Lycan’s Vengeance on the Cruel Alpha King

A sharp blow to Camilla’s side—swift and merciless—sent her sprawling from the thin mattress that had been her only cushion against the chill floorboards. The mattress trembled beneath her as she hit the ground with a muted crack, pain flaring through her ribs like fiery embers. Her breath caught in a pained cry, and she instinctively curled inward, one hand pressed against her side, the other clutching at her lower back where bruises already bloomed. The world tilted, the edge of the bedpost a jagged line against her vision, and then another sting—this time across her cheek—brought her fully awake. A resounding slap had forced her gaze to snap upward, back into the harsh face hovering over her. Reality crashed in on her with the sting of a fresh wound.

“Good morning, Mother!” she forced the words out in a whisper, her voice trembling with more terror than joy. Camilla bit her lower lip until the bitter taste of blood stung her tongue. Tears pooled in her dull brown eyes—the soft brown that had lost its sparkle long ago—and she risked a glance around the dimly lit room. Tattered curtains did nothing to keep out the gray dawn, and the thin quilt at her feet looked more like another punishment than a comfort.

The woman before her—tall, cold-eyed, her dark hair coiled into a severe bun—arched a brow and struck again, this time catching Camilla’s cheek with the back of her hand. Camilla stumbled back, her fingers brushing against the red imprint rising on her skin. She swallowed a scream, tasted blood again, and ventured a glance. The woman’s lips curved into a disdainful smile.

“Mother?” Camilla tried, voice cracking.

“Have you forgotten that I am not your mother—and I never will be?” The retort came like ice. A harsh slap followed, across her other cheek. Camilla pressed tears back under her lids, ashamed as they threatened to spill. “I am sorry, ma’am,” she managed, head bowed and eyes fixed on the threadbare rug.

Even at seventeen, Camilla held tightly to the hope that her real mother lived somewhere beyond the forest that hemmed in their small cottage. She had never known her father; her mother had only warned her once, “Stay hidden. Do not attract attention.” When curious lips had dared to ask why, her mother had grown furtive and pale, murmuring that Camilla’s father had no knowledge of her existence—and that, were he to learn, he might send someone to take her life. So the child had kept her head down, watched the forest’s perimeter, counted the animals, but never ventured far.

It was two years ago now, she recalled. She had been playing among the overgrown ferns in the small courtyard behind their cottage—blowing dandelions into the air, watching wisps of seeds drift away—when a black car had rolled to a stop outside their gate. Two burly men had spilled from its back seat, faces hidden behind dark glasses. Fear lodged in her chest as she sprinted toward the door, crying out, “Mother, visitors!”

Her mother had turned rigid, nails biting into her palms until blood welled, and for a full minute, she’d stood paralyzed—eyes glassy, as though the men had become phantoms at the threshold. Only when Camilla’s wrist bled had she come to her senses, eyes darting with panic. “Hide,” she hissed, shoving Camilla into the house. The child watched, heart pounding, as the visitors swept past the threshold.

But when the world outside grew silent once more, and Camilla tiptoed from her hiding spot, the cottage lay empty. No voice called her name; no mother emerged. She wandered room to room, her sobs echoing against bare walls, until exhaustion claimed her, and she fell asleep on the cold floor, clutching her stomach in hunger. She was four, with no skills for hunting or safely boiling water. Eventually, the mournful howl of wolves drifted through the trees beyond—a sound her mother had said “warded off the bad men”—and then came a knock at the door.

She flew to it, certain her mother had returned, but the same two men from the car stood outside, their looks unreadable. At their side was a tall, handsome man—black-eyed, lithe, the face she recognized from her mother’s locket. One of the burly men started, exclaiming, “She looks just like you, Alpha Cameroon!”

“Take her,” the dark-eyed man commanded.

Before she could scream, she found herself cradled in strong arms, carried away into the back seat of the black car. The forest whipped past as they drove, and when they finally stopped, she stepped into a grander world: a brick-and-stone house far larger than her mother’s cottage. The man knelt, smoothing back her hair, and said, “Your mother is on an important mission. If the moon goddess wills it, you may see her again someday.” Those words, gentle though they were, meant nothing to her small, bewildered mind.

Since that day, Karina—the woman who terrorized her now—became her “other mother.” Karina’s two daughters, Larissa and Lakisha, loathed Camilla from the moment she arrived and treated her as little more than a scullery maid. She learned quickly that her father—her handsome abductor—watched these daily indignities without ever stepping in. He had told her once, coldly, that she was the biggest mistake of his life.

Each dawn, Camilla awoke long before sunrise. Never permitted more than three hours’ sleep, she gathered her threadbare dress about her and slipped into the corridors as the house still slept. She scrubbed floors until her hands were raw, cleaned toilets until her arms quivered, and polished silver until she nearly wept at the reflection she saw in the copper pots. Then she’d hurry downstairs to prepare breakfast for the household, packing bread and cheese into small baskets, carrying jugs of milk in hands she barely felt anymore.

One such morning—just as pale light began to filter through frosted windows—Camilla paused on the wide wooden stairs, breathing heavily. A soft voice drifted up from the bottom. “Cammila?”

She froze. Karina was strict, merciless; to be seen idling was to invite another beating. Yet she recognized the gentle tone of the caller. Ash Moon—a name that made her heart flutter with relief. She bent, scanning to see if Mother Karina watched, then let herself descend another step.

“What are you doing here, Ash?” she half-whispered, voice a tremulous blend of joy and panic.

He straightened, a grin lighting his chiseled face. Tattooed lines curled down his neck and arm, winding into shapes she didn’t understand, yet they fascinated her. His long hair was tied back, revealing thick brows and icy-blue eyes, eyes that always made her feel like the world held kinder secrets than the ones she endured. Despite gossip in the pack that Ash lacked a wolf of his own—some said because his mother had been human—he moved among them with ease.

“You know Mother Karina would have my tail if she caught us,” he murmured. Then he reached into the pocket of his worn coat and produced a small cloth bag, pushing it into her hands. “Happy birthday, Mil.”

The gift slumped heavily in her palm, and for a moment, Camilla forgot to breathe. Her birthday. In the years of chores and fear and loneliness, she had slipped it from her memory. A thin smile blossomed through her fatigue. “My wolf…,” she whispered, eyes brightening as though dawn had finally arrived in her soul. “Today, my wolf will find me.”

He chuckled, and she could have listened to that sound forever. “You’ll be free as soon as she comes, Mil. Run back to your mother’s home, if you want. I’ll keep watch.”

Her chest tightened with longing. Live, laugh again—far away from these walls. But before she could thank him, the crack of Karina’s voice echoed through the corridor. “Mil! If you’re done with your chores, come back inside and prepare for the afternoon’s work!”

Ash’s lips curved in a final, comforting smile, and she felt the warmth of friendship—perhaps the only warmth she would ever know here—before he slipped away down a side passage. She tucked the bag into her skirt and limped toward the kitchen, where more labor awaited.