THE ALPHA KING WHO STOLE MY BREATH AND MY BROTHER

The first thing they did was make him kneel. Not because he begged. Not because he was weak. But because humiliation is easier when it’s public. I was pressed into the back of the crowd, fingers numb around the iron rail, watching my brother—my only family—forced onto the blood-soaked stone of the execution circle. The ground still smelled of rust and old rain. Wolves packed shoulder to shoulder around the pit, silent, expectant, hungry for justice they did not understand. Or pretended not to. My brother, Rowan Vale, lifted his head anyway. Even on his knees, even stripped of rank and jacket, he looked like himself—chin up, spine straight, eyes steady. The same boy who taught me how to fight dirty when I was thirteen. The same man who once told me, If the world turns on us, Iris, we stand still. We don’t beg. I swallowed bile. Chains bound his wrists behind him, enchanted silver biting into skin already bruised from interrogation. His shirt hung open at the throat, torn, his dark hair matted with dried blood. But when his gaze found mine across the sea of wolves, his mouth curved—not in fear. In apology. My chest caved in. Don’t, I begged silently. Don’t look at me like that. The Alpha Council stood above him on the raised platform, robed in ceremonial black. Faces carved from stone. No one met my eyes. No one ever did, not since the accusation had been spoken aloud three nights ago. Treason. The word still rang in my skull like a cracked bell. A murmur rippled through the crowd as a presence shifted the air. Every wolf felt it. I didn’t need to look to know who had arrived. Lucien Ashcroft. Alpha King. Billionaire. Executioner. The world seemed to lean toward him as he stepped onto the platform, tall and immaculately dressed in a tailored black coat that marked both his rank and his wealth. The Ashcroft sigil—silver and obsidian—glinted at his throat. His expression was unreadable, carved into something colder than the night wind slicing through the clearing. This was the man they said ruled half the global markets by day and all the packs by night. This was the man who would decide whether my brother lived or died. Rowan straightened as Lucien approached the edge of the circle. No fear. No tears. Only quiet fury beneath his skin, vibrating so loudly I felt it echo in my bones. Lucien’s eyes dropped to him. And something—just for a heartbeat—shifted. I saw it. I know I did. A flicker. A hesitation. Hope surged like a cruel trick. Then the Alpha King spoke. “Rowan Vale,” Lucien said, his voice calm, amplified by the ancient acoustics of the pit. “You stand accused of conspiring with rogue packs to destabilize the eastern territories. You are accused of selling classified council movements to human agencies. You are accused of betrayal of blood.” A pause. “Do you deny these charges?” Rowan laughed. It was soft, broken, but it cut through the silence like glass. “I deny the lie,” he said hoarsely. “Not the truth.” Gasps erupted. Council members shifted. A warning glance shot his way, but Rowan didn’t stop. “You don’t want the truth,” he continued, eyes lifting—not to Lucien, but to the crowd. “Because the truth would mean you let monsters wear crowns while good wolves die quietly.” “Enough,” one of the council snarled. Lucien raised a hand. Silence fell again. My nails dug into my palms as Lucien studied my brother, his gaze sharp, analytical—almost… tired. “Your final words,” Lucien said. Rowan turned then. Fully. Directly. To me. “Iris,” he said, voice breaking for the first time. “Listen to me.” I shook my head violently. No. Don’t do this. Don’t say goodbye. “They’re lying,” he said. “You know that. You’ve always known when something smelled wrong. Trust yourself. And whatever happens—” “Stop,” I whispered. No one heard me. “—do not let them make you small.” My lungs refused to work. “I love you,” he finished. Lucien’s jaw tightened. The executioner stepped forward, blade gleaming silver-blue in the torchlight. A ceremonial weapon. Clean. Efficient. Merciless. “Alpha King,” the executioner said, bowing. “Your command.” Time fractured. Lucien’s gaze drifted—slowly, inexorably—to me. I didn’t know why. I only knew that when his eyes met mine, something in my chest screamed. As if some ancient instinct recognized him as danger beyond survival. I shook my head. Please. Lucien looked away. “Carry it out,” he said. The blade rose. “No—!” I surged forward, but the crowd closed in, iron arms pinning me back. I fought, screamed, bit, kicked—nothing mattered. Rowan didn’t look at the blade. He looked at Lucien. “You’ll regret this,” my brother said quietly. The blade fell. Blood sprayed the stone. The sound that tore from my throat didn’t sound human. I didn’t remember collapsing. I didn’t remember hands dragging me away as the crowd dispersed, satisfied, fed. I only remembered the way Lucien Ashcroft stood perfectly still as my brother’s body hit the ground. As if something inside him had just died too. That night, I swore an oath over blood-soaked stone and a brother who would never breathe again. I would destroy the man who ordered his death. Even if fate itself stood in my way. I did not know yet that fate had already marked me. With his name. With his blood. With a bond that would drag me back to him— in a marriage forged from grief, hatred, and fire. And I would hate him for it.