Dark Moon Rising

Chapter 3

Eleven hours before the course of my life was forever altered, the whispers of the gossips proved to be true.

For this man was a vision so exquisite that even angels would forsake their divine sanctity to behold him.

In a world where beauty was often flaunted as a badge of honor, he stood unrivaled, eclipsing even the vaunted splendor of my own brothers, who prided themselves on their aesthetic prowess with a ferocity matched only by their looks.

My father's warnings painted him as a madman, a specter of insanity lurking in the shadows. Yet, as I laid eyes upon him, any semblance of trepidation dissolved in the wake of his devastating allure. It was all too easy to overlook the darkness that shrouded him when faced with such breathtaking beauty.

The new King commanded attention not merely through his physical prowess but by the aura of danger that surrounded him like a cloak of shadows. His rugged countenance bore the scars of battles fought and adversaries vanquished, each mark a testament to his ferocity and resilience.

Even in repose, he exuded a palpable sense of strength and authority, his frame a testament to a life steeped in conflict and conquest. Clad in attire as dark as the abyss, the fabric clung to his bronzed skin like a second skin, accentuating every sinew and muscle.

His onyx locks, cropped short and meticulously groomed, framed a jawline sculpted from marble, while his lips, perpetually set in a brooding scowl, lent an air of impenetrable mystery to his visage. Seated amidst a sea of revelry and excess, he remained an enigmatic figure, aloof and detached from the frivolity that surrounded him.

His gaze, an abyss of unfathomable depths, met mine in a collision of wills, and in that fleeting moment, time seemed to stand still. There was an intensity in his scrutiny, a laser focus that pierced through the cacophony of the crowd and locked onto me with an unyielding grip.

As our eyes held, I felt a surge of something primal and undeniable, a connection forged in the crucible of fate. It was as though amidst the throng of admirers vying for his attention, I alone held his gaze, ensnared by the gravity of his stare.

"Vasilisa Rhys against Erica Debrav," the announcement jolted me from my reverie, snapping me back to the reality of the present moment.

Pulling myself together and internally cursing for getting distracted, I tore my eyes away from the Wicked wolf to face my opponent.

Erica Debrav. An Alpha's daughter.

From the years that we've all been forced to be around each other, I know she is a proud one. Too proud.

She is a tall girl, bigger than me and older than me and stronger than me. She is thick with muscles and toned with sharp lines. I've seen her beat up countless girls and boys while growing up.

I'm sure she wanted to beat me up too.

Now is her chance.

All future mates of Alphas must prove their worth by showing their strength and beauty. Future Lunas are pitted against other future Lunas to find the best, the strongest. But no one actually loses in these things, betrothals are never broken. Not for anything. Yet there is always pride and dominance to gain.

And those are things a Rhys never passes up on when offered.

It is something we consume like air.

"May the demonstration... begin."Erica circles around me several times, on the prowl for an opening, but I stay where I am, focusing on the sounds, on her breath that pitches as she charges.

I turned at the last minute, my fists colliding with her jaw, the crunch of something breaking under my knuckles. The force of my punch knocked her back a few steps, disoriented and in pain. I don't give her time to recover, finishing it off with a perfectly placed kick to her chest where I hear more bones crush against the pressure.

My well timed kick impacted right as her heart skipped a beat, stopping her entire body from all its normal functions for a couple of crucial seconds, temporarily paralyzing her.

I hold my breath as she crumples on the ground, tiny little gasps leaving her surprised lips. She jolts and shudders, her body fighting the paralyzing effect of my hit.

"f*****g Rhys," She mutters out, the back of her hand shakily wiping at the blood that fell from her split lips. "None of you pretty things look like you can fight, but f**k do you all hurt like a bitch."

I didn't reply, waiting for the signal that I won. It comes seconds after she spits out more blood. When the bell rings, I offer my hand out for her to take, which she slaps away with a huff.

Schooling my face into a look of indifference that I was expected to have, I turned away to find my father already walking down from his seat to get to me. He is trailed closely by his usual group of Alphas, adoring him like one would a celebrity.

When he's close enough, he places a kiss on my cheek and makes a show of giving me his rare smile. He never smiles unless he is proud. I can count on one hand how many times he's given it since I've been alive.

"You were perfect, Vasi."

The word 'perfect' from his lips was even rarer than his smile. Only two of his children out of eight have been given that praise. Our eldest brother Adonis and Venus, the sister that was born before me.

My heart swells all the same, hungry for the praise he gives.

"Absolutely marvelous and without a hair out of place too." My father complimented with a nod of his head, gesturing to my intricately braided blonde hair before turning away.

He doesn't linger, a trait consistent in his interactions with us, swiftly moving on to engage with the other Alphas who offer their congratulations with hearty pats on the back. Amidst their chatter, snippets of praise—'beautiful' and 'favorite'—float to my ears before I tune out their camaraderie, retracing my steps back to the tunnel from whence I came.

Yet, with every stride, my gaze is inexorably drawn upwards, compelled by an unseen force to fixate on a singular spot. But that spot is not occupied by my intended, Hugo Bastian.

In the dispersing throng, my eyes alight upon him once more, the Wicked Wolf, an arresting presence amidst the crowd. Goddess, he is a vision of devastating allure, his allure heightened by an aura of palpable power. His gaze, a searing intensity that ensnares me, holds me captive like a prey ensnared by a predator. Eyes like molten lava bore into mine, penetrating the depths of my soul with unnerving precision.

It's as if he possesses the ability to peer straight through the façade I've meticulously crafted, seeing beyond the perfect veneer of a Rhys scion to the essence of who I am.

My heart quickens its pace within my chest, betraying my composure with each frantic beat.

Summoning every ounce of resolve, I tear my gaze away from his magnetic pull, shifting my attention to the imposing figure seated behind him, a silent sentinel cloaked in shadows. With thick, unruly hair and a body adorned with a tapestry of tattoos, he exudes an air of primal ferocity, his moss-green eyes narrowed in suspicion, lips twisted in a silent snarl of disdain.

Scars crisscross his form, testaments to battles waged and lives spared by a hair's breadth. Between the Wicked Wolf and his vigilant guardian, an unspoken tension hangs heavy in the air, suffocating in its intensity. It coils around me, constricting my chest, yet I steel myself against its oppressive weight, refusing to betray a hint of vulnerability.

For I am a Rhys, bred and groomed to mask my emotions behind a facade of stoicism. We are werewolves, descendants of a lineage steeped in pride and resilience, superior to mere Alphas and Kings. We do not falter, we do not flinch.

With a defiant tilt of my chin, I meet the gaze of the Wicked Wolf and his watchful companion, a silent declaration of my defiance. And in response, the new King offers a subtle quirk of his eyebrow, a gesture so unexpected that it borders on the miraculous.

As if to say, he too, is capable of a semblance of a smile. If only he knew how.