THE ALPHA'S SUCCUBUS

004

The forest thrashed behind him as Dravenwolf, Alpha of the Northern Claw, slowed. Breath steamed from his nostrils like a banked furnace. Muscles coiled beneath scarred skin. A low growl pulsed in his throat, the wolf still prowling beneath the surface. The run hadn’t helped. It had only sharpened the hunger.

Not the kind of hunger he’d once silenced with mistresses, shadows in his bed, the thought of their hands on him repulsed him.

He shouldn’t feel that way, but a gnawing in his marrow of a scent he could still taste at the back of his throat.

One of sin and spring rain. That was how she smelled in his dreams. And that scent? It clung to him like a curse.

He shoved open the heavy iron door leading into the keep. The moonlight filtered through, silver and cruel. The stone walls swallowed him whole, but he didn’t flinch at the cold. He was the cold. At least, that’s what they said.

Not a man but a monster.

Not a mate for he was not capable of love.

A weapon.

They called him Dravenwolf, Alpha of the Northern Claw, first of his name, but his birth name was Azraelion.

A name whispered once, the night of the Blood Moon, carved into the bones of the old world.

No one spoke it now. Not unless they wanted their tongue ripped out.

He’d never known his mother. Some said she died in labor. Others said she devoured the birth nurse and vanished into smoke. Most agreed she was no ordinary wolf. Not even a Lycan. A beast, they said.

And if that was true, then what did that make him?

He rolled his shoulders, muscles straining beneath the black tattoo that curled down his spine, a mark he was born with, not inked. Proof of bloodline or curse, no one could agree.

He passed the guard post without a word. No one dared stop him. They stiffened. No one met his eyes. That was the unspoken rule: do not look the Alpha in the eye unless you wish to be seen.

They certainly didn’t want that, not tonight.

Too much had happened. Rogues were caught crossing pack borders, and human hunters found close to the borders.

His boots echoed down the stone steps toward the dungeon, heavy and patient, like the tolling of a death bell.

The scent of rot hit first, then blood. But there was another note beneath it. Faint. Unwelcome.

Lavender? No—jasmine.

Her scent.

He paused mid-step.

Impossible.

The rogues. Did they carry her scent?

Is she one of them?

The growl rolled up from his chest unbidden.

He wouldn’t rest tonight. Not until he had answers.

Not until he knew why a creature of dreams smelled like his.

But somewhere beyond claw and stone, that dreamer stirred.

The day passed in a blur, but when night came, I couldn’t sleep.

Everything was too loud. The creak of old pipes. The low hum of the fridge. Even the ticking of the hallway clock felt unnatural, like it wasn’t just counting time, but counting down.

Every scent was sharper than usual: dust, lavender, and the faint trace of cinnamon from the tea my mom always made before bed. Even the air against my skin felt abrasive, like sandpaper.

I needed to move.

Lying there was making everything worse.

Quietly, I slipped out of my room. My bare feet padded along the hardwood floor, fingers trailing the wall for balance. But every time I touched it, there was a strange tingling, like static or warning. My senses felt wrong. Too sharp. Too alive. The floorboards creaked louder than they should. The shadows in the hallway stretched too far, the house itself watching.

I opened the door to the library and calm met me like a breath I didn’t know I was holding. Dust. Leather. Wood polish. This room always smelled the same, untouched by time.

It was the third room in our house, nestled between my mother’s bedroom and mine.

Technically, it belonged to Astarte, my mom’s partner. My other mother, even if I barely remembered her.

Astarte had left when I was just a baby, but the library had stayed exactly as she left it. Like she might return at any moment for her books. The shelves were stuffed to chaos with novels, history, myths; her sanctuary before it became mine, there was a worn armchair in the corner, and a faded tapestry that still smelled faintly of sage and rainwater.

