’s lips crashed onto hers.

She froze for a moment, stunned, before her hands instinctively pushed against his chest. “Stop! Get off!” she said, but he didn’t move an inch.

Fenrir pulled away suddenly, looking down at her with a dark, taunting smile.

“I am the future Alpha of this kingdom,” he muttered, his voice rough with alcohol, “and I get anything I want… and that includes you, Lylah.”

Her eyes widened in shock. “W-what?”

Before she could speak again, Fenrir grabbed the top of her dress and ripped it.

“Fenrir!” Lylah gasped, panic overtaking her. Her heart pounded so violently it felt like it might burst. She tried to cover herself, her hands trembling.

Then—

BANG!

The door slammed open.

Freya stood there, her face twisted in fury.

Without a word, she marched into the room and pushed Fenrir off of Lylah. He stumbled back, landing on the bed like a madman, still drunk, laughing as if nothing had happened.

“Freya?!” Lylah gasped in disbelief. “Who let you out?”

But Freya didn’t answer. She knelt beside Lylah, quickly fixing the torn dress, then pulled her up, holding her hand tightly.

Without another word, they stormed out of the room.

As they passed through the hall, the maids stared at them as if they had seen ghosts, but Freya didn’t care. She kept walking, dragging Lylah along as they made their way straight to the council room.

Lylah tried to stop her, but Freya wouldn’t listen.

They didn’t realize the council was in the middle of a meeting, with nobles, Alphas, and other high-ranking beings already gathered for Lupa’s Night.

The moment they entered, guards surrounded them.

Freya’s chest heaved with anger, her eyes blazing. She called out, loud and clear, “Father!”

Everyone in the room turned to look at her.

“All my life, you’ve kept me locked away like some animal who doesn’t deserve sunlight,” Freya shouted, her voice full of rage.

“You act like I don’t even exist in this palace. Like I’m something to be hidden away.”

She gripped Lylah’s hand tighter, her voice shaking now, but her words never faltered.

“Today, I’m asking you one thing,” she said, her voice breaking slightly. “Why didn’t you just kill me when I was born?”

The room fell into silence.

Freya’s eyes burned with a pain that cut deep, staring directly at her father.

“If I was such a curse,” she continued, her voice raw, “why not just end it from the beginning? Why keep me locked away like a prisoner?”

Lylah stood there beside her, unable to speak, her heart pounding in her chest as she watched her friend break in front of everyone.

Among the crowd, one man stood out—Vladimiros, the Vampire-Werewolf hybrid king. He watched Freya intently, not a single glance breaking from her. His dark eyes never wavered from her, an intrigued smirk playing at the corners of his mouth. The way Freya boldly stood up to her father seemed to intrigue him, as if he was seeing something new, something special.

Finally, her father spoke, his voice cold and dismissive.

“I didn’t want blood on my hands,” he said flatly. “Especially not the blood of a cursed girl. A royal stain.”

Freya’s lips trembled. Then she turned to face her mother.

“You’re the most despicable mother anyone could have,” she said, her voice laced with anger and bitterness. “I was born the same day as my brother, but to you, I’m nothing—”

“Enough!” her father snapped, cutting her off.

“You want freedom, Freya?” he demanded.

Freya stood silently, her chest rising and falling with emotion.

“I’ll give you two choices,” he said, his voice lowering. “If any noble, Alpha, or being in this room agrees to mate with you… I’ll let you go. I’ll give you your freedom.”

His gaze darkened. “But if no one does...” He smiled cruelly. “You’ll never see the light again. That west wing you live in—that’s too much luxury for someone like you.”

He walked down the stairs, stopping right in front of them. His voice dripped with mockery as he spoke again.

“Go ahead, Freya,” he said with a smirk. “Ask them. See if any of them want to marry you.”

Turning to the crowd, he raised his voice.

“Would anyone here want to marry my cursed daughter? The one born on the blood moon?”

Murmurs filled the room. Some nobles even laughed at the suggestion.

“Absolutely not.”

“She’s dangerous.”

“No way.”

Lylah gripped Freya’s arm and whispered, “What are you doing?”

Freya turned to look at her, tears streaming down her cheeks. Before Lylah could say anything else—

A deep, commanding voice echoed through the room.

“I will marry her.”

The room fell silent.

All eyes turned toward the source of the voice.

Vladimiros stood tall, his dark eyes fixed on Freya, a smirk still playing at the corners of his lips.

The entire room bowed at once.

Even Freya’s father was taken aback. “Lord Vladimiros… you’ll marry my daughter?”

“But she’s—”

“I didn’t finish,” Vladimiros interrupted, stepping forward with confidence.

He knelt before Freya and gently took her hand, pressing his lips to it in a soft kiss. Freya’s eyes widened in shock and fear.

Lylah stood frozen beside her, watching everything unfold in a daze.

The room was filled with tension, the air thick with uncertainty.