Untamable

Chapter 5 Prince

Edward’s POV

My fingers leisurely trace the prostitute's alabaster back as if I'm testing whether her warmth can melt the glacier within me. The cloying scent of rose oil mixes with the salty tang of sweat, instantly reminding me of when my father baptized my face with a wine bottle at age fourteen—the red liquid gliding down the marble like a dying snake. Without thinking, I tighten my grip, drawing a moan.

"Your Highness, you're hurting me," Angel, the blonde beauty in my arms protests, trying to turn over. I grip her waist and push her back into the pile of silk. She giggles and presses her bare chest to my lips. I give her n****e a playful nip, swirling my tongue around it, rewarded by her satisfied sigh as her head tips back, straddles me, grinding her body against mine. Over her generous shoulder, I see the twilight deepening outside—the castle's spires blaze in the sunset, mirroring the rage flickering in my father's eyes whenever he sees me. My teeth sink into her breast, drawing an even larger moan. "f**k me, f**k me now," she purrs, arms wrapping around my neck.

I toss her over effortlessly, and she laughs, hooking her legs around my waist.

Just then, the wooden door bursts open with a crash. I assume it's another fool who got the wrong room. I glance over only to be taken aback by those emerald earrings—twelve glinting green gems aline in the dim light, much like mother's eyes were watching.

"Clean this up." Alicia's voice cuts through the room like an icy gust. She is my aunt and also, inconveniently, my stepmother.

As the prostitute scrambles to gather her dignity and clothing, I leisurely sit up, ensuring the fresh bite marks on my collarbone are on display for my stepmother.

"You know what day it is," she says, her gown's goldfinch embroidery hovering three steps away from my bed—close enough for me to spot the fresh bruise on her neck.

Oops, Father probably mistook her for a stress ball again last night.

I snort, finishing the last drops of whiskey. The amber liquid scalds its way down my throat yet fails to extinguish the ancient bonfire in my chest. "Let Henry kneel before Father with a cake. My appearance…" I gesture to the jagged scar on my eyebrow, "would ruin the mood for Father’s party, don’t you think?"

Alicia steps closer, her perfume mixed with a hint of blood hitting me. Her nails dig into my wrist, a grip strong enough to crush bones. "Do you think wallowing in self-pity will magically make things better?"

"Maybe not," I shrug, forcing a smile that could win an award for its awkwardness, "but it sure won't make it worse."

Alicia suddenly snatches the glass from my hand. "Please, return my glass," I say, trying for politeness.

"Edward! Behave yourself!" she yells my name so loudly I half-expect the windows to shatter.

"I was being polite," I protest. "I even used 'please.'" I make a feeble attempt to retrieve my glass from the servant she handed it to, like a child reaching for a cookie jar.

I let out a growl of frustration, slamming my fist onto the mattress. Instead of a satisfying "crack," it just gives, like punching a cloud. Fantastic—good mattresses when you least need them.

Alicia leans in, buttoning my shirt with the care of a mother dressing a reluctant toddler. "Give it a rest," I grumble as I slip her hand away, "you know I'll just sneak out again."

"Your mother would be heartbroken if she saw you like this," Alicia says, with a dash of dramatic flair.

"No, she wouldn't. She's dead," I respond flatly, snatching back the glass and raising it to the air for an invisible toast. "Let’s not forget, she committed suicide due to depression after having me."

My mind drifts back, as if one of those dramatic movie scenes where everything goes blurry. One winter at ten, I went hunting with Father and Henry. Throughout the trip, an uneasy feeling nagged at me, a compulsion to return to the palace, to Mother. But I ignored it, pushing on, not knowing that ignoring feelings was my future specialty. Henry bagged a massive deer, while I only managed a humble pheasant.

Father, ever predictable, showered Henry with praise, while I got the patented royal cold shoulder. It wasn’t always like this; I recall feeling loved until my mother’s depression cast a cloud over everything.

Suddenly, we were banned from seeing her. "Why?" I cried outside her door, feeling like the world’s smallest battering ram.

"She’s ill," Father said, his eyes a cocktail of annoyance and ice. "Leave her be; she needs to recover. And stop that infernal knocking!" He served me a guilt sandwich with extra guilt. "Because of you, Edward—because she had you, my queen is sick!"

No child should bear such a burden, though I'd learn later it's not all that unusual in royal families.

