Useless Mate

The scent of cedar wood and ozone was fading from the room, replaced by the sharp, sterile sting of human medicine. To the human world, Alpha Dellegdego was dying of a late-stage carcinoma that no amount of billions could cure. But to the Lycan world, the empire was losing its bedrock. The dominant aura that used to make entire packs drop to their knees in submission was now just a flickering candle, struggling against the dark. Lazelle knelt by the side of the massive, mahogany bed, her fingers tightly intertwined with her father’s. Her chest ached with a physical, crushing weight. Her father—the man who had built the richest dynasty on earth—looked impossibly small beneath the white linens. The fierce, silver-flecked eyes that had commanded armies were dim, fixed heavily on her face. "Lazelle," he rasped, his voice sounding like grinding stones. Every breath was a victory against the monitors bleeping rhythmically beside him. "Listen to me." "I'm here, Father," she whispered, forcing her voice to remain steady. She refused to let him see her break. "They will come for you the moment my pulse stops," he warned, his grip tightening with a sudden, desperate surge of strength. "Evelyn... she has been moving pieces in the dark. Buying smiles. Buying guards. Do not trust the ceremonial wolves outside this door." Lazelle swallowed hard, her eyes hardening. She had noticed the shifts. She had seen how her stepmother, Evelyn, had been hosting whispered meetings in the conservatory, and how her stepsister, Mena, had suddenly stopped her usual spoiled tantrums, playing the part of the perfectly grieving, sweet daughter. It was a mask. Lazelle knew it, and her father knew it. "You do not carry the silver hair of our ancient bloodline, my fierce girl," her father whispered, a faint, proud smile touching his cracked lips. "The elders call you plain. They think you are a placeholder. But your wolf... your heart... you are the true heir. Never let them make you feel useless. You hide. You survive. Do you hear me?" "I hear you, Father." "Good." His eyes began to wander, staring up at the high, vaulted ceiling as the monitors took a sharp, erratic dip. "I never knew who my mate would be until I met your mother... do not let them force a mold on you..." His chest rose one last time—a deep, final breath that expanded his hollowed frame. And then, he let it out. The heart monitor let out a flat, continuous, deafening whine. The Alpha was gone. The silence that followed lasted for exactly three seconds. Before a single tear could track down Lazelle's cheek, the heavy double doors of the master bedroom didn't just open—they were flung backward, crashing against the drywall. Two of the elite house guards stepped into the room, their expressions entirely devoid of grief. Behind them stood Evelyn, her face a perfect picture of cold triumph, completely dropping the mask of the mourning wife. "Check the girl," Evelyn said softly to the guards, her voice entirely devoid of emotion. "Make it quick. We have a press conference to prepare for." The flatline of the heart monitor screamed into the room, a relentless, piercing sound that made the hair on Lazelle’s arms stand up. But Evelyn didn't even flinch. She simply crossed her arms, her diamond rings catching the light of the dying afternoon. Lazelle slowly stood up from the bedside, her hand letting go of her father's cooling fingers. She turned to face her stepmother, her posture rigid, her chin held high. "He isn't even cold yet," Lazelle said, her voice dropping into a dangerous, low vibration. "And you bring weapons into his death chamber?" Evelyn offered a small, mocking sigh, walking a few steps into the room. "Oh, Lazelle. Let’s not be dramatic. Your father was a great man, but he was living in the past. Keeping a girl like you on the throne? A girl with no silver hair, no ancient mark, no public presence? It was an embarrassment to the Dellegdego bloodline. I’m simply correcting his final, senile mistake." "My father was sharp until his last breath," Lazelle snapped, her eyes narrowing as the two guards slid their hands toward the hilts of their tactical knives. "And the board will never accept you or Mena. The bloodline runs through me." Evelyn let out a soft, elegant laugh that sent a chill straight down Lazelle’s spine. "The board will accept whoever holds the keys to the empire. As for the public? They will be told the tragic truth: that Princess Lazelle was so consumed by grief over her father's cancer that she took her own life. A tragedy, really. Mena will be forced to step up as the surviving daughter to heal the kingdom." From behind Evelyn, Mena stepped into the doorway. She was dressed in flawless, modest black silk, her face the picture of innocent, pure grief—except for the tiny, cruel smirk playing on her lips as she looked at Lazelle. "Don't worry, sister," Mena purred, her voice sweet as honey and dripping with malice. "I’ll take very good care of your inheritance. I might even wear your family diamonds to my wedding." "You're a fraud, Mena," Lazelle said softly, refusing to let them see her tremble. "You always have been." Evelyn’s smile vanished, replaced by an expression of pure, stone-cold calculation. She looked at the two guards. "Enough talking. End it. Make sure there are no marks on her neck; the casket needs to be closed." The guards stepped forward, their heavy boots thudding against the Persian rug. Their Lycan claws slid out from beneath their knuckles with a sickening shhhk sound. Lazelle backed up until her calves hit the frame of her father’s bed. She was entirely unarmed, her heart hammering against her ribs as she