Under Attack
Luka stood before the magnificent window in his study and watched his advisors and servants from above.
From where he stood, they were pathetic, bothersome ants who deserved to meet the bottom of his boot.
His respect for his advisors dwindled as soon as he was expected to pursue a new queen.
Hatred slithered into his heart, filling every nook and cranny of the slow-beating muscle.
It used to be a heart filled to the brim with love and joy, but that died with his queen.
Luka had to ask himself again if they were worth it. Would they even appreciate the sacrifice he had to make? Did he even want to rule the kingdom any longer?
“They get to live their lives however they see fit, yet I have to suffer. I’ve suffered for a century, I am suffering now, and I’ll suffer in the afterlife. So… why not end it all if I am only meant to be miserable for eternity?”
A knock at the door interrupted him.
“King Alesi?”
“What do you want, Lord Gustafson?”
“We must begin our journey to Moonshire, my King.”
“Is it too late to withdraw?” Luka asked, half joking. He knew it was impossible, but he was in a mood, and irritating Ezra was cathartic.
“Prince Lykaon would be gravely agitated, especially since he made special preparations for your arrival. Rescinding your appearance would surely lead to political tension and strife that we cannot afford,” Ezra spoke through the door.
“Spare me the theatrics. I will be down momentarily.”
“I will meet you by the carriage.”
Luka eyed the wine cabinet situated in the corner of the room.
He’d been drinking excessively as of late, still trying to cope with this marriage sham.
He yearned for the Black Forest wine but resisted.
There was only a goblet full left, and he wanted to save it for a special occasion—perhaps the night he surrendered himself to the afterlife.
Eventually, Luka reluctantly left the sanctity of his study to join his impatient travel party.
“Will you try not to look so gloomy?”
“Will you try not to look so alive, Lord Gustafson?”
“Am I to take that as a compliment?”
Luka scoffed as he climbed into the carriage. “You most certainly shouldn’t.”
“I have a feeling we’ll be going to war with the werewolves shortly,” Ezra complained, entering behind Luka.
“A war is not what I wish, but shall they bring one to our gates, then we have no choice.”
“When was the last time you fed?”
“Last night.”
“No, you have mistaken my words. Let me be clearer. When was the last time you fed from the source?”
It had been ages since Luka had fed directly from a human.
He tried once—it ended dreadfully. He felt extreme disgust and guilt as soon as his fangs sank into the donor’s flesh.
The act was far too intimate for his liking.
In a rage, he broke her neck, killing the na?ve woman who graciously offered herself like a lamb to the slaughter.
He promised himself he’d never consume from the vein again.
“What is the relevance of your question?” Luka challenged.
“You’re pent up. Your primal side needs an occasional release, or you might go mad.”
Might.
Luka openly laughed. He was already mad—driven by grief and loneliness.
And he was certainly mad for agreeing to accompany Ezra on his diplomatic journey, but he needed to ensure that Prince Lykaon knew he was not one to be trifled with.
Luka could only handle so much passive-aggressiveness and veiled threats.
He wanted to see if Prince Lykaon’s demeanor lightened when he was in his presence.
“Filthy fucking dogs,” Luka muttered under his breath.
***
“Darkness is soon approaching, my King,” Ezra announced a few hours later.
“Thank you for that astute observation. I pay you well to tell me the obvious,” Luka drawled, watching a herd of deer forage in the distance.
“I am aware you don’t favor long trips by carriage. We’ll reach our destination shortly,” Ezra replied, ignoring the king’s surly behavior. “Perhaps you should rest your eyes? Prince Lykaon prepared a banquet for our arrival. It’ll be a long nig—”
Ezra was cut off when a blazing arrow tore through the carriage wall, narrowly missing Luka’s head.
“We’re under attack!” a guard shouted. “Protect King Alesi!”
Luka chuckled, finding his men’s panic comical.
“Get down!” Ezra hissed, trying to wrestle Luka to the carriage floor as arrows continued to pierce the carriage. He swatted his vexing advisor away.
“You should be more concerned about yourself than me. A measly arrow will not end me.
Ezra ripped one of the arrows out of the carriage wall and smelled the tip. As he suspected… poison. He grabbed Luka’s hand and slashed his palm.
Luka scowled from the pain, fingers curling up as the poison did what it intended.
“As you were saying?”
“There was no need to go to such great lengths to make your point! I bet those dirty mutts set us up!” Luka growled, shaking his hand. The injury was a tiny knick and was far from fatal, but the pain was immense.
“Imagine if that arrow pierced your heart!” Ezra argued back, ignoring Luka’s knee-jerk accusation.
It could’ve been anyone. The werewolves weren’t the only ones to vocally announce their disdain for Luka.
While it was unlikely for them to be so bold, Ezra reasoned the ambush could be the handiwork of hunters.
The carriage suddenly veered off the road and flipped onto its side, throwing the men into a heap.
“This is becoming rather annoying,” Luka muttered. He heard his guards’ anguished wails and picked up the scent of blood. “I’ll put an end to this,” he declared.
Luka threw open the carriage door and was met by the tip of a bloody sword. His eyes flicked up, and for a brief second, he thought he was gazing up at a curly-headed angel.
“Any last words, King Alesi?” she challenged.
He licked his fangs. His mouth had dried more than the scorching deserts of the South, and he needed to quench the newfound thirst that ailed him. Ezra suggested he let his primal side out and tap into the source, and that was precisely what Luka planned to do.
“Yes… run.”