I refused to accept it. My mother’s arms always opened for me, full of warmth and love. I lingered by her locked door until Father dragged me away, treating me henceforth like a living reminder of misfortune, justified by a doctor’s diagnosis—postpartum depression.

The coldness of Father and the distance from Mother hurt, but my brother Henry always had a knack for sensing my stormy moods and calming them.

Bagging that pheasant should have lifted my spirits, but standing next to Henry’s deer, it felt like a joke. Henry noticed, like always, and smiled. “Those tail feathers are colorful! You should give them to Mother.”

“You think so?” I brightened up, like sunlight through clouds.

“Yeah,” Henry assured me, “Mother will love them. We can also pick up some roses and surprise her.”

“Great idea!” I said, momentarily buoyed, but unease still hovered. As soon as we returned, I raced to Mother's tower, feeling heroic with the pheasant’s feathers in hand. From afar, the usually shut doors were wide open—a bad omen. Closer, I found maids and guards, faces somber. My stomach dropped, and I rushed inside.

“Hey! Stop!” guards called out, but I ignored them, sprinting up the spiral stairs, yelling for Mother. Silence. Her room was empty, save for shadows and stale air. The guards eventually caught up, politely held my shoulders.

“Where is my Mother?” I pleaded.

“Please, Prince Edward, come with us,” they exclaimed.

“Where is she?!” I demanded, jerking free from their hold, reality dawning but unacceptable.

“I’m sorry, Your Highness. Lady Margaret succumbed to her illness,” the captain said kindly, or as kindly as one can deliver a death sentence. “She took her own life last night.”

I felt frozen, like time made a cruel pause. “No, no, this is not true!” I sobbed, tears breaking barriers. “You’re lying! My mother promised she’d be here for me!”

Then Henry appeared, grasping the truth I was desperate to deny, his tears mirroring my own. He pulled me into an embrace. “It’ll be okay, Edward,” he whispered, though his voice trembled like a leaf in the wind. “It’ll be okay.”

My grip relaxed, and the hopeful basket of roses along with the vibrant pheasant feathers spilled from my hands, scattering across the floor.

From that day on, I don’t like bright colors any more, for they mocked my somber reality, and their cheerfulness is nothing but a cruel, unending jest.

I can’t imagine how anything can be okay after Mother’s death.

Afterwards, my father marries my mom’s sister as his Luna. A year later, I have a younger brother, Noah. Honestly, I am less enthusiastic about the throne than he is. Although he's young, he's diligent in his studies and training. As for me, I numb myself with wine and women.

My grand ambition? For Henry to take the throne once Father retires, while I become lord of a lush land where the wine flows, and beautiful women are as common as pebbles on the beach.

Fuck. It's been years, and every time I roll these memories around, they poke at my heart like an untrained juggler. I tip my head back, eyeing my empty wine cup like it's betrayed me. "Top me off, would you?" I ask Anna.

"I'm not your servant," she snaps, giving me a glare that could freeze a bonfire.

I burst out laughing. Ah, the privilege of being the second lycan prince—respected by all except the maid. But Anna isn't just any maid. As daughter of Alpha David, she was once the pack's heiress. Her family was rolling in dough until her dad rolled the dice one too many times, landing them in debt. Anna went from heir to florist, selling flowers on the street. My mother was a frequent customer, helping her settle a debt—until Alpha David spiraled deeper, planning to sell her to someone old enough to remember the invention of fire. Anna fled but was caught, clinging to a doorknob for dear life. The racket reached Alicia—it was before she became my stepmother—who couldn't stand the injustice and bought Anna's freedom. She’s been by Alicia’s side ever since.

"I'm not getting out of this bed until you pour me some wine," I declare, patting the mattress. "It's quite comfortable, care to join me?"

If looks could kill, Anna's glare would have ended me right there. Were it not for my stepmother's presence, she’d have baptized me with the wine bottle.

"Pour him a drink, Anna," my stepmother says, surprisingly yielding. She's not the kind to fold easily.

"Thank you," I say, finishing the glass in one go, eyes on Anna over the rim, curious about whatever comes next.

Alicia clears her throat dramatically, her voice low and tinged with a sort of thrilled anxiety. "Listen, after yesterday's council meeting, your father overdosed on mead..."

"Figured as much," I reply, noting the spectacular bruise blooming on her neck.

She flushes, yanking her collar up and shooting me a death glare. "You're very rude, Edward."

"You've misunderstood, Aunt," I say, softening my tone. "I meant to say I saw your scars and am sorry for them."