I loved it here from the moment I could read. The books felt like my inheritance, secrets wrapped in cloth and ink. I pulled one from the shelf without thinking: She Who Must Be Obeyed, a mythic retelling of the goddess Astarte, fierce and divine. The same name as my mother’s missing love. Coincidence, maybe. Or maybe not. My mom always got twitchy when I asked about it.

I sank into the chair, trying to ground myself in the words. But my eyes wouldn’t focus. My mind wandered. My shadow on the wall twitched, and I hadn’t moved.

Was there a book here that could explain what was happening to me?

A voice cut through the silence.

“Lilith? Are you okay?”

I startled. My mom, Isolde, stood in the doorway, still in her scrubs, fatigue like shadows clinging to her face.

“I couldn’t sleep,” I said quietly, not bothering to hide the book in my lap. “When did you get home?”

She stepped inside, her brow creasing. “You need to be more present, love. Get out there. Make friends. Don’t spend every weekend buried in these books. Be a teenager for once.”

“It’s not even the weekend, Mom. It’s Thursday. And if I were out every night, you wouldn’t like that either.”

She plucked the book from my lap and held it up, raising a brow. “She Who Must Be Obeyed? Any chapters in here about socializing? You’ll be eighteen in two days.”

I gave her a faint smile. “I’m going out tomorrow. Going to take some new pictures, maybe walk around town.”

Her expression shifted just slightly. A flicker behind her eyes, like something rippling beneath still water.

Her voice dropped a note. “Stay away from the outskirts. And downtown.”

“You have to choose Mom. Or I could just stay home.” I sighed, a little sharper than intended.

She set the book down with a weary exhale. I took it and got up, her tone still gentle but edged with steel. “Lilith, you know what I always say. That part of the city… it’s not for you.”

“Mom…” I hesitated, then tried to sound casual. “What do you know about downtown? I’m just curious. The way you talk about it, it always feels like there’s something you’re not saying.”

“Just promise me.”

“But why?”

“Because I said so.”

I paused, then gave in. “I promise, Mom,” I murmured, mostly to end the conversation. Her voice left no room for debate. She loved me, but there were things she simply would not talk about. And that silence gnawed at me.

She looked at me one last time, sighed, and turned. “Aren’t you supposed to be in school tomorrow?”

“I’m going to bed!” I called after her, already bolting down the hall, clutching the book to my chest like it could keep the questions at bay.

That was the end of it.

Or so I thought.

I lay in bed and whispered a prayer for one dreamless night.

But fate had other plans.

The dream came.

I stood in a place that smelled of fire, blood, and dusk. The stone walls around me breathed, slowly and pulsing like a heart.

In front of me stood a woman wrapped in flame. Her skin was impossibly smooth, glowing with heat, and her horns curled from her skull like polished obsidian. Her face was familiar, achingly so.

Wait… is that me? I whispered, though my lips didn’t move. The moment stretched and then twisted. The image shifted, and suddenly, I was her.

I stared at a reflection of myself, my eyes burning like the sun.

Then a voice came, not the voice I knew. Not the one I expected but would never admit to. This one was everywhere at once.

“You are the last. You have my core. Burn beautifully.”

Pain followed like a storm.

My bones cracked from the inside out. I screamed, collapsing, feeling my limbs twist, detach, like I was being torn apart and rebuilt at the same time. And then hands. Strong hands gripped me.

I jolted awake.

My mom was there, clutching me, her face pale and frantic.

“Are you okay? I heard you scream. Was it a nightmare?”

I nodded, gasping for breath. My skin burned, not from the sheets or the heat, but from inside. My blood felt like fire. Even her arms around me felt like a thousand needles against my flesh.

She loosened her grip and told me to wash my face. She’d be back.

I stumbled to the bathroom, the cold tile grounding me. When she returned, she handed me a cup of hot herbs, bitter and earthy and didn’t try to convince me to get ready for school.

No lecture. No pressure.

Maybe it was because my birthday was tomorrow.