Every Scar Will Build My Throne Novels & Stories

The Throne shatters and grows in the same breath, spines twisting like serpents. And in the heart of it— Us. Burning. Breaking. Becoming. The Throne roars a promise in my skull: If I can’t have you, I’ll take HER. And then— Everything goes white.

That is not something I signed up for. I know Tadeas’ keeps bringing up fate, mates, or whatever else. Queen? No. I want no part in being queen to anyone, let alone a bunch of dragons who hate me because I am human. I felt the air begin to leave my lungs. Elizabeth stood reaching a hand towards me as I lost my balance in the chair. The last thing I remember seeing before everything went black, like Titus’ scales.

It was almost like she never existed in the first place. Cassian had barely slept. He was feeling her absence more than he cared to admit. Tony was starting to get really worried about him. He was hardly eating, and he snapped at every little thing. Even the maids were scared to go near him now. It was as if the famous scarred king had returned, and no one could be spared from his wrath. "S... Sir?" A timid-looking maid, Noelle, stammered as she opened Cassian's study door.

The air stilled as every gaze locked on her, waiting for the truth. Scarlett spoke proudly. “His name is… King. The true heir of the Lycan throne. The one who has the power to rewrite the Lycan constitution.” Her smile widened, almost feverish now. “He is powerful. People adore him. His loyal warriors are everywhere, serving him right under your nose.” A chill crept up my spine as this wasn’t just betrayal anymore. “And you…” Scarlett’s gaze snapped to Cassian, dripping with mockery. “You are nothing. Just a lowly maid’s bastard son.”

My skin prickled with loathing as I became increasingly uncomfortable under their predatory stares. “Stop looking,” Dickson commanded suddenly. “She is your queen. No funny ideas. She is mine.” He possessively wrapped his arm around my waist, his touch a brand of ownership that made me want to scream. “Meet Scar, your queen.” Their howls filled the place, primal and savage sounds that made my fur want to stand on end beneath my human skin. This wasn’t what I wanted. I deserved better, not a hell like this. I was meant for beautiful and elegant halls and gold plates, not this den of filth and degradation.

Even the two women draped across the arms of the throne were dressed in colors that disappeared into the dark around them. The man on the throne had red eyes. Not the temporary red of a vampire feeding or a wolf mid shift. A permanent red, deep and settled, the color of something that had been burning for a very long time and had no intention of stopping. A scar ran from his left cheekbone to the corner of his jaw, old and clean, the kind of scar that comes from something specific on a specific night that the person who left it did not survive long enough to remember. It did not diminish him. Nothing about him was diminished. He was beautiful in the way that certain dangerous things are beau

His mouth twitches, “I accept this noble quest. You mentioned there will be cake?” “Yes,” I say, not sure how to go about getting one. “And if it’s good, you might get a title. Like Commander of Frosting,” I tell him, hoping to give him some extra encouragement. He bows low. “I live to serve, Lady Scarlett.” We spend the whole day getting everything ready. We make a throne of leaves, which takes forever, because Ash insist on structural integrity, even when I tell him Mr. Tibbles won’t mind if it’s just a pile.

I stood before Marcus, my posture deferential, my head slightly bowed, but my heart pounded with a cold, calculating ambition that burned hotter than the flames. Marcus slouched in his obsidian throne, his crimson robe hanging open, revealing the scarred expanse of his chest, the faint glow of a curse’s mark pulsing beneath his skin—a secret I’d pieced together from his winces, his sudden gasps, his desperate obsession with the Moonborn. I masked my smirk, my dark eyes glinting with the knowledge I held close, my hands clasped behind my back.

And his very presence was solid, unflinching, unmovable. She could tell he was tall from the size of his throne, which resembled his crest, a mountain with three peaks and a seat had been molded within, as the rock towered behind him. But as far as Sephora was concerned, he held the biggest presence in the room. His shoulders looked like he could carry the weight of the world and his arms and legs told Sephora that he was a warrior born and bred, a warrior that would sacrifice his life for his people, and destroy any threat.

I am thy Lord Damon, and you weaklings shall be scared of me. Entering the elevator, and pressed the second button. Sure, my building is expensive, but why the fuck would I be on the last floor? Just to be called that I am in all power? Brother no. I am always on a pedestal, and no one can match me. Even if so, others tried, they see themselves crumbling and crawling back from the trash.