Alaric

CHAPTER FOUR

Chapter four

Alaric Ozera

After the first quarter of their dance, Alaric promptly dismisses the clingy brunette, having lost interest in her entirely. Wherever he goes—within the provinces or beyond—there’s never a shortage of desperate, simpering creatures eager to climb the social ladder by any means necessary. Unfortunately for this high climber, Alaric has never been afraid to discard his toys.

People like that amuse him. He leads them on, takes what little they have to offer, and discards them once they've served their purpose. A vicious, necessary cycle. It keeps those at the top exactly where they belong and most importantly ensures they remain unrivaled.

And as for remorse, he feels none. Why should he? When these leeches approach him with the same intentions. It's a righteous game, the survival of the fittest. In werewolf politics, sympathy is a weakness. One must align only with the best—or be consumed by the rest.

Taking up a flute of champagne, he makes his way toward the raised platform where his father, the Alpha King and his Luna Queen converse quietly. Alaric offers a respectful bow before taking a seat beside his father.

“You've finally decided to join us.” King Edward says amidst poorly hidden displeasure.

“I believe, Father, you know better than to reprimand me on this matter,” Alaric murmurs, tone edged with a snarl. “There’s nothing wrong with getting to know my subjects—and theirs—if we’re to forge a united front.” His tone dips into a quiet growl by the end, a warning thinly veiled as courtesy.

He turns to their hosts, dismissing his father's fury. The Luna’s eyes gleam with hidden amusement despite her composed smile. King Xavier, however, is distant— eyes glazed over in a mindlink. His features set in stone, hard and rigid.

King Xavier Santez.

Little is known of him beyond his gift of foresight. He is known to be prudent with the use of his abilities, as he should be. Looking into the future is not a power to be toyed with. His natural charm is disarming, it makes people gravitate towards him. It's unnerving how easily he turns the most determined foes into allies. Seventy-two years on the throne without an heir and there hasn't been an uprising. That alone speaks volumes.

In the literal blink of an eye, he rejoins them. He gives Alaric's father an apologetic smile.

“Sorry for the inconvenience. We had a small emergency... it’s getting late. Why don’t we head off to bed? Marissa, dear, I’ll join you shortly.” he leans in giving his mate a kiss.

As opposed to human reservations, wolves find public displays of affection endearing. The four guards assigned to us for the evening step forward.

“they shall take you to your quarters. If you may King Edward.” King Xavier motions towards them.

Alaric rises beside his father, but before they can leave, the King’s voice halts him.

“Alaric, if you don't mind. I would like your opinion on something.” His tone was calm, but it came across as order rather than a request.

Alaric considers refusing—not at ease with the King's tone—but Arian, his wolf, is uncharacteristically silent. Beneath that quiet hums a strange pull. Curiosity, sharp and restless. Alaric feels it too. With a curt nod to his father, he joins the King and his guards.

They walk in silence. The guards disperse, numbers dropping from seven to three as they move through the winding halls, dimly lit by golden lamps, highlighting the creamy white walls.

Tall windows stretch from floor to ceiling, broken by gold candelabras, revealing the vast expanse of greenery beyond. He imagines the view would be magnificent by daylight.

The pack house strikes him as a delicate balance between old and new—grand, yet warm and inviting. A far cry from the Northern domain, where everything is built for show rather than comfort.

“Where are we headed, Your Majesty?” Alaric asks, a faint scowl etched onto his face. They’ve been walking long enough.

“We're already here.” He says, stopping before an enormous mahogany door. “Amon, with me. You two— wait outside.“

The door creaks open, revealing a long, hall-like room lined with narrow beds on either side of the wall.

The moment Alaric steps in, he is hit by the most intoxicating scent—a mix of cinnamon and wisteria, warm and full of life.

'Mate!!' Arian growls in his head.

A low, instinctive sound escapes his throat — primal, possessive. His pulse stutters. Chest tightening with every breath. The feeling is foreign. He gulps.

The scent leads him forward, to the last bed in the room. He stops before her unconscious form. He doesn’t need to be told—the woman lying before him is a witch.

Silver hair spills across the pillow, glowing even in the dim light. Her delicate features; silver lashes frame her eyelids, her plump full lips, high cheekbones and pale flawless skin.

His gaze trails down the slender curve of her neck, stopping just above her collarbone. His gums ache with the urge to mark her. To brand her. To claim her as his.

He imagines it—his mark marring her perfect skin, the faint tremor in her pulse as he bites down. The thought alone ignites something wild inside him. The need to dominate is maddening.

But he resists.

It takes everything in him to do so.

Only sheer force of will keeps him rooted where he stands—

while every part of him screams to claim what’s his.