3. Making an Enemy #2
It wasn’t unusual to have a hard-on in a vicious fight, as the bloodlust was closely related to sexual gratification, which explained why there was usually a spike in omegas’ and beta women’s pregnancies after a major battle.
But in my twenty-six years of life, I had never had an alpha pinning me down while grinding his dick on me before.
It was the biggest humiliation an alpha could receive from another alpha, and I was shocked that it actually happened to me.
And the problem was, my own prick was also ... reacting.
In that moment of stillness, I listened in dread and despair as the counting reached seven, then eight, then ...
I was going to be the joke of the court ... I’d failed the mission before it even started ...
But just as the counting was about to reach nine, an authoritative female voice interrupted it.
“That’s enough! Damien, you stop this at once!”
All sound ceased, and even Damien stopped pressing me down. I took the chance to push him off me and scrambled to a half-kneeling position.
I realized everyone in the crowd was also kneeling to a beta woman in a black yet imperial gown. She looked to be in her sixties, though still beautiful in a regal and mature way. Her eyes were dark and piercing. A resplendent diamond tiara sat on her raven hair.
This must be the Queen of Nocturne, Seraphina.
“Mother,” Damien said, the dark smirk still lingering in his eyes. “It was just a little match.”
“This is no way to welcome a guest, you should have known better!” Queen Seraphina chided severely.
I stood up, my hair messy, and my upper torso was covered in bruises. I was in no shape to meet the revered queen, but it was what it was. I bowed and said, “It’s an honour to meet you, my queen.”
“You are Harald Winterthrope’s eldest son, aren’t you?” she said. Her eyes glistened with subtle warmth.
“You know my father?”
“I met him once when I was younger. A formidable warrior. And I can tell the apple doesn’t fall far from the tree.” She smiled a little, before turning to her son. “You come with me, now.”
Damien rolled his eyes slightly. As he was passing me, he picked up my dagger from the ground and whispered in a voice only we could hear, “We both know who the winner is tonight, if my mother hadn’t saved you.”
I glared at him as rage seethed in my heart. And what enraged me even more was when he picked up my knife right before he was leaving the ring, and glanced at me haughtily, saying, “I believe this belongs to me now,” before he followed the queen.
That knife was my mother’s gift to me when I reached the age of majority. One of the few things I had left from her.
My nails dug into my palms as humiliation and rage burned on my cheeks. And I swore to make the smug fucker pay one day.
I returned to my room, fuming with rage and burning with humiliation. I was one count away from being the biggest joke in the Nocturne court for the foreseeable future, yet it was Prince Damien’s mocking smirk that seared into my mind.
I had lost to a spoiled southern brat ... and he even took my knife ...
I slammed the door shut behind me so hard that the walls shook and a couple of paintings fell from their hooks. I took some deep breaths to push down the urge to punch something. This wasn’t my room back home; it wouldn’t look good if I trashed it just because I lost a fight to their prince.
“Fenris?” Leif’s sleepy voice came through the door connecting our rooms. “Is everything alright?”
Shit, I’d woken him up with all the noises. I cleared my throat and said, “All good. Go back to sleep.”
“Stop slamming the door all the time …” Leif complained, then he went quiet, probably went back to bed.
I let out a sigh of relief, not wanting him to see me all dusty and bruised from the fights and get worried.
Was I supposed to marry off sweet Leif to that bastard? How would that be a happy marriage in any way? It was like sending a baby deer to a ravenous wild wolf, one that Damien would chew up alive!
Yet, we needed Nocturne’s alliance ...
Was selling Leif out the only option? This didn’t sit right with me ... How could I push Leif into a doomed marriage with my own hands?
I paced the room all night like a trapped beast, already having a foreboding feeling about this whole mate selection thing, but I couldn’t find a way out.
Tomorrow, all the candidates would be presented to the king, the queen, and Prince Damien for the first time. First impressions would be vital to Leif’s success ... but now I didn’t even want us to be successful anymore.
Damien’s Diary Entry, Day 1
June 13, Waxing Gibbous,
I was in a foul mood today, until I saw him in the fighting ring.
The day began with me trapped in a five-hour-long, unproductive meeting with multiple hot-headed clan leaders to settle a territorial dispute.
For fuck’s sake, it was such a small town they didn’t even know its existence, if not for the recent discovery of a tiny copper mine there.
I mean, how many coins did they think such a small lode could get them?
They’d empty the whole thing within three years and spend all the extra income on drinks and whores.
Why was I wasting my time here when Solstia is clearly up to something?
Humans always hate us, and this new Solstia queen’s hatred of werewolves has an extra personal layer, since her first husband was killed in battle against our forces.
I knew she would be looking for an opportunity to breach our treaty.
I would have stayed in the eastern camp with my Steel Legion forces to monitor the situation rather than listening to petty territory disputes now, if not for this stupid Mate Selection Ball.
I mean, what is the whole point of having this ball when I don’t really have a choice? Just because it is tradition?
I had just stormed out of the queen’s dining room, leaving my manipulative mother behind. She practically told me that she had made an arrangement with Lord Gillian of the Eclipse Clan: I would marry Lovel, and Eclipse would support me as the heir to the throne.
Lovel is pretty much my only option now, even though I’ll have to waste a whole month pretending I have any other choices.
It’s not that Lovel isn’t a lovely creature.
It’s just ... every time I meet him, he acts as if he has some kind of right to me, like there is a script of my life saying that he will be my mate, and everything he does is an act to ensure it.
He dresses in the way he believes I like, behaves in the manner he thinks I’d prefer, talks about things he’s heard I enjoy, being charming and compliant yet still retaining a little deviance.
He thinks he has me in the palm of his hand because it worked for every other alpha he has met. But I am not any other alpha, and I’ve had enough people in my life to tell me what to do. I don’t need one more.
I heard loud noises coming from the garrison as I made my way to the training yard.
Many warriors and soldiers were gathered around the fighting ring, shouting, whooping and cursing, making way too much noise for a regular friendly match.
My curiosity was piqued, so I headed to the ring and grabbed one of the overly excited, half-drunk guards.
The guard was shocked to see me, but I put a finger over my lips to shush her, since I didn’t want the attention yet. I urged her to tell me what had caused all the ruckus.
The guard nervously informed me that an alpha northman had challenged all southern fighters, saying we don’t have warriors strong enough to take him. Most importantly, Rydel had already been defeated, and Hugo was fighting him as we were speaking.
Rydel was defeated … That was … interesting.
Then the guard told me there was also a wager going on, which involved the northman’s knife, necklace, and the losers running laps naked while barking like dogs.
I chuckled, already beginning to like this northman. That defeat must have hurt Rydel’s bloated yet fragile ego immensely. Not to mention he’ll have to run around naked and bark like a dog after he wakes up. I’m sure he’ll try to wiggle his way out of the deal, but it was still amusing.
I quietly moved to the edge of the crowd, strategically placing myself in a spot that wouldn’t attract attention, yet could still observe the fighting clearly.
The first thing I saw was his long, dirty-blond hair, skillfully braided back from the temples, flowing in the wind like a swirling banner as he swung and kicked Hugo’s chest. His upper body was bare, just like his opponent’s was.
Wide shoulders and lean waist, a body chiselled from sweat and blood.
A thin layer of sweat glistened on the tanned skin like a coat of glaze.
Every subtle rise and fall delineated the perfect contours of strength-infused muscles, flexing and contracting with a lyrical rhythm.