SIX: Danger

MINTHE

Danger

* * *

I smile at Pierre one last time. Then I turn around and walk out of the room.

“Minthe,” Pierre calls sharply behind me. “Don’t start this.”

My heels strike hard against the stone floor as I keep walking, one step, then another. My pulse pounds so violently I can hear it inside my ears, but I don’t stop. If I stop, I think I might actually collapse right there in the hallway and embarrass myself further.

“Minthe.” His voice gets louder, irritated now. “I’m fucking talking to you.”

Still, I keep walking. The corridor blurs around me. Servants lower their heads instantly as I pass, pretending not to stare at the almost-Luna wandering through the manor looking pale as death.

I hear the chamber door open harder behind me, then footsteps—fast. Pierre catches my wrist near the staircase before I can descend it.

“What the fuck is wrong with you?” he hisses.

I slowly look down at his hand around my wrist. Funny. Three years ago, this touch used to calm me down instantly. Now it just makes me tired.

“I’m not doing anything,” I say quietly.

“You walk out in the middle of a conversation and act cold all morning—“

“I wasn’t aware I needed permission to leave a room.”

His jaw tightens immediately. There’s exhaustion under his eyes too—guilt, frustration, confusion. He looks like he hasn’t slept at all.

Good. A horrible part of me feels relieved about that.

“I know you’re upset,” he says, lowering his voice. “But Lyria has nowhere else to go right now. The least you can do is care about her.”

I stare at him. That’s what he thinks this is about? God. I almost laugh. Instead I gently pull my wrist from his grip.

“She can stay as long as she wants.”

“Minthe—“

“No, really.” I smile softly, “You don’t have to explain yourself to me anymore.”

His brows furrow immediately—and that catches his attention. Not my pain, not the humiliation. That.

“What does that mean?”

I look at him properly then, really look at him. Dark hair slightly messy from running his hands through it, shirt wrinkled, sleeves rolled up, concern written all over his face. Concern for her. Not me.

I spent three years memorizing this man, and somehow I still got him wrong.

“It means…” My throat tightens for a second before I force the words out calmly. “I think I stayed where I wasn’t wanted for too long.”

His entire expression hardens instantly. “That’s not true.”

“Okay.”

“Stop doing that.”

“Doing what?”

“This.” He gestures sharply between us. “Talking as if I threw you away.”

My stomach twists painfully, because technically he didn’t. He just chose somebody else first. Again.

“You should go back inside,” I whisper. “Lyria looked nervous.”

Pierre drags a hand down his face roughly. “You’re my mate.”

Were. Almost. Supposedly. I nod once. “Right.” Then I walk downstairs before he can stop me again. This time, he doesn’t follow.

The second I shut my chamber doors behind me, the strength leaves my body so fast it’s humiliating. I lean against the wood heavily and suck in a shaking breath.

Fuck. Fuck. Fuck.

I press both palms against my eyes until little sparks burst behind them. I don’t cry this time—that’s the strange part. I just feel empty, numb in the ugliest way possible.

The fire crackles softly across the room while rain lashes against the tall windows harder than before. My abandoned wedding dress still lies in a heap near the wardrobe where I left it last night. Pathetic. Everything about me right now feels pathetic.

I move before I can think too much and kneel beside the bed, reaching underneath until my fingers brush cold iron. The hidden coffer slides out slowly, and I stare at it for a long moment. I haven’t opened this thing in three years. Not once.

My chest feels tight as I undo the clasps.

Inside rests the life I buried for Pierre Ashbourne—the silver-and-blue crest of House Vale, imperial seals, official documents, letters unopened. And sitting at the very bottom, the invitation. Cream parchment edged in silver, the Imperial Palace seal stamped across the center.

My fingers freeze over it.

Three years ago, the Alpha King invited every major noble house to the capital for winter court, and I never answered. Because I was too busy abandoning my fate for a tragic second male lead with sad eyes.

Jesus Christ.

I let out a weak laugh and cover my face briefly. Past me deserved to get bullied.

Slowly, I open the invitation again. The paper smells faintly of cedar even after all this time. My eyes skim the familiar royal insignia while memories from the novel begin piecing themselves together inside my head.

The Alpha King.

I don’t rally know enough about him. The novel barely mentioned him, nor his POV. The council constantly forcing him toward marriage because the empire needed a Queen, an heir, stability.

