Marriage proposal
949 Words
Adam
Thirty minutes later, I swagger into the emergency council meeting, shirt buttoned wrong, temper simmering, patience in the negatives.
“Welcome, Wolf King—”
“Cut the bullshit,” I snap, voice a whip crack. “None of you bastards like me, and guess what? The feeling’s mutual. So spare me the sugar. I’m cranky as hell.”
Council of crusty old wolves, bowing like sheep around the grand oak table. Disgusting.
“Your Majesty, that’s a serious accusation. If any elder—”
“David.” I don’t raise my voice, I don’t need to. “Shut it. I hate ass-kissing mutts more than I hate traitors. And I say mutt deliberately—you’re not even pure anymore. What are you now, 800? You should’ve retired when the pyramids were still fresh.”
Silence thickens.
“Now someone tell me why I was dragged out of important business with that damn message.”
I start drumming my fingers against the wood. Tap, tap, tap. Impatience in rhythm. “Well? Any takers? Any day now.”
One brave i***t finally clears his throat. “W-we’d like to propose… marriage.”
I blink.
There it is again.
Not an April Fool’s joke, then.
I laugh. One cold, incredulous bark. “Come again?”
“It’s for the throne, Your Majesty. Every Alpha needs his Luna. Every King needs a Queen—for a stable reign.”
I stare at them all. Then lean forward, slow and deliberate. Every word is a loaded gun.
“I don’t need a Queen. I want a monarchy.”
If I’d said anarchy, their old brittle bones would’ve turned to dust—but hell, I was tempted. Malcolm stirs through the link, probably to nag me about that woman again. Good thing I shut that damn connection off.
Then comes the cough. The slimy sound of a snake in a suit.
Francis Freakin Singh.
Oh look, the corpse speaks.
“My King, if I may—”
“Francis,” I say with a smile sharper than claws. “Calling me that doesn’t make up for the fact you’d rather see your useless son sitting here instead of me—the actual heir. But hey, hearing it from you? Music to my ears. Especially if you were choking on blood while saying it.”
He freezes.
Then coughs. Violently.
But the snake slithers on.
“Ahem. Your Majesty… we’ve had many unfortunate events this year. Packs are restless. Some are doubting your power—”
“Who?” I ask lazily. “Bring them to me. I’ll remind them exactly who I am.”
More silence. They freeze like kids caught sneaking candy.
Francis clears his throat. “Your Majesty, using brute force to dominate your subjects will only fuel the unrest—”
“And your brilliant solution is what?” I lean back, spreading my arms wide. “Get me a wife?”
They nod. Enthusiastically.
“Out of all options,” Francis says, “this was the best. Because we identified the problem.”
“Oh?” I raise a brow. “Do tell.”
“Ruling alone. It’s the pattern. The reason behind the unrest—and the deaths of every Wolf King before you. Your uncle, for example. No mate. No bond. Killed by enemies, powerless when it mattered.”
Shit.
That part’s true.
Wolf 101: You’re only half a king without a mate. The bond doesn’t double your strength—it multiplies it.
“And your point?” I ask, pretending not to give a damn.
“We want you to find a partner. Someone strong. Someone worthy. That way, the packs rest easy. Power stays balanced.”
I scoff. “No one is as brilliant as I am. You fossils aren’t worried about me—you’re scared some rebel pup will yank your council seats out from under your dusty asses.”
“Adam!” My grandmother snaps through the mind-link. Too far, she warns. They’ll drop dead and we don’t have enough damn healers.
I smirk. Fine, Granny. Only because it’s you.
“Alright, alright. Long faces already? Guess what?” I grin, wicked. “I’ve changed my mind. Let’s hear this fairytale. Got a list of candidates? I’ll pick.”
Dead silence.
Collective jaw lock.
Did arthritis just hit everyone at once?
“We… we have a plan,” Francis says, slow now. “But we’re not sure you’ll like it.”
I roll my eyes. “I never like anything that comes out of your mouths.”
“Fair enough. Then we’ll continue. We want to host a ball. Invite daughters from all allied packs. A sign of goodwill.”
“Hm. Am I building a harem?” I ask, dry.
“No! But if you—”
“Enough.” I cut them off with one word. One command.
Desperate suck-ups.
“The idea is,” Francis continues, “you’ll appear open to alliances. But in truth, you’ll choose from our approved candidates.”
Ah. There it is. The real plan. I knew these bastards couldn’t possibly let me off the leash.
“Let me guess,” I say. “Elder George’s daughter?”
“She’s his granddaughter,” someone mutters awkwardly.
“Right. Forgot. The one who got skipped because the next Beta candidate was female. Poor George.” I smirk.
“It’s not her,” Francis says.
I glance at them, gaze sharp enough to cut bone. “Then who?”
They hesitate.
“Actually…” Francis says slowly. “We had one person in mind.”
I tap the table once more. A single, deliberate knock.
“Yes?”
- Writer
