King
962 Words
Lara
Two things made me run after that jerk like my life depended on it. One, this month's rent is in that back. Two, so are my entire savings, like yeah, i walk around with a stack of cash. Why? Because I avoid cards. Not because I’m broke—though, let’s be honest, I’m not exactly thriving—but because I don’t want to be traced. My family, my pack… hell, the entire wolf community could find me in a second if they really wanted to.
If they wanted you, the voice in my head corrects.
“You’re unwanted,” it adds with brutal timing.
Shut up. Intrusive thoughts really know how to show up uninvited like exes at a wedding. Not now.
Right now, my entire livelihood is hanging in a cheap handbag… which is currently clutched in the hand of some human asshole. That handbag holds my license, my ID, my qualifications—basically, my identity. All dangling in the grip of some random jerk who, for some reason, thinks it’s okay to just rob a doctor.
We come to a stop in an alley, dark, creepy, and smelling like piss.
I take a shaky breath, trying to rein in the rising panic. “Listen, dude, whoever you are, you should really have better manners than a street thug. Just give me my bag.”
“I am a street thug,” he says without missing a beat.
Oh, great. One of those.
“Then what the f**k were you doing in a place like that? That café looked like it belonged to royalty! It’s an expensive looking café!”
He shrugs, casual as sin, like I just answered my own question.
Expensive-looking. Right. God, I facepalm so hard my forehead stings. I said expensive-looking, Ugh.
What do I do now?
My pepper spray is in that bag. My keys. My meds. My everything. My money.
I’m in a dark alley, I am starved thanks to a 36 hour shift and let’s be honest—my so-called battle prowess?That degraded the moment I crossed over to this side of the world six years ago. I’m not that girl anymore.
And then… my phone vibrates in the inner pocket of my doctor’s coat.
The thug’s eyes flick downward, toward the subtle buzz against my thigh. “Oh, you can bring that,” he says, flashing a smug grin that makes me want to rearrange his teeth.
I glare, imagining myself doing exactly that. Just one solid uppercut and—
A low, guttural growl rips through the silence behind me.
My spine straightens like it’s been struck by lightning.
I freeze. He freezes.
We both freeze.
I don’t need to turn around to know what’s behind me. The aura says it all. Either this wolf is massive… or it’s deadbeat terrifying.
Judging by how the thug just peed himself—literally, and oh my Moon if that leaks onto my bag, we are throwing hands—I’d say it’s both.
But while the thug is busy turning into a puddle of piss and regret, I’m panicking for a different reason entirely.
Is the wolf here… for me?
Has my father finally decided I’m too much of a disgrace to be left alive and sent someone to “take care” of the problem?
Wouldn’t put it past him.
“W-what the f**k—” the thug stammers, and the wolf growls again, this time deeper. Louder. Thicker.
My breath catches. That sound is soaked in killing intent. It’s a promise of violence, as palpable as smoke before a wildfire.
Maybe this is it. Maybe my end has come.
I turn. Slowly. Every muscle in my body shaking like a brittle leaf. My heart is pounding so hard it’s practically lifting my coat off my chest.
And then I see him.
Him.
Because no way in hell is that beast a female. He’s huge. Towering. Built like a god of war. A black wolf, so dark he practically drinks in the light. His fur gleams beneath the moon, rippling in the breeze like smoke come to life.
Power rolls off him in waves. Authority. Control. Death.
This isn’t just any wolf.
This… this is a king.
He could probably take down thirty of my father’s elite warriors without breaking a sweat. And that’s saying something—because my father, Francis Singh, commands one of the most ruthless, disciplined warrior packs out there.
I swallow hard, my throat suddenly dry.
Who is he?
The wind plays gently with his fur, and I can’t stop the thought—I want to run my hand through it.
And for once, I don’t crush the intrusive thought. I let it linger, because something about him is just… captivating.
And then I meet his eyes.
Red.
Not brown, not gold, not even the classic stormy gray. No, this bastard has ruby red eyes. Piercing. Burning. Bloody.
Warning bells scream in my head.
But my feet don’t move.
Something plops behind me—the thug, most likely fainting like the dramatic little s**t he is—and I don’t even flinch. I’m too caught in this stare.
Then suddenly he moves.
Slowly.
Like he’s tracking prey?
No. Not quite.
Like a king.
He carries himself with this untouchable confidence, this air of danger that doesn’t just cling to him — it radiates. I wouldn’t be surprised if his mere presence caused birds to fall out of the sky or warriors to drop their weapons in surrender.
And me? I’m standing here calculating his body count.
Ahem. Excuse me. Killing body count.
Because with that aura? That look? That sheer lethal presence? I’m betting he’s taken down entire squads like it was Sunday brunch.
seriously, who is this werewolf?
- Writer
