Alpha Victoria

Thrill

Alexander's Perspective:

"Natalie," or Nicola, or Nicia—whatever her name was—whined as I thrust deep into her experienced embrace. It was a mechanical release, a temporary reprieve for both my body and my wolf, Zion, yearning for his mate. At 28, leading the feared Moon Howlers' Pack for 16 years without a Luna had left me in a constant state of frustration. My desires were primal, yet they remained unfulfilled by these fleeting encounters. It wasn't sexism, it was survival.

My pack wielded fear like a weapon, enforcing harsh punishments reminiscent of medieval times. The screams of the condemned were a grim sound, echoing my own darker nature.

Pulling away, I lay on the bed, feeling the weight of solitude settle around me. This she-wolf was clingy, a reminder of my own transient needs. Anastasia crossed my mind—her touch, her understanding. A witch and skilled tracer, she had carved her own path with a fortitude I respected. Her past loss had made her untouchable by the offers of mated wolves, a testament to her unwavering principles.

Pushing Natalie—or whoever she was—out of my room, I felt a fleeting sense of remorse. The emptiness lingered briefly, but thoughts of meaningless pleasures swept it aside. A notification interrupted my musings—an invitation to the W.A.L.C. annual meeting.

Scowling at the prospect, I had long dismissed these gatherings as futile posturing among the ancient and the allied. My entry into the Council had been earned through bloody trials against rogue witches, not idle diplomacy. News of a new female Alpha member intrigued me briefly; she could be an ally or another adversary.

Despite my disdain for the Council and Alpha Black of the Red Moon Pack, whose shadow loomed over my childhood nightmares, Zion's persistent nudging had me considering attendance. Reluctantly, I conceded to his urging.

I rose from the bed, striding into the washroom where my pale skin and sharp features reflected back—a face unyielding to the passage of time. Dark grey eyes, specked with silver, held secrets that few dared to seek. My physique was a testament to my lycan lineage—feral, powerful, and disciplined. They called me the "Greek god" lycan, a title earned through ironclad resolve and unmatched strength.

After a brisk shower, I dressed in a simple blue shirt, grey pants, and a matching coat. Formality cloaked my true nature as I prepared to enter the realm of politics and posturing.

As I drove towards the W.A.L.C. territory, a memory flickered—a pair of baby pink eyes that had once pierced through my armor. A strange anticipation stirred within me, a premonition of something significant on the horizon.