The Alphas forbidden queen

Chapter 1: The Cursed Arrival The wind howled through the towering pines, whispering secrets to the darkness as Freya stumbled over the border. Her heart pounded against her chest, a savage beat that echoed the eerie pulse of the earth beneath her feet. With every step forward, she felt as if she were moving into something old and intangible, something that had been waiting for her. Turn back. The idea crept into her mind like a threat, but she pushed it away. Dreams had haunted her for weeks—images of gold eyes melting into her, with a hunger so intense it constricted her chest. A deep, commanding voice had spoken to her. Find me. Now she was here. And she wasn't alone. A low, threatening growl rolled through the trees. Freya gasped. Shadows danced around her, closing in upon her. The snap of twigs. The whuff of leaves. And then—the glint of silver eyes in darkness. Wolves. She held herself still. It would be only a sport if she fled. She set her hands up instead, invoking the magic that had always obeyed her before. And nothing came. A shiver of cold ran down her spine. Her magic wasn't resisting—it was concealing itself. Folding in upon something much, much stronger. And then she felt him. His arrival seeped through the air like a storm before the first c***k of thunder. It tasted of cedar and blood, raw power bound up in something darker, something much more evil than the wolves surrounding her. Then he stepped out into the moonlight. Alpha Alaric. The king of the werewolves. He was taller than she'd imagined, broad-shouldered and built of raw, unbending muscle. His black hair whipped back in the wind, his chiseled, sharp face unreadable in the dim light. But it was his eyes—those stabbing golden eyes—that sucked the breath from her very body. She'd never seen them. And yet, she knew them. He stared at her in cold silence, as if confirming something he alone knew. The air between them was thick, choking against her ribs. "You shouldn't be here," he said finally, his voice dangerously even. Freya's mouth opened to respond, but she never got the chance. He moved. One moment, he was several feet away. The next, his large, calloused hand was wrapped around her throat—not to choke, but to grasp. To hold. His touch was burning, burning through her flesh like flame against parched wood. It didn't hurt, but it caused something cutting and strange to flow through her veins. Alaric drew a deep breath, his hold hardening enough to make her heartbeat stutter. "You smell of death," he whispered, his tone low and impenetrable. "Of magic." Freya swallowed thickly. His head tilted, his gaze dropping to her parted lips. Something flickered in his expression—something dark, torn between violence and desire. “You’re a threat,” he murmured, more to himself than to her. “I should kill you.” Freya’s pulse pounded against his palm, her body betraying her in ways she didn’t understand. But when his fingers lingered, when his eyes lowered lower for an instant, she was positive about one thing. If he was going to kill her— He was going slow.