Dawn was breaking, and Nana was settling into a quiet cup of tea in her quarters when she heard footsteps coming up the stairs.
“Nana?” a deep male voice called out.
She looked up to see Brian standing there, dressed in his workout gear, his jaw tight with frustration.
“Oh, my dear Brian,” she said gently, motioning to the armchair opposite her. “Come. Sit. How have you been? How is that sweet wife of yours, Olivia?”
Instead of sitting, Brian stayed where he was. “Do you still hate me?” he asked bluntly. “How long am I supposed to keep paying for one silly mistake?”
Nana frowned. “What are you talking about?”
“You know exactly what I’m talking about,” Brian snapped. “The throne belongs to me, Nana, but you favour Derek too much to let anyone else have it.”
Nana set her teacup down on the small coffee table with a soft clink. “How could you even say that?” she asked, hurt flashing across her face. “The conditions were clear. Derek’s father was king before he died. It’s only right that his son took over.”
“No,” Brian said sharply. “I’m older than Derek. I should be the next king.”
Nana let out a slow breath. “The conditions were clear. I wasn’t trying to favour or spite anyone. As Regent, Derek steps down only if he reaches twenty-nine still unmarried. He’s just turned twenty-eight and now married, his ascension is secure, and fairly so.”
“You of all people know he married that girl to spite me. How convenient that after two months after I got married, he finally decided to settle too.” Brian said through clenched teeth.
“How could you say that?” Nana asked. “Derek had never shown any interest or commitment to any woman after Sandra. Marrying Chloe is not a small decision for him. We should support him.”
“Nana, please,” Brian scoffed. “How does a Lycan King suddenly marry a werewolf? The daughter of the man who murdered his family? You don’t find that strange?”
“Love is strange,” Nana said calmly. “The heart doesn’t always make sense.”
“That’s bullshit,” Brian snapped. “That marriage is fishy, and you’re pretending not to see it. He’s lying to an entire kingdom just to keep his throne, and that’s not kingly. A real king doesn’t deceive his people.”
Before Nana could respond, Brian turned and walked away.
She sighed, staring at the empty space he left behind, then reached for her phone and quickly dialled a number.
***
“Another lap!” Derek’s voice boomed like thunder across the training yard.
Declan and Connor exchanged a quick, startled glance from the corner of the field. The warriors had already powered through five hundred push-ups that morning-five hundred-and Derek still wasn’t letting up. Sweat poured off the men in rivers; chests heaved, arms trembled, but no one dared drop.
“We still have to spar, Your Grace,” Declan called out, keeping his tone careful. He studied the king’s rigid back, trying to figure out what had put him in such a foul mood.
Derek didn’t answer. He strode between the lines of men locked in plank position, boots kicking up dust. Every warrior held firm, jaws clenched, refusing to collapse in front of him. After pacing back and forth twice, Derek stopped at the front, arms clasped behind his back. He let the silence stretch until it hurt.
“That’s enough strength building for today,” he said at last. “Spar.”
A collective grunt of relief rolled through the ranks. The men pushed to their feet, shaking out cramped muscles. Lycans had always thrived on explosive, high-intensity work; sparring, hunting, real combat. Endless reps and holds felt like punishment, and everyone knew it.
The pairs formed quickly. Derek stepped into the centre without a word.
Sparring began and Derek moved like a storm. He wasn’t just sparring; he was dismantling the men. His punches landed harder than usual, faster, and heavier. A gamma blocked one strike only to stagger back from the follow-up elbow. Another tried to counter; Derek twisted, swept his legs, and dropped him hard into the dirt. Growls and sharp breaths filled the yard, but no one complained. They just got up and tried again.
Within minutes, the yard was littered with men catching their breath, leaving only Connor and Declan standing.
“Bring it on!” Derek snarled, baring his teeth in a way that made his inner beast, Leo, feel dangerously close to the surface.
“Easy, Your Grace!” Connor wheezed, his heart hammering against his ribs as he narrowly dodged a hook that would have snapped his collarbone. He wiped a streak of sweat from his forehead and forced a lopsided, nervous grin. “Did the coffee run out this morning, or are you just trying to send the whole guard to the infirmary before breakfast?”
Derek didn’t smile. He closed the distance in one stride, looming. “If you can’t handle precise movements, Connor, you have no business being Head Gamma. Focus. Or get out.”
Connor raised both hands in mock surrender, but the humour didn’t reach his eyes. He stepped back, shooting Declan a worried look.
Derek turned on Declan next.
The lunge came without warning. A brutal right hook caught Declan across the jaw; he tasted blood, boots skidding in the dust. Rage flared. He roared and charged, slamming Derek back against the wooden barrier with a shoulder tackle that made the heavy timber groan.
‘What the hell is wrong with you?’ Declan’s voice exploded in Derek’s mind through the link. ‘You’re fighting like you want to kill someone.’
Derek shoved him off, breathing steady, expression blank. ‘I’m fine,’ he snapped back, his beast, Leo, pacing restlessly behind his ribs. ‘I’m just training.’
Declan didn’t believe him for one second. He circled, breathing hard, watching the king’s rigid shoulders, the white-knuckled fists, the way Leo flashed behind Derek’s eyes. It had been years, years, since Derek had let this much raw feeling bleed through. Not since the night his family died.
It’s her, Declan thought, chest tightening. The werewolf bride. She’s getting under his skin already.
Declan stomach twisted. A wolfless girl from Moonfang shouldn’t have this kind of power over the Lycan King. And if she did, it was dangerous-for all of them.
So cold, Kira thought, her consciousness drifting in the grey space between sleep and wakefulness.
A phone buzzed relentlessly somewhere close. She groaned, rolled over to escape the noise, only to roll straight off the bed and hit the floor with a thud.
“Ouch!” she yelped, eyes snapping open.
The first thing she saw was the underside of a mahogany desk and a towering bookshelf crammed with books. Her neck ached from the awkward angle she had slept in. Morning sunlight slipped through the blinds, casting striped shadows across the room, birds sang outside like nothing was wrong, and from the courtyard below came the sharp bark of men’s voices issuing commands.
The phone buzzed again.
Kira pushed herself up, rubbing her sore neck as the fog of sleep cleared. She was in Derek’s study. Right. Last night flooded back: storming in to annoy him, prattling on until she had fallen asleep right there on his couch. She had even asked him to wake her when he finished.
“Wicked King,” she muttered under her breath. “Absolute jerk. Couldn’t even be bothered to wake me.”
She stood, hugging herself against the morning chill. He hadn’t even bothered to toss a blanket over her. No pillow, no warmth, just the cold leather of the couch and an equally cold floor. She sucked her teeth in annoyance.
The phone buzzed again, and she shot a glare at the phone on the desk. If it didn’t shut up soon, she was going to smash it.
Then, she realised it looked like hers. She crossed to the desk. Yes, it was her phone, placed neatly beside a folded note in that familiar sharp cursive. She snatched it up and read:
‘Here’s your damn phone, and you can resume school whenever you want. I hope never to be disturbed by you again.’
She huffed a breath, rolled her eyes, a slow, triumphant smile tugging at the corners of her lips despite herself. She tapped the phone against her chin.
“Sweet Kira: 1. Ruthless King: 0,” she whispered, fist-pumping in victory.
“That’s enough strength building for today. Spar,” a familiar deep voice boomed from the courtyard.
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