And Lyria—Lyria was always supposed to become that Queen.

I go still. Then slowly lower the parchment.

Oh. Oh, you sneaky little bitch.

The realization settles into me piece by piece. Lyria didn’t come back because she loves Pierre most—Pierre is safety, comfort, a fallback.

But the throne was always the real goal. And if I place myself directly between her and the crown, her ambition will drag her right back toward the capital on its own. Which means the original story gets restored. Which means I might finally go home.

My heartbeat starts speeding up. For the first time since last night, something other than grief moves through me—purpose, sharp and terrifying.

I stand so fast the chair beside the vanity scrapes loudly against the floor. The wardrobe doors slam open and my hands shake while digging through old clothes buried at the very back.

And there it is. Imperial blue.

I stop breathing for a second. The gown is darker than Ashbourne colors, sharper in design, fitted through the waist with silver embroidery stitched along the sleeves and collar—formal, noble, powerful.

It’s the look of a villainess.

Mine.

I strip out of my cream nightgown quickly and pull the dress over my skin. The fabric feels unfamiliar after years of simpler pack clothing—heavier, stronger.

I fasten the buttons with trembling fingers before grabbing the silver crest of House Vale, the metal ice cold against my throat.

I stare at myself in the mirror, and for the first time in years, I finally recognize the woman staring back. Not completely. But enough.

“You look terrifying,” I mutter to myself. Then I snort quietly. “Fake it till you make it, bitch.”

The manor goes silent when I descend the main staircase. Actually silent. Servants stop moving, guards stare, and one Omega nearly drops an entire tray.

Good. Let them stare.

I hold my chin higher and continue walking across the entrance hall while rain pounds violently outside the massive front doors. “Prepare my carriage,” I order calmly.

The nearest servant jumps immediately. “Y-yes, Luna.”

The doors swing open as thunder cracks overhead and cold wind rushes inside, lifting strands of my hair.

I look at one of the Omegas rushing around, “Don’t tell Pierre I left.” I smile and she looks confused but nods nonetheless.

The horses surge forward. And I don’t look back. Not once.

The storm gets worse halfway through the mountain pass. Rain slams violently against the carriage roof while thunder shakes the entire road beneath us, trees bending dangerously in the wind outside the windows.

Perfect weather for a mental breakdown.

I grip the seat tighter as the wheels jolt hard over uneven stone, my ankle already aching from tension alone, my mind still racing.

The Alpha King. Hades.

God, even thinking his name feels dangerous. In the original novel, nobody ever truly understood him—every scene described him through Lyria’s perspective, cold eyes, ruthless decisions, terrifying authority. But there were cracks, tiny ones. He hated manipulation. Hated weakness disguised as innocence.

Which means— “Agh!”

A sharp crack of thunder explodes overhead. The horses scream and the carriage jerks violently sideways. One wheel slips hard against the soaked edge of the road and everything tilts.

The driver shouts, wood splinters, and my body slams against the interior wall hard enough to knock the air from my lungs.

Then the carriage flips.

“Ah! What is happening?!”

I scream as the world turns upside down. Glass shatters everywhere. My shoulder smashes against something hard before I’m thrown completely out into freezing mud and rain, the impact knocking the breath out of me entirely.

For several seconds, I can’t move. I just lie there gasping while rain pelts my face violently—pain throbbing through my ankle, palms burning, ears ringing. Somewhere nearby, the carriage finishes crashing with a horrible crunch of twisting wood.

“Fuck . . .” I choke out.

My entire body shakes as I force myself onto my elbows. Mud coats my hands immediately. My beautiful imperial blue gown is ruined, blood streaking across my palms where glass sliced through skin. The driver lies motionless several feet away. The horses are gone.

Panic rises so fast my chest physically locks. No. No no no—

I suck in a ragged breath and force myself upright despite the pain shooting through my ankle. Rain drenches me instantly, my hair sticking to my face while thunder growls overhead.

Then through the storm, I see it.

Far in the distance, silver-lit towers rising against the dark mountains. The Imperial Palace. My lungs tighten. It’s close enough.

I laugh weakly. “Oh my God,” I breathe. “This fucking novel is trying to kill me.”

Then I gather my ruined skirts and start running.