looked for an escape route. The lead guard lunged, his hand extending to crush her throat. He never reached her. The massive, reinforced glass of the high arched window behind Lazelle didn't just break—it exploded inward in a spectacular shower of lethal shards. Through the storm of glass, a massive shadow descended. A figure cloaked in midnight-black tactical gear crashed straight into the lead guard, the sheer momentum snapping the traitor's collarbone with a sickening crack. Before Evelyn or Mena could even scream, the shadow rose. He was a mountain of a man, his face obscured by a dark ballistic mask, but his eyes—glowing a fierce, dominant Lycan gold through the slits—fixed instantly on the remaining attackers. He didn't wait. With terrifying, silent efficiency, the shadow guard whipped out a heavy, matte-black blade, slashing through the second guard’s throat before the man could even raise his arms. "Alpha's protocol active," the shadow's voice rumbled, deep and entirely devoid of human warmth. He didn't look at Lazelle, keeping his body positioned perfectly as a shield between her and the door where Evelyn and Mena were scrambling backward in sheer terror. "Go, Princess," the guard commanded, his blade dripping dark Lycan blood onto the pristine white sheets of the bed. "Run!" Lazelle didn’t hesitate. She didn't scream, and she didn't look back at her father’s body. The survival instincts her father had quietly drilled into her took over completely. She vaulted over the corner of the bed, her boots crunching on the shattered window glass, and bolted into the private corridor just as more shouts echoed from the main hallway. Behind her, the sounds of the struggle in the bedroom were brutal and fast—the heavy thud of bodies hitting walls, the tearing of fabric, and the deep, terrifying snarl of her shadow protector holding the line. "Alarms! Lock down the west wing!" Evelyn’s voice shrieked from somewhere behind the melee, completely stripped of its elegant facade. "Don't let her reach the grounds!" Lazelle sprinted down the long, portraits-lined hallway of the estate. The red security lights began to flash against the walls, bathing the corridor in a bloody glow as the sirens started to wail. She knew these halls better than anyone. She knew that the main elevators and grand staircases would already be crawling with bought-off guards. She veered sharply to the right, ducking into a narrow servant's passage hidden behind a heavy oak panel. The air in the hidden tunnel was cool and dusty. Her chest heaved, her heart hammering violently against her ribs. She could hear the heavy, thudding footsteps of Lycan enforcers echoing through the walls of the main house, their sharp senses tracking her scent. The scent. Lazelle stopped for a split second, ripping off her fine silk outer robe and shoving it deep into an old laundry chute in the wall. It would throw their hounds off for at least a few minutes. Underneath, she was wearing simple black training clothes—breathable, fast, and unnoticeable in the dark. She sprinted down the spiral stone stairs of the passage, emerging into the sprawling, subterranean wine cellars beneath the mansion. The scent of aging oak and damp stone filled her nose. Suddenly, a heavy hand gripped her shoulder from the darkness of an intersecting aisle. Lazelle spun on her heel, her elbow driving backward with pure, raw force, aiming straight for the attacker's throat. Her striking forearm was caught in a vice-like grip. "Princess, it's me," a frantic whisper cut through the dark. It wasn't the shadow guard. It was Thomas, an elderly beta wolf who had served as her father's personal valet for thirty years. His hands were trembling, and he had a dark bruise forming on his temple. "Thomas," Lazelle breathed, lowering her guard. "Evelyn has the whole house." "I know, child. They tried to lock me in the lower pantry, but I broke through," Thomas said, his voice cracking with emotion as he slipped a heavy, cold object into her palm. It was a passport, a thick stack of euros, and a set of car keys. "Your father knew this day might come. There is a generic sedan parked outside the eastern utility gate, just past the greenhouse. The cameras on that perimeter have been looped." "Come with me," Lazelle pleaded, gripping his old, weathered hand. "No. I will only slow you down, and someone needs to stay to ensure the paperwork for his passing isn't entirely forged by that viper," Thomas said, a spark of fierce loyalty returning to his eyes. "Go to Europe. Disappear. Become a ghost until you are strong enough to take back what is yours." Shouts echoed from the cellar entrance above. The flashlights of Evelyn’s hunters began cutting through the dusty dark of the wine racks. "Run, Lazelle!" Thomas whispered, shoving her toward the low maintenance tunnel that led out to the gardens. Lazelle bit her lip, swallowing the lump of grief in her throat. "Thank you, Thomas." She turned and dove into the narrow concrete tunnel, moving with the silent agility of a hunted animal. When she burst through the rusted iron grate at the end of the tunnel, the cold night air hit her face. She stayed low, weaving through the shadows of the massive glass greenhouses. In the distance, she saw the nondescript black sedan idling quietly near the edge of the property line. The gate was cracked open. She sprinted the final fifty yards, threw herself into the driver’s seat, and slammed the locks. She didn't look back at the flashing red lights of the palace that used to be her home. She put the car in drive, slammed her foot on the accelerator, and tore into the night, leaving her old life behind in a cloud of dust.