2

Lucian I had lived thirty-four years in a world built on iron, blood, and unspoken protocol. As Alpha King, every interaction was a chess move; every person I encountered fell neatly into a category: ally, enemy, or collateral. When I agreed to marry Victoria Jilam, a diplomatic union that secured our southern trade routes and brought a gentle, respected woman into my court, I was well aware she had a daughter. I simply hadn't cared enough to look into the details. I asked no questions, requested no photographs, and assumed the girl would be quiet, terrified, and easily ignored. A ghost in silk who would fade into the background of my sprawling palace. Imogen Jilam was not a ghost. She was a spark in a powder keg. Throughout dinner, I kept my composure, cutting my meat with deliberate precision while studying her beneath heavy lids. She sat rigid in her seat, her dark eyes sharp with an undisguised distrust that was almost refreshing. Most people cowered when I looked at them. Imogen looked back as if measuring where to plant a dagger. “The eastern wing is off-limits,” I said calmly, taking a sip of red wine. “As are the lower subterranean levels and the perimeter woods after dusk. You will have freedom of the central gardens and the main keep.” Imogen set her fork down with a tiny, sharp click. “Do you usually hand out prison rules to your guests before they’ve even unpacked their trunks?” Next to her, Victoria froze, her face draining of color. “Imogen!” she gasped softly. “Lucian, please, she didn't mean—” “I am living inside the most politically dangerous palace in the Lycan territories,” I interrupted, my voice dropping an octave as I locked eyes with the girl. “The rules do not exist to oppress you. They exist so my guards do not mistake you for an assassin and put an arrow through your chest. They exist for your protection.” Imogen tilted her chin up, a mocking, beautiful little curve touching her lips. “So I should be grateful for being treated like a prisoner? Good to know where the hospitality ends.” A flare of irritation sparked in my chest, quickly swallowed by a dark, dangerous sense of amusement. It had been years since anyone had spoken to me with such casual insolence. “Imogen, that is enough!” Victoria’s voice carried a sharp edge of panic as she reached out to grab her daughter's arm. “You will apologize to the King this instant. You are behaving like a child.” “Leave it, Victoria,” I said, not taking my eyes off the girl. “Do not interfere. I am more than capable of handling your daughter.” In an instant, Imogen leaned forward across the mahogany table, invading my space, her eyes flashing with a sudden, fiery heat. “I don't need handling, Your Majesty.” The movement was sudden, and with it, a faint breeze swept across the table, carrying her scent directly to me. My breath hitched. The world seemed to stop. Her scent hit my senses like a physical blow, sweet wild jasmine, crushed blackberries, and something deeper, something pure and intoxicating that set my inner Lycan roaring to life behind my ribs. My claws wanted to burst from my fingertips; my jaw locked so hard my teeth ached. Every instinct I possessed screamed at me to reach across the wood, grab her by the back of her neck, and pull her closer until I could drag my fangs over her pulse point. No. I forced every muscle in my body into absolute stillness. I buried the beast back into the dark depths of my mind, masking my sudden, wild panic behind a face of cold stone. She was Victoria’s daughter. My stepdaughter. A human line I could never, under any circumstances, cross. I broke her hold on my gaze, looking down at my wine glass as if nothing had happened. “You will obey the boundaries of this palace, Imogen. Not because you respect me, but because I will not have your mother weeping over your foolishness if you wander into the wrong hallway.” She snapped her mouth shut, her cheeks flushing a deep, fiery crimson as she sat back, crossing her arms tightly over her chest. Dinner ended in a heavy, suffocating silence. Victoria barely touched her food, darting nervous glances between us, while Imogen stared steadfastly at the wall behind my head. As soon as the plates were cleared, Victoria excused them both. But as Imogen walked out of the dining room, her skirts rustling soft against the stone floor, Victoria lingered by the doorway. “Lucian,” Victoria began, her voice trembling slightly as she stepped toward me. “I am so deeply sorry. She is headstrong and protective of me, but she had no right to address you with such disrespect. I will speak to her—” “There is nothing to apologize for, Victoria,” I said, keeping my voice smooth and measured as I stood up. “She is young, in a strange place, and distrustful of a man she only knows through bloody rumors. Go comfort her. We will speak tomorrow.” Victoria let out a relieved sigh, smiling weakly before turning to follow her daughter. An hour later, I was alone in my study. The fire roared in the hearth, casting long, dancing shadows across the high stone walls and shelves of leather-bound books. I sat behind my desk with a glass of scotch in my hand, staring blind into the flames. I tried to review the troop movements along the northern border. I tried to read the tax reports from the western packs. But no matter what paper I picked up, my mind kept dragging me back to the dining room. I could still see the way her dark eyes flashed when she challenged me. I could still see the tilt of her chin, the flushed velvet of her cheeks, and the absolute lack of fear in her stance. And worst of all, the scent of wild jasmine and blackberries seemed trapped in the back of my throat, burning like a brand. I slammed my glass down onto the heavy oak desk, amber liquid sloshing over the rim. Fool, I scolded myself sharply, leaning back and running a heavy hand over my face. I was an Alpha King. I had led armies, shattered empires, and maintained control over the most brutal territory in the world. I would not lose my mind over a mouthy twenty-four-year-old girl simply because her scent made my blood run hot. I stood up, walking over to the tall arched window that overlooked the courtyard, staring out into the dark, rain-swept night. “She is my wife’s daughter,” I quietly told myself, my voice flat, cold, and absolute. “That is all she will ever be.”