By the time I reach the palace gates, I can barely breathe, mud splashing up my legs with every limping step, rainwater dripping from my hair and sleeves endlessly.

The massive black gates tower overhead while silver wolf emblems gleam beneath torchlight.

Imperial guards notice me instantly. They all shift into their wolves, growling at me.

Wolf is something I never ot to have. At least that’s one thing I kept with my original body. I’ve never truly became a werewolf.

“Well,” I mutter breathlessly. “That’s never a good sign.”

I freeze automatically as six large wolves surround me, one who hasn’t shifted grabbing my arm hard. “State your identity.”

“I’m Minthe Vale,” I say immediately, shivering violently. “Daughter of House Vale. Luna of Ashbourne Pack. I need an audience with His Majesty immediately.”

Silence. Then one guard actually laughs.

I blink at him. Excuse me?

Another guard looks me up and down slowly—mud-covered gown, bleeding hands, soaked hair plastered to my face. Right. Fair enough.

“She’s delirious rogue,” one mutters.

“I’m not delirious,” I snap. “I’m exhausted and one carriage accident away from a fucking concussion.”

“Watch your mouth.”

“Watch yours. You’re speaking to the daughter of the Beta.”

That gets their attention slightly. But not enough.

“Everyone knows the Beta’s daughter has been in her sick bed this entire time.” They all roll their eyes.

“Search her,” the tallest guard orders coldly. The second they grab both my arms, something inside me snaps.

“Oh, absolutely the fuck not—“

They wrench my wrists behind my back and pain shoots through my scraped palms instantly. I gasp sharply and struggle hard against them. “Let me go!” “Stop resisting.” “I said let go of me!”

One guard shoves me forward toward the gates and my ankle nearly gives out underneath me. Rage flares hot and sudden through my exhaustion, and for the first time in years, the old me claws violently back to the surface.

“I swear to God if one more person grabs me today, I’m going to start biting.”

The guard snorts. “I’d pay to see that.”

“I’ll do it for free.”

They drag me through the towering gates anyway. The palace interior is enormous—black marble, silver pillars, torchlight flickering endlessly across polished obsidian floors.

My wet footsteps echo through corridor after corridor while servants and nobles openly stare at the disaster being hauled through the royal halls.

Wonderful. Exactly the reintroduction I wanted.

“This is humiliating,” I mutter.

“You should’ve thought about that before trespassing.”

“I literally live here politically.”

“No, you don’t.”

“Emotionally, I mean.”

The guard looks deeply unimpressed. Rude.

My pulse starts hammering harder the deeper inside they drag me. This is insane, actually insane—I came here with a half-formed plan, no dignity, and possibly a sprained ankle. If Hades kills me, I’d think it’s fair.

Massive gilded doors finally appear ahead. The guards stop, one knocks sharply, and the doors slowly begin opening inward. Warm light spills across the dark hallway and my stomach drops instantly.

Oh. Oh fuck.

The guards force me forward and I stumble hard before getting shoved down onto polished obsidian flooring, pain jolting through my knees. My wet hair hangs in my face while my breathing comes fast and uneven.

Then I look up, and forget how to breathe entirely.

A black stone throne rises above the massive hall. And sitting there—

Jesus Christ.

The Alpha King looks nothing like the novel described—no words ever could’ve done this man justice.

Tall, broad shoulders draped in black, one gloved hand resting lazily against the throne armrest. Silver eyes fixed directly on me with terrifying stillness.

“A predator . . .” I unconsciously mutters.

The entire room feels heavier around him, the air itself bending differently near this man. Beautiful in the most dangerous way possible, the kind of face that makes women ruin their lives willingly. The kind of man who looks like he’d drag you apart slowly while staying perfectly calm the entire time.

One of the guards bows immediately beside me. “Your Majesty,” he says firmly. “We apprehended this rogue trespassing at the eastern gate.”

Silence.

The Alpha King rises from his throne and descends the steps slowly—measured, controlled—every single person in the room going completely still.

Then he stops directly in front of me, close enough that I can see rainwater dripping from my hair onto the polished floor between us.

His silver gaze drags over my ruined gown, my bleeding hands, the crest at my throat, and finally my face. His expression never changes.

“Lift her face.”

[DANGER! DANGER! DANGER!] The system flashes in front of my eyes.