A flicker of satisfaction crosses Alicia's face. "Being sorry doesn’t solve anything," she murmurs, pausing. Her voice trembles with the weight of confession."In his drunken haze, your father mistook me for your mother and said things I shouldn't have ever heard—"

I widen my eyes.

"At first, everything seemed normal," Alicia begins, though normal in our family is a matter of perspective. "He said he missed me and questioned why I had left him—I listened, curious about what he'd say to my sister." She pauses, swallowing hard. "Then, out of nowhere, he yanks my hair, slams me against the wall, and calls me a weak, incompetent—well, let's just say, not a nice lady. He apparently handpicked me from a lineup of well-bred noblewomen but says I constantly claimed I was uncomfortable to dodge public appearances, embarrassing the royal family."

Alicia continues, "Then he started slapping me, declaring I was the worst decision of his life. And he started laughing like a madman, shaking my shoulders and asking how I supposedly died—whether it was from cold, disease, or rogue attack. He claimed he was a genius for plotting it so cleverly. To hide his tracks, he took his sons hunting, while his men dosed me with sleeping pills and abandoned me in rogue territory..." Alicia's voice falters, and she covers her mouth to hold back a sob.

The sharp sound of a wine bottle shattering on the floor startles the sparrows outside the window. My fingers clutch the oak bedpost so tightly that splinters poke into my palm, but I hardly notice.

In a stunning revelation, the painful images that haunted my nights flip like a plot twist: my mother's suffering wasn't my doing; it was my father's. And to dodge his accountability, he conveniently dumped the blame on me.

"Why are you telling me this now?" I ask.

"Because I only discovered these things last night," Alicia confesses, fear flitting across her eyes. "I'm terrified the king will sober up and decide to silence me permanently." She grips my wrist firmly. "Even if it costs me my life, I have to tell you the truth, Edward. If the coffin they buried was empty, then maybe my sister, your mother, is still alive…"

"Too late!" I shout, feeling my blood start to boil over. "I'm already a shattered man! What can I do? I'm no hero in this story!"

"I'm not asking you to abandon your current life. You can pretend this conversation never happened and continue your existence as it is," she says, her eyes full of sadness. "But I couldn't keep this from you, right?"

I look into Alicia's eyes, seeing reflected back at a drunken, disheveled young man.

I stare longer at this image in her eyes, feeling disappointment and disgust like never before for this version of myself.

"Make your choice, Edward. If you choose to stay in your dream, I won't bother you again. But if you decide to wake up and face reality, you'll have my full support," Alicia continues, offering options rather than imposing them—a trait of hers I've come to respect.

As she reaches the door, I call out, "Alicia."

She pauses, her head tilting slightly to listen.

"Tell the king that his least favorite son will be gracing the banquet with his presence," I declare, attempting to button up my shirt with all the poise of a knight gearing up for a quest—or at least a halfway respectable dinner. Unfortunately, my hands are shaking so much that I can't seem to align the buttons properly.

Alicia nods, her lips hinting at a faint smile as she departs with her maid.

"All right, babies, you can come in now!" I call toward the door.

The prostitutes giggle as they parade in, tumbling onto the bed. Angel snickers, "That annoying old woman finally left."

"Mind your tongue, Angel," I joke. "That 'annoying old woman' happens to be my aunt and the reigning queen. Trust me, she doesn't take well to alternative titles."

"Then you'll have to protect me, Your Highness," Angel purrs, flattering her eyelashes at me.

I chuckle, gently nudging Amber off me as I sit up. "Alright, help me dress," I say. "These buttons seem to have a personal vendetta against me."

They laugh, and Amber takes on the button challenge while Angel fetches my trousers. "Leaving so soon, Your Highness?"

"I've got a birthday party with my name on it," I reply.

"Ooh!" they chorus, their envy almost tangible.

"Have a blast, Your Highness," Amber says.

"Definitely," I confirm, sliding into my trousers and making for the door.

They follow me to the doorway, leaning against the frame with expert poise. "When will we see you again? Tonight? Tomorrow?"

I shake my head, flashing a toothy grin. "Not for a while."

Their eyes widen in mock horror, and I wink. "Got some important business to handle."

"Alright," they sigh, resigned. "Good luck with whatever grand thing you're doing, Your Highness!" They send playful air kisses my way.

I reach out, pretending to catch the invisible kisses, and give a nod to my delightful company. "Thank you."