4

Imogen The grand banquet hall smelled of roasting meats, spiced wine, and the heavy, metallic tang of unmasked Lycan power. Carved black-stone pillars stretched toward vaulted ceilings draped in silver banners bearing the Draven crest. Below them, dozens of high-ranking Alphas and elders of the Royal Council gathered in velvet and polished ceremonial armor. Their laughter rumbled like distant thunder, sharp teeth flashing beneath groomed beards, eyes glinting with predatory intelligence. I stood near the arched entryway, clutching my skirts until the emerald silk crinkled beneath my fingers. "Breathe, darling," my mother whispered, coming up beside me. She wore a gown of rich plum, her dark hair woven with pearls, looking every bit the poised queen the court expected. She reached out, smoothing a loose curl behind my ear, her smile radiant and soft. "You look stunning. Truly." "I look like a goat being led toward a pack of ravenous wolves," I muttered under my breath. Victoria laughed, though her eyes were tender. "They are not going to eat you. It is merely a formal dinner to introduce you as part of the family. Having you here means everything to me, Imogen. For the longest time, my life was divided in two. To have you under the same roof as Lucian—to finally have my whole world in one place—it makes me happier than I can put into words." The earnest warmth in her voice hit me straight in the chest. Any urge I had to scoff or slip back to my quarters withered away. I could endure the arrogant stares, the stifling corsets, and the suffocating court etiquette if it meant preserving that look on my mother’s face. She had spent years working tirelessly, worrying over me, and mourning my late father. If she believed this palace was her paradise, I wouldn't be the one to light a match to it. "I won't cause a scene," I promised, offering her a faint, reassuring smile. "I'll be on my best behavior." "That is all I ask," she said, giving my fingers an affectionate squeeze before guiding me into the hall. Dinner was a masterclass in political posturing. We were seated along a massive, elevated dais overlooking the sprawling banquet tables. Lucian sat at the center in a high-backed chair carved from dark oak, clad in a crisp black doublet trimmed with silver thread. He commanded the room without raising his voice; a single tilt of his chin was enough to silence roaring conversations, a brief nod enough to grant permission to speak. Victoria sat at his right hand, radiant and attentive. I was placed on her other side, an arrangement that kept me at the royal table while keeping a careful distance between myself and the King. It didn't take long for the claws beneath the courtly smiles to reveal themselves. While the council elders and regional Alphas bowed politely to my mother, their glances toward me were drenched in barely concealed condescension. In their eyes, Victoria’s elevation was a necessary political bridge to secure southern territories, but I was an anomaly. I carried no ancient Lycan bloodline, possessed no territory of my own, and held no strategic value on their war maps. Midway through the third course, an older Council member with iron-gray hair and thick scars across his throat leaned forward from his seat across the dais. His name was Elder Vance, a man whose lineage allegedly traced back to the first kingdom founders. "Your Majesty's generosity continues to astound us all," Vance said, his voice dripping with syrupy deference as he raised his goblet toward Lucian. "To open the sacred halls of the Draven ancestral seat not only to a new queen, but to accept... unnecessary baggage into the royal fold as well. A true testament to your boundless patience." The words hung in the air like poison. A few nearby nobles cleared their throats, shifting uncomfortably, while others hid smirk behind their linen napkins. Victoria stiffened instantly, her fork freezing an inch above her porcelain plate. My stomach flared with a sudden, violent surge of white-hot anger. I opened my mouth to deliver a cutting retort, court etiquette be damned, but the words died in my throat. Crack. The sound was sharp, like bone snapping. Every head snapped toward the center of the table. Lucian had merely set his crystal goblet down onto the dark granite surface, but the base had shattered beneath his grip, dark wine pooling out across the polished stone. The banquet hall plunged into a suffocating silence. Lucian didn't reach for a napkin. He didn't blink. He slowly turned his head, fixing his piercing, icy-silver gaze onto Elder Vance. The temperature around the dais plummeted, the raw, suffocating aura of an apex predator washing over the room until several lesser wolves at the lower tables instinctively lowered their heads. "You speak of baggage, Vance," Lucian said, his voice flat, devoid of emotion, and terrifyingly cold. "Yet I find myself wondering when you began measuring the worth of the royal household." Vance’s smug facade evaporated, his weathered skin paling to ash. "Sire, I only meant—" "Imogen is the daughter of the Queen," Lucian cut him off, the velvet timbre of his voice slicing cleanly through the man's stutter. "She carries the protection of my name, my roof, and my guard. To suggest she is unwelcome here is to suggest that my judgment is flawed. And to question my household is to show disrespect to the crown itself." Lucian leaned forward, just an inch, his silver eyes flashing with a faint, lethal luminescence. "Are you disrespecting the crown, Elder Vance?" "Never, Your Majesty," Vance choked out, bowing his head so low his nose nearly touched the linen. "Forgive my clumsy tongue. I spoke without thought." "Then keep your tongue behind your teeth for the remainder of the evening," Lucian replied smoothly. With a dismissive flick of his hand, he summoned a footman to clear the broken glass, picked up a fresh goblet, and