THE RUTHLESS ALPHA SUPERIOR’S VIRGIN SLAVE

Deception on her knees

Alpha Veyron Mordane

A man of my worth should never be unsettled.

I had spent three centuries building a kingdom that bowed when I entered a room, armies that moved at a single command, and borders that had become warnings to every ruler foolish enough to test them. Yet here I sat in the middle of a council meeting with my fingers curled against the armrest, listening to my wolf pace restlessly beneath my skin.

He had been on edge since the blood moon.

Even now, hours after the frenzy had faded, I could feel him prowling inside me—agitated, watchful, as though waiting for something I could not see.

Or someone.

I tightened my jaw and forced my attention back to the council chamber.

Maps covered the enormous table before me, red markings spreading across the eastern border of Eldoria like a stain. The president of the neighboring nation stood several feet below the raised platform where I sat, his once-polished uniform wrinkled from travel, his face drawn with exhaustion.

He had been speaking for nearly ten minutes.

I had heard every word.

My wolf had heard none of them.

He was still circling the same thought he had been circling since the blood moon.

*Her.*

The Omega who should have died.

The woman whose heart had continued beating when every other woman's had stopped.

The woman whose scent had followed me out of the frenzy and remained buried somewhere beneath my skin.

My claws pressed against the wood beneath my palm.

"Your Supreme Majesty."

The president's voice pulled me back.

I lifted my eyes to him.

He swallowed before continuing. "My country has lost three northern provinces. Our eastern forces have been surrounded, our capital is preparing for evacuation, and our military cannot hold the border for another week."

I stared at him without expression.

A week.

He had come to me after his country had already begun counting its dead.

"And what," I asked slowly, "do you expect me to do about it?"

His shoulders stiffened. "Send your forces."

The chamber fell silent.

I leaned back in my chair, studying him.

Interesting.

Not long ago, this same man had stood in this chamber and refused my protection. He had spoken proudly of Eldoria's sovereignty, insisting that his nation needed no hand over it and no army standing between it and its enemies.

Now he had crossed my border to place his country's survival at my feet.

"You refused my offer three years ago."

His face tightened. "I did."

"You refused the military treaty two years ago."

"Yes, Your Majesty."

"You refused the trade agreement last year."

He lowered his eyes. "Yes."

I let the silence stretch. "And now you want my soldiers."

The president took a breath. "I want your help."

My lips barely moved. "Those are not the same thing."

Before he could answer, my Beta shifted beside the council table. A minister rose from his seat, waiting until I looked at him before speaking.

"Your Supreme Majesty, with your permission."

I gave him a small nod.

He stepped forward. "My concern is not merely that Eldoria refused your previous offers. My concern is what accepting this request will cost Lycania."

The president's expression hardened.

The minister continued. "Eldoria has spent years making it clear that it wants no political dependence on us. Yet now, when their army is collapsing, they expect Lycania to spend its resources protecting a nation that repeatedly rejected our protection."

He placed a document on the table. "And that is not the only request."

I looked down at the paper. "Go on."

"The president is also asking that Your Majesty open the western borders to Eldorian civilians."

A murmur traveled through the chamber.

My gaze returned to the president. "How many?"

His hesitation told me the answer would not be small.

"Initial estimates are two hundred thousand."

Silence.

Two hundred thousand foreign civilians entering Lycania was not charity. It was a political decision, a military risk, and an economic burden.

The president stepped forward. "They are not soldiers, Your Majesty. They are families. Children. The elderly. People who have nowhere else to go."

I watched him carefully. "And when they cross my borders?"

"They will remain under Lycanian protection until Eldoria is safe."

"Under my protection."

"Yes."

I leaned back slowly.

Three years ago, he had wanted nothing from me. Now he wanted my army. My borders. My resources. My mercy.

My wolf suddenly went still.

For the first time since the meeting began, I felt his attention shift away from the memory of the Omega and toward the decision before me.

I looked at the president.

"No."

The word fell quietly, but the entire chamber heard it.

His face drained. "Your Majesty—"

"I offered you protection when you were strong enough to refuse it," I said, my voice remaining even. "You chose independence. I respected your choice."

He opened his mouth, but I raised one hand.

"You do not get to remember my power only after yours has failed."

The president stared at me. Then, to my surprise, he dropped to one knee.

"My people are dying."

I said nothing.

"Punish me if you must," he whispered. "Punish my government. Take our resources. Take whatever price you believe Eldoria owes you. But please, Your Majesty…" His voice broke. "Do not punish them for the choices I made."

I studied him for a long moment—the sweat on his brow, the tremor in his shoulders, the desperation that reeked from his pores.

