Chapter 2. The Lycan King

The words sank into her like a brand.

Selene stared at him, her thoughts scattering, struggling to realign around what he had said.

The Lycan King.

Alaric.

The name had not been spoken aloud in years—not without fear, not without a hush that followed, as though the forest itself might overhear and carry it back to him. Stories clung to the name like dried blood: that he had slaughtered his own Council, that he had turned on his kind and vanished into the mountains, leaving nothing behind but ash, ruin, and unanswered questions.

Until now.

Until her.

She opened her mouth, but her voice refused to come. Her fingers curled into the edge of the table, nails biting into its surface as though gripping something solid might keep the world from tipping apart beneath her feet.

The man—no, the King—watched her in silence. He did not move to reassure her. He did not soften his presence. He observed her the way a predator watched something already caught, already within reach, waiting only to see which way it would struggle.

His jacket still lay across her legs, heavy and warm, carrying the scent of storm-soaked leather and pine smoke. It grounded her more than it should have.

“Why are you here?” she finally managed, her voice thin but steady.

A flicker of silver light passed through his eyes, like moonlight breaking across steel.

“To find you,” he said. “To claim what’s mine.”

Her breath left her in a sharp, involuntary gasp.

No.

This wasn’t real. It couldn’t be.

She surged to her feet too quickly, the chair scraping loudly against the stone. His jacket slid from her lap and collapsed at her feet, forgotten. Around them, the hall went unnervingly still. Conversations halted mid-word. Laughter died in open mouths. Near the altar, two Elders stood watching, lips pressed thin, eyes sharp with calculation.

And then she saw Lucan.

He stood rigid among the gathered wolves, his gaze fixed on her, fury and disbelief twisting together in his expression.

Something hardened in Selene’s spine. She stepped away from the King—one step, then another—her instincts screaming at her to run.

He did not rise to stop her. He leaned back instead, tattooed forearms resting loosely against his thighs, watching her retreat with quiet, unnerving interest.

“Run if you need to, little wolf,” he said softly. “I’ll find you later.”

The words followed her like a shadow.

She turned and walked as quickly as she dared through the crowd, whispers blooming in her wake. Her heart pounded painfully in her ears, each beat urging her faster.

She needed air.

She needed space.

She needed her body to stop shaking.

Outside the hall, the lantern light thinned as the path curved deeper into the trees. She followed it blindly until the music faded and the forest swallowed the sound of voices whole. Only then did she stop.

Cold mountain air burned her lungs as she leaned against a tree, pressing her forehead to the rough bark, breathing as though she had barely escaped something with teeth.

Mate.

The word lodged in her throat.

Wolves didn’t fake bonds. You either felt them or you didn’t. And she had felt something—heat, recognition, a pull that bypassed reason entirely.

But he was dangerous in ways she did not yet understand. Legendary. Untouchable.

What if it wasn’t real?

What if it was manipulation wearing instinct’s face?

“You’re shaking.”

She spun toward the voice, heart leaping.

Lucan stood only a few feet away, arms crossed tightly over his chest. His Alpha crest caught the moonlight at his collar. He looked at her like she had committed a betrayal too large to name.

“I didn’t know who he was,” she said quickly.

Lucan’s jaw tightened. “You sat beside him.”

“I didn’t mean to.”

“He gave you his jacket.”

The words landed like ice water.

“Lucan—”

“He shouldn’t even be here,” he growled. “Do you have any idea what it means that he singled you out?”

“I didn’t invite him.”

“You didn’t have to,” Lucan snapped. “You think it’s a coincidence that he found you?”

Her shoulders stiffened. “What are you saying?”

“I’m saying whatever you think you felt wasn’t real,” he said, stepping closer. “It was coercion. He’s a butcher wrapped in myth.”

“I felt it,” she said, the truth spilling out before she could stop it.

Lucan stared at her as though she had confessed to something unforgivable.

“I don’t know what it means,” she continued more quietly, “but my wolf reacted. Yours didn’t. You told me—”

“I know what I said,” he cut in sharply. “I was wrong. I was under pressure. My father forced my hand.”

Her chest tightened painfully.

“I never stopped wanting you,” he said, voice low and dangerous. “You were always meant to be mine. I won’t lose you to a mad king who should have stayed buried in legend.”

For a heartbeat, the past hovered between them—what they had been, what they might have been.

Lucan stepped closer, his scent overwhelming, familiar in a way that no longer felt safe.

“Stay away from him,” he murmured. “If he calls to you, ignore it. If he touches you, reject it. The Elders will never allow that bond.”

She didn’t answer.

Lucan’s expression hardened. “Say you will.”

Leaves rustled softly behind them.

Then a voice cut through the night, smooth and deep, carrying quiet thunder.

“She won’t.”

They both turned.

Alaric stood at the edge of the trees, half-shadowed, as immovable as stone. His silver eyes glowed faintly in the dark, fixed on them with absolute certainty.

Lucan stepped forward instinctively, placing himself between them. “You don’t belong here.”

Alaric tilted his head slightly. “And you think she belongs with you?”

“She’s mine.”

“You had your chance,” Alaric said evenly. “You discarded it. You don’t touch what’s already marked.”

Lucan’s shoulders twitched, his eyes flashing gold.

Alaric did not move.

“Go ahead,” the King said softly. “I’ve ended wolves stronger than you.”

Selene’s pulse roared.

Lucan hesitated, then looked at her one last time before backing away. “You’ll regret this,” he said. “The Elders won’t allow it.”

He vanished into the trees.

Silence pressed in around them.

Selene turned to Alaric, her hands trembling. “You shouldn’t have done that.”

“He was wrong,” Alaric said quietly. “The bond is real.”

“Then why does it feel like this?” she asked.

“Because your mark hasn’t finished forming.”

“My what?”

He stepped closer, closing the space between them before she could protest. One arm came around her, steady and unyielding, holding her in place as he lowered his head.

His mouth brushed her collarbone, lingering just beneath the curve of her throat—warm, deliberate—before his teeth sank in.

Not hard enough to break skin. Just enough to burn.

Fire tore through her veins as heat bloomed beneath her flesh. She gasped, fingers clutching at his coat as sensation spiraled outward, sharp and unmistakable.

When he pulled back, the air felt colder.

There—faint but unmistakable—silver light shimmered beneath her skin.

A mark.

And it was alive.