The Wolf Behind the Door
At midnight, Elara Wynn heard the king’s wolf planning a murder.
She was on her knees beneath the council table, polishing a smear of red wine from the black marble floor, when the voice slid through her mind.
The third man on the left. Silver blade. Two heartbeats after the bell.
Elara stopped breathing.
The throne room was packed with nobles. Velvet coats, jeweled collars, expensive perfume, the soft rustle of people who had never scrubbed blood from a floor.
At the far end, beneath the moon-shaped windows, King Kael Draven sat on the obsidian throne. He looked bored. That was what frightened her most. Kael was dressed in a black military coat fastened with silver clasps. A thin scar crossed his throat, disappearing beneath his collar. He was beautiful in the cruel way winter was beautiful.
Then, the bell tolled.
Chaos erupted.
The third man lunged. A silver blade flashed toward the throne, but Kael moved. One second he was across the room; the next, his hand had closed around the assassin's wrist. Bone cracked. The blade clattered across the marble.
The king leaned toward the man, his face emotionless. “Who sent you?”
The assassin spat blood onto the floor. Desperate, he wrenched his broken arm free, kicking out wildly and spinning toward the only unguarded exit.
Straight toward Elara.
She scrambled back, but the marble was slick. The silver blade slashed down—
A blur of black military coat. A sickening thud.
Kael was suddenly standing over her, the assassin’s body pinned to the floor by the king’s heavy boot.
The entire court fell silent.
Kael’s eyes went silver. Not gray. Silver. The wolf surfaced beneath his skin. The room felt ten degrees colder, the oppressive aura of an Alpha Prime suffocating everyone in it.
The guards rushed in, dragging the broken assassin away.
Then, Kael turned toward Elara.
The room was still chaos around them, but his attention landed on her with impossible precision. He didn't look at her like a savior looking at a victim. He looked at her like a predator sizing up prey.
He stepped closer. The scent of pine, frost, and blood washed over her.
His nostrils flared slightly. Something flickered in those silver eyes—recognition, or perhaps confusion.
“You,” he said, his voice a low, dangerous rumble. “Why didn't you scream before the bell? You knew he was going to draw.”
Elara’s blood ran cold.
He heard something too.
She didn't answer. She couldn't. She just stumbled to her feet, tore off her remaining glove, and ran. She slipped through the servants’ entrance, down the narrow corridor, into the kitchens.
Her heart hammered. Her palm was shaking. The king’s voice echoed in her mind: You knew.
The palace had rules for everything. How to stand. How to speak. How to breathe near an Alpha.
The most important rule was never written down: Never let the royal family know an Omega servant could hear wolves.
Because gifts like hers had once been used to expose traitors.
And the last girl born with that gift had been burned alive beneath the moon.