"Rise," I said finally.

He did, slowly, uncertainly.

I stood, and the entire chamber stood with me.

"The council is dismissed."

I turned and walked from the room without looking back, my footsteps echoing against the marble. I could feel their eyes on me—the ministers, the generals, the foreign president—all of them wondering what I would do, what price I would extract, whether mercy was even a word in my vocabulary.

It wasn't.

But patience was.

And Eldoria would learn that lesson before this was over.

---

My chambers were cold when I entered, the fire barely catching in the hearth. I stood before it while the maids worked in silence, removing the heavy mantle from my shoulders and unfastening the black, gold-embroidered coat beneath it. The high collar remained stiff around my throat while chains and crimson jewels lay across my chest, catching what little firelight reached them. Gold covered the shoulders, cuffs, and seams in intricate patterns—the design more suited to a king preparing for war than a man returning from a council meeting.

I let them strip away each layer without a word, watching the flames instead.

The door opened.

I did not turn. Only one person entered without knocking, without announcement, without fear.

"Leave us," a voice purred.

The maids scurried out, bowing as they passed her.

Morgana.

I heard the silk of her gown whisper against the floor as she approached. She moved like liquid—all hips and false submission, a viper wearing the skin of a dove.

"Your Majesty," she breathed, close enough now that I could smell her perfume—jasmine and something darker, something that used to stir my interest.

Now it smelled cloying. Wrong.

"You haven't sent for me in so long," she continued, her hands replacing the maids' at my waist, fingers deft and knowing as she worked at the remaining fastenings. "I began to think you'd forgotten me."

I turned to face her.

She was beautiful. That had not changed. Porcelain skin, platinum hair coiled in elaborate braids, eyes the color of winter frost. Her gown was sheer enough to leave nothing to the imagination—breasts heavy and waiting, n*****s peaked against the silk, the curve of her hips promising shelter from any storm.

She was everything an Alpha's favorite should be.

She was not the one I wanted.

"On your knees," I said.

Her lips curved—victory, not submission—and she sank gracefully to the floor, her hands sliding up my thighs as she looked up at me through thick lashes.

"Tell me what you need," she whispered.

I grabbed her jaw with crushing force, yanking her face upward until her eyes widened with genuine shock, with the first flicker of fear.

"Open."

She obeyed, lips parting, tongue flattening in offering. There was no hesitation. She had done this a hundred times. She knew exactly how to angle her head, how to relax her throat, how to make herself a vessel for my pleasure.

I freed myself from my trousers—hard, aching, furious with need that had nothing to do with the woman kneeling before me—and thrust into her mouth without preamble.

Morgana gagged, eyes watering, but she recovered quickly. Her hands came up to grip my thighs, nails digging crescents into my skin as I set a brutal rhythm. I used her mouth with mechanical efficiency, chasing a release that felt borrowed, felt like a lie, felt like betrayal against the phantom who had taken up residence in my mind.

*Her,* my wolf snarled. *Not this one. Her.*

I closed my eyes, trying to focus on the wet heat surrounding me, the suction, the way Morgana moaned around my length as if she were enjoying this.

But behind my eyelids I saw flaxen hair spread across black silk. I heard a heartbeat stuttering back to life in a chest that should have been still. I smelled rain and wildflowers and something else—something that made my wolf insane with want, something that made this woman at my feet taste like ash.

I pulled out abruptly, spending myself across her face with a growl that sounded more like pain than pleasure.

Stripes of white marked her cheeks, her lips, her chin. Degradation she accepted with a smile, her tongue darting out to taste what I had given her, her eyes never leaving mine.

"Thank you, Your Majesty," she whispered, demurely lowering her gaze while her fingers came up to spread my seed across her skin like war paint.

She cleaned me with practiced efficiency. When she finished, she remained kneeling, her face glazed, her position submissive.

But her eyes were sharp.

"My father," she said softly, confirming my suspicion that this visit had never been about pleasure. "The Minister of Defense. He requires… additional resources."

I tucked myself away, studying her. "What kind of resources?"

"Men. Arms." She paused, her tongue swiping across her lower lip. "A thousand troops would suffice. And the funding to maintain them."

I went still.

The number was specific. Too specific.

I reached down, grabbing her chin again—not gently this time, my thumb pressing hard enough to bruise. I forced her to look at me, past the mask of the concubine, past the painted submission, into the calculation beneath.

"A thousand troops?" I asked, my voice dropping to a whisper that made her shiver. "Why?"

I leaned closer, until I could smell my own scent on her skin, until my breath ghosted across her ear.

"Does your father seek to overthrow me?"