All Chapters of The Lycan King’s Rogue Queen: Chapter 31 - Chapter 40

Riley Here’s the thing about royal dinners: they always start with soup and end with someone’s ego on fire. I was just hoping, for once, it wouldn’t be mine. The room glittered — chandeliers, silver, nobles so polished you could probably check your reflection on their foreheads. And then there was me: rogue, stray, freshly bathed but still carrying an aura of “don’t talk to me, I bite.” I’d barely taken two sips of wine when Lord Carrow, human embodiment of inherited arrogance, decided to bless us with his voice. “To old laws,” he said, smiling like the toast itself was a sermon. “To blood untainted, to purity preserved, to His Majesty’s mercy—” I raised my glass. “And to the extinction of bad speeches.” You could’ve heard a mouse choke. Kael didn’t move, which was either restraint or entertainment. Hard to tell with him. Carrow, bless his tiny pride, turned to me with a condescending smile. “You mock what you cannot comprehend, wolf.” “I mock what bores me,” I said, taking

Riley Waking up in silk sheets still felt wrong. Not morally — I had no morals before coffee — but philosophically. Rogues aren’t meant for luxury. We’re meant for bruises, bad weather, and sleeping next to weapons, not thread counts. But apparently, I was now a “guest,” which translated to “royal houseplant under supervision.” Two Lycans guarded my door. Again. Like I was a particularly dangerous vase. I swung my legs out of bed, yawned, and opened the door just to watch them flinch. “Morning, boys! Blink twice if you need a hug.” They didn’t. Blink, I mean. Or smile. Or breathe, possibly. I sighed. “You know, for creatures descended from primal power, you’re very bad at conversation.” One finally spoke. “His Majesty instructed—” “Lemme guess: Don’t let her leave, don’t let her bite anyone, don’t let her burn down the palace?” “Correct.” I grinned. “Cute. He thinks he can stop me.” When Lira arrived, I was still glaring at the guards through the crack in the door, eating

The council chamber smelled like old paper, colder air, and the faint echo of very expensive indignation. Kael had summoned us — meaning he’d told me to come in front of the room that loved to lecture and hated being contradicted. He’d told me it was “for balance,” which sounded suspiciously like “for their entertainment.” I went because two reasons: 1) I’m stubborn, 2) I wanted to see which one of them would faint first when I opened my mouth. The dais was a forest of robes and beards. Erynos presided with his usual expression of disappointed prophecy. Lord Carrow sat clutching his pride like an heirloom. Maren polished his rings with the sort of devotion most people reserve for religion. Varyn stood off to the side, a ready grunt of common sense where everyone else supplied the aesthetics. Kael — of course Kael — sat at the head of the table like a storm in human shape. Gold in his eyes. Calm that could snap. “Riley,” he said, flat, as if I hadn’t just crossed the room wearing a l

Aldric ( the werewolf 's king)The forest bowed when I entered. It always did.The trees knew their king. They remembered the weight of my voice, the pull of my will. Branches shuddered under a wind that didn’t exist — only my fury made manifest.I liked that.“Majesty,” Thorne murmured, falling into step behind me. “The scouts return from the north.”I already knew. Their fear arrived before they did. It always did.The pack waited in the clearing, heads bowed, bodies still. A sea of grey and gold eyes beneath the dying light. The scent of iron and dominance rolled through the air.I raised a hand. “Speak.”The lead scout stepped forward, trembling. “We—found her, my king. In the Lycan capital.”The world stilled. Even the crickets held their breath.“She’s alive,” I said softly.“Yes, Majesty.”“She fought?”“Yes,” he whispered. “Fought their warriors… and won.”A ripple ran through the wolves — disbelief, awe, something dangerously close to pride.I smiled. “Good.”Thorne tensed be

Aldric The crowd reeked of smoke, sweat, and hunger — not the kind you feed, the kind you sharpen. I climbed the dais like I was stepping onto destiny itself. Hundreds of werewolves — my werewolves — waited below, faces lit by firelight and fury. “They polish their claws, call it refinement,” I began, voice booming across the clearing. “They chain our kind in their cities, make us their guards, their laborers, their obedient shadows. They drink our strength and name it order.” A low growl rolled through the crowd, building like thunder. Perfect. “They call us beasts,” I continued, “but beasts remember who broke their chains.” And then I gave them her name. “Riley.” The reaction was instant — whispers, awe, something close to worship. “She defied them. She fought their king and lived.” I let the words curl like smoke. “She is proof that the Lycans bleed. Proof that their power can be broken.” I watched belief settle into them — hot, fragile, blind. Then I twisted the knife.