His Father’s Luna : The Betrayed Warrior’s Return

6. The Perfect Alibi

Lyra’s POV

Lyra’s POV

The single word cracked like a physical whip across the training grounds: “Enough.”

The crushing, absolute weight of the Alpha Prime’s aura slammed into the courtyard, driving the breath from my lungs and forcing the lower-ranking soldiers around us straight to their knees. Anton froze, his heavy boot halting mid-air just before it could kick more dirt into my face, as all the artificial, puffed-up bravado instantly drained from his posture.

Pushing myself up onto my hands and knees while my ribs screamed in protest from the blow of the broadsword, I looked toward the stone stairwell.

Fenrir was descending, moving with the slow, terrifying grace of an apex predator perfectly comfortable in his domain. He didn’t spare a glance for Selena, who was suddenly trembling beside Anton, nor did he acknowledge the hundreds of Vanguard warriors watching in stunned silence. Instead, his burning amber eyes remained locked entirely on me until he reached the dirt ring, stopping just inches from where I knelt in the mud. The heavy scent of pine and rain washed over me, offering a stark, dizzying contrast to the choking dust in my lungs.

“She was disrespecting the chain of command, Father,” Anton stammered, frantically trying to justify his cowardice. “She needed to be corrected—”

“You will sheathe your blade, boy,” Fenrir interrupted, his voice a low, lethal vibration that commanded absolute obedience. “And you will never draw it on an unarmored Vanguard on my training grounds again.”

“But she—” Selena started, her voice shrill with panic.

Fenrir didn’t even turn his head. “To your quarters, Selena. Both of you. Before I decide you are entirely unfit for the promotion ceremony next week.”

Swallowing hard, his face pale with humiliation, Anton practically tripped over his own scabbard as he grabbed Selena’s arm and pulled the furious, humiliated Princess away from the ring toward the safety of the royal wing.

Once they were gone, Fenrir looked down at me. He didn’t offer me his hand, nor did I expect him to, for a King did not coddle his soldiers in front of the ranks. But as our eyes met, a silent, electrifying current passed between us.

The doubt I had briefly sensed from him on the balcony was completely gone, replaced by a dark, knowing glint; he saw right through the dirt and the bruises, realizing I had taken the beating on purpose to publicly expose his Heir’s cruelty.

“Go to the baths, Warrior,” Fenrir commanded softly, though his voice carried exactly far enough for the troops to hear. “Wash the mud off. You have a long week of training ahead of you.”

“Yes, My King,” I murmured, bowing my head to hide the triumphant smirk threatening to break across my face.

***

Though the scalding water of the communal baths washed away the physical dirt, it couldn’t scrub away the relentless ticking of the clock in my mind.

In exactly five days, the Council of Elders was scheduled to officially hand Anton and Selena the reins to manage the pack’s daily affairs—a massive step toward their coronation.

I knew I had to drop my bombshell right as that happened, publicly declaring that I was carrying the Alpha line to completely sever their political power in front of the entire pack. But to do that and survive, I needed an ironclad alibi; I needed a scent thick enough to completely mask the lingering traces of Fenrir’s claim on my body, and I needed Anton to believe, even for a fraction of a second, that the child could be his.

Dressing in fresh, dark leather training gear, I walked out into the labyrinth of the castle’s stone corridors. I didn’t have to search long for the fly, as he was already buzzing straight into my web.

I found Anton pacing furiously in the secluded, shadow-drenched Tapestry Hall near the armory. Left alone to mutter to himself, he was clearly still reeling from the devastating public dressing-down his father had just delivered. When he heard my footsteps, he spun around, his eyes flashing with a chaotic, desperate anger.

“You,” Anton snarled, closing the distance between us in three long strides. “You did that on purpose. You made me look like an unhinged fool in front of the entire Vanguard.”

“I didn’t make you do anything, Anton,” I replied, my voice a cool, taunting whisper as I stepped right into his personal space, refusing to back down. “You did that all on your own. You proved to everyone exactly what kind of Alpha you really are.”

“I am the Heir!” he hissed, his hands twitching at his sides.

“You’re a coward,” I breathed, tilting my head up so my lips were mere inches from his jaw. I let my inner wolf bare her teeth, projecting a deliberate, stinging challenge straight into his fragile ego. “You couldn’t handle me, so you settled for a pretty little Princess who pats you on the head and tells you how strong you are. But we both know the truth. You don’t have the spine to truly dominate a damn thing.”

That was the breaking point. The insult to his manh*od, combined with our intoxicating, infuriating proximity, completely shattered his thin veneer of control.

With a feral, guttural growl, Anton grabbed me by the waist and slammed me backward against the stone wall.

Although the impact knocked the breath from my lungs, I didn’t fight him, instead letting my head fall back to expose the long column of my throat. He crashed his mouth onto mine in a desperate, punishing kiss that held no love, no tenderness, and absolutely none of the devastating, earth-shattering dominance I had experienced with Fenrir. Rather, Anton kissed like a man desperately trying to prove a point to himself.

His teeth clashed against mine while his hands roamed roughly over my body, gripping my hips with bruising force as he frantically tore at the heavy laces of my tunic.

I completely dissociated, keeping my eyes half-open to stare blankly at the faded threads of the ancient tapestry behind his head rather than closing them to savor the feeling. I cataloged the physical sensations with cold objectivity: the harsh scrape of his stubble, the frantic rhythm of his breathing, and the sloppy, hurried way he hiked my leather pants down. This wasn’t passion; it was a tactical maneuver.

“Tell me I’m not an Alpha,” he panted heavily against my neck, his hands fumbling blindly. “Tell me you don’t want this.”

“You talk too much, Anton,” I mocked softly, wrapping my arms around his neck to pull him closer to ensure his musky scent transferred completely to my skin and clothes. Hooking one leg around his thigh, I pulled him flush against me.

Groaning loudly in a pathetic sound of surrender, he hoisted me up against the wall. He didn’t bother checking the corridor or securing the door; his bruised ego had entirely consumed whatever common sense he possessed.

As he entered me—hasty and driven by pure, selfish adrenaline—I felt absolutely nothing but cold, calculating triumph. I perfectly matched his frantic pace, making the exact breathless noises he needed to hear to feel like a conqueror while expertly feeding the delusion that he was breaking me down. I dug my nails into his back, leaving deliberate marks that would serve as undeniable physical evidence of our encounter.

One, two, three, I counted silently in my head, tracking the time. He was sloppy, hurried, and desperately trying to reclaim a dominance he had never truly possessed, but I let him have the illusion. Every second he thrust into me, he was painting me with his scent, perfectly burying the dangerous aroma of the King beneath thick, undeniable layers of the Heir’s lust.

The climax hit him quickly—a testament to his total lack of discipline. Shuddering violently against me, he buried his face in my neck, completely oblivious to the world outside his own immediate gratification.

When he finally pulled back and lowered my feet to the ground, he looked flushed and sickeningly triumphant. “Don’t ever question my authority again, Lyra,” he sneered, adjusting his clothes with shaking hands. “Remember your place.”

“I know exactly where my place is,” I replied smoothly, calmly fixing my own tunic before turning to walk away and leaving him standing alone in the dusty corridor.

Though my body was sore, my mind was sharper than the steel at my hip. I was now completely coated in Anton’s scent, providing an absolute camouflage, and if the King’s seed had truly taken root in my womb, my alibi was flawlessly secured.

As I walked toward the Great Hall to prepare for the evening’s regular festivities, I knew the countdown had officially begun. I had exactly five days until the promotion ceremony, and when that moment finally arrived, I was going to burn their entire kingdom to the ground.