casually turned to address the Alpha of the Western Ridge, as if he hadn't just brought one of the most powerful elders in the kingdom to his knees. He didn't look at me once. My heart hammered wildly against my ribs. I sat there in stunned silence, staring at the side of his sharp, unyielding profile. I had spent days convincing myself he was an arrogant tyrant who viewed me as nothing more than an irritating pest beneath his boots. Yet, he had publicly silenced a high-ranking council member on my behalf without a second thought. When the formal dinner concluded, the assembly moved toward the grand ballroom where musicians began to play and heavy wines flowed freely. I took refuge near a set of open glass doors leading out to the marble balcony, desperate for a breath of fresh air. Before I could step out into the cool night, a voice called out to me. "Lady Imogen, isn't it?" I turned to find a tall, athletic Lycan with sandy brown hair and warm hazel eyes smiling down at me. He was younger than most of the councilmen, likely an Alpha heir from one of the central packs, dressed in a sharply tailored coat that emphasized his broad chest. "Just Imogen," I corrected, offering a faint, polite smile. "I’m Gerald. Heir to the Red Moon territory," he said smoothly, bowing with practiced charm. "I noticed you seemed rather unimpressed by Vance’s dreary speech earlier. I can't blame you. The old guard prefers tradition over beauty." The flattery was transparent, but Gerald possessed an easy, boyish charisma that immediately cut through the suffocating tension of the evening. For the first time all night, I found myself laughing naturally. He asked about my home in the southern valley, teased me about my obvious disdain for Lycan formality, and listened with genuine interest. It was refreshing to talk to someone who didn't look at me like an intruder. Across the room, the dynamic shifted. Lucian stood among a circle of war commanders, but his posture had gone rigid. The casual indifference he usually wore like armor was fraying at the edges. Though he pretended to listen to a report, his silver eyes constantly drifted back to where Gerald and I stood by the balcony doors, narrowing with every laugh that slipped past my lips. Victoria noticed. From where she stood a few paces away, she leaned in and playfully nudged her husband's arm. "You look like an overprotective father, Lucian," she teased softly with a light laugh. "Relax. Gerald is a good boy from a respectable family. It’s lovely to see Imogen smiling." "I don't care who she speaks to," Lucian said coldly, his jaw tight, his voice clipped. "She can entertain whoever she pleases." "Of course," Victoria smiled, entirely oblivious to the dark storm brewing in his eyes. Over by the terrace, the music swelled into a slow, rhythmic waltz. "The hall is suffocating," Gerald murmured, leaning down slightly, his hazel eyes gleaming with playful intent. "Would you care to step out onto the balcony, Imogen? The garden view from this level is breathtaking." "I'd love to," I replied, grateful for an excuse to leave the crowded room. Gerald smiled warmly, stepping behind me to guide me forward. As we crossed the threshold, his broad palm came to rest against the small of my back, his fingers warm through the emerald silk of my dress. He hadn't taken two steps before the atmosphere in the ballroom cracked wide open. A low, guttural vibration rolled through the room—a sound so raw, feral, and violent that several nearby women gasped and took a hurried step back. Before I could fully register the sound, a dark silhouette closed the distance between us in the span of a single heartbeat. "Gerald," Lucian’s voice dropped like an iron portcullis. Suddenly, Lucian was standing between us, towering over the younger Alpha. The air around him practically hummed with an invisible, suffocating pressure, the raw dominance of an Alpha King pushing everyone within five yards to their knees. His silver eyes burned with an animalistic fury so intense it made my breath hitch in my throat. Gerald snapped his hand back as if he had touched molten iron, his face instantly draining of color. "Y-Your Majesty?" "The border skirmish in the southern valley," Lucian said, his voice deceptively quiet, though the cords in his neck were taut with restrained violence. "Your father failed to submit the casualty reports. You will accompany Commander Rhys to the war room immediately and provide them." Gerald blinked, bewildered. "Tonight, Sire? At the reception?" "Did I sound as if I were negotiating?" Lucian asked, stepping an inch closer. Gerald swallowed hard, offering a frantic, terrified bow. "No, Your Majesty. Forgive me. I will go at once." Without another word, Gerald hurried away, virtually running toward the hall’s exit. Anger exploded in my chest, hot and blinding. I whirled on Lucian, completely uncaring of the dozens of eyes that were now darting in our direction. "What is wrong with you?" I hissed under my breath, my hands balling into fists at my sides. "You humiliated him! You humiliated me! We were just talking!" "He wanted far more than conversation," Lucian replied coldly, his jaw set in stone as he looked down at me, his chest heaving with slow, deliberate breaths as if fighting to keep his beast caged. "And what if he did?" I challenged, taking an indignant step closer, refusing to shrink beneath his towering presence. "I am twenty-four years old! What I do, who I talk to, and who touches me is none of your business!" Lucian didn't back down. Instead, he closed the distance between us, stepping so close his broad chest nearly brushed against mine. The scent of dark pine, winter frost, and pure predatory power enveloped me, making the room spin. He leaned down, his lips hovering mere inches from my ear, his deep voice vibrating straight into my bones. "You have no idea what is and isn’t my business, Imogen."