Bait On The Hockey Rink

Chapter Three - Revelations

Evan and Ron's POV

“Alpha prince Ashbourne, the two newbies in Vespera Academy aren’t just Omegas. One is an Inker, the last of her kind. She carries the map to the Tomb of Arcturus, the path to the Lycan King himself. The other is the Hunter’s heir. Hates werewolves enough that he became one just to tear us down from within.”

Evander’s heart slammed against his ribs. A surge of fear ripped through him, hot and primal. His claws prickled at the tips of his fingers, the wolf inside lunging forward with the urge to burst free and shred the threat. He gripped the desk edge until the wood groaned, forcing the shift back down as fur rippled briefly beneath his skin.

Is that why she wanted to die? Lyra. Which was the Inker? Which the Hunter? He couldn’t tell yet.

“f**k!”

The line went dead. His day was was rough already. Now this.

He dropped the phone on the polished oak desk in his office, slicing through the quiet Monday afternoon. The silver rod of authority lay before him, a heavy reminder of his new role.

After the headmaster and the tutors, he held the law at Vespera Academy as alpha of alphas for the season, petitions to review, rites to enforce, fragile order to maintain between the packs. His fingers paused over the latest stack of complaints against the lone wolf when he answered the unknown number.

Evander stared at the rod, his mind racing. His father, Alpha King Ashbourne, had chased every whisper of that tomb for decades. And now it sat here, wrapped in the fragile form a newbie.

The door slammed open.

Ronan Draven filled the doorway, eyes glittering with feral intensity, jaw locked tight, shoulders coiled like steel cables ready to snap. “One of the newbies is an Inker. The other’s a f*****g Hunter heir. In short, one of them is not safe.”

Evander rose slowly, meeting that burning stare. “I paid three hundred k hours ago for the tip. You’re not supposed to have a f*****g idea about it, Draven.”

Draven stepped inside and shut the door with deliberate force, the frame creaking under his hand. “I paid too. Brute force isn’t my only move anymore. I adapt. Unlike certain strategists who hide behind cash and paperwork.”

“I'm sure as hell you can't pay heavily as I did, I blame the tipper for the s**t…”

“Payment is payment, oi!”

Evander’s lip curled in a sneer. Heat flooded his chest. The wolf clawed harder, muscles along his arms and neck tightening painfully with the need to shift, bones aching as the change pressed against his control. He breathed through clenched teeth, locking it down.

Draven’s nostrils flared. His own hands flexed at his sides, nails sharpening for a heartbeat before he forced them back, neck corded with visible strain as the animal inside demanded release.

“We have a common enemy,” Evander said, voice low and edged. “The Hunter. Be it the boy or the girl. That’s the priority.”

Draven’s expression twisted into a matching sneer. “We can kill each other when this is over. Right now, we find her. Before the Hunter does what hunters do to any of the students.”

Evander grabbed the rod. They moved without another word between them.

They didn’t alert their packs. The two alphas cut through the academy halls like rival storms, students scattering at the sight of them side by side. They headed toward the quieter edges near the trees.

The looked around. Student parted for them to pass. None say a word to them. They only moved out fo the way.

There she was, Lyra Inkhart, sitting alone on a stone bench, head down, shoulders slumped.

Elder Karl X strolled past, silver streak in his hair catching the light, steps unhurried.

“Elder Karl,” Evander called, voice sharp. “I can see the newbie. Where’s the other one?”

Karl stopped, turning with a coy tilt of his head. “He dropped out already. This morning. Clean and fast. No fuss.” He glanced at Lyra, then back at Evander, his smile sharpening. “Do you know why?”

Evan shook his head.

“But the students are whispering, Alpha Prince Ashbourne. They say you went soft sparing the lone wolf after the final. Your mercy might cost more than you think this season.”

“I will fix that,” Evan said.

Karl didn’t wait. He continued walking away, robes snapping lightly in the breeze.

Evander’s jaw tightened. Whispers already. Great.

Draven grunted beside him. They approached Lyra in silence.

Evander’s thoughts churned coldly. The last Inker. The final survivor of a bloodline erased for its power. The one whose veins hold the route to the Tomb of Arcturus. Not a grave, but the prison where the greatest Lycan King sleeps. Whoever claims it reshapes the hidden world. My father has hunted this for years. And now she’s here, right in front of me. The key to everything.

Draven’s stance shifted, aggressive energy rolling off him. She’s the prize. The map. The path to the King who never died. My old man would kill for this. The Inker bloodline—memory, destiny, blood. She fears Inking, but once she unlocks it… Power no house controls yet. And this strategic bastard thinks he can claim her just because he spared her life? Not a chance.

Lyra didn’t look up at first. The last Inker. The girl both their fathers sought. Right before their sons.

Evander studied her, calculating every angle. She wanted death on the ice. Because she knows what she carries? Or because the Hunter blood in the other one pushed her here? Either way, she’s mine to win. Strategy beats brute force every time.

Draven’s hands flexed at his sides, the wolf inside him straining again, muscles rippling visibly along his forearms before he locked it down. Pretty little thing with death in her eyes. But she’s the Inker. The one who can lead us to Arcturus himself. Ashbourne won’t take her without a fight. I’ll rip through anyone who stands in my way—him included.

Elder Karl’s words about the whispers lingered in the air, but neither alpha spoke them aloud.

Evander stepped closer, rod still in hand. The season’s authority suddenly felt heavier. Winning Lyra wasn’t just about the academy. It was about the tomb. About ruling what their fathers had bled for. She belongs to Silverfang. To me.

Draven crossed his arms, eyes locked on Lyra with raw hunger. NightClaw takes what it wants. She’ll be mine. The rivalry just got a hell of a lot thicker.

Lyra finally lifted her head, eyes meeting theirs with hollow defiance. No fear. Just exhaustion and that same death-wish from the ice.

Evander kept his eyes on her.

Ronan straightened his posture.

Evander’s expression hardened, thoughts racing ahead. I spared her. She owes me that much. The map, the King, the power—everything starts with her trusting the wrong alpha. Not him.

Draven’s jaw clenched, a silent challenge passing between the two alphas. Let him try his strategies. I’ll take her by force if I have to. The tomb is NightClaw’s future.

The rivalry between them thickened in the cold air, wolves straining beneath the surface, no words needed. They both wanted her now, not just for survival, but for the ancient power she represented. The King. The throne no one had claimed. And neither planned to let the other win.