Luna Helena

6

Alpha Mason waited at the entrance of the pack house for one of the most distinguished guests the building had ever received—surpassed only by the visit of the lycan king three generations ago, when the Moon’s Hill pack did the unthinkable: they knelt in submission before the lycan monarch. A scene of humiliation and defeat that remained alive in the memory of all, though it was considered a bygone event for the sake of peace… and the mental health of the Alphas.

“How much did my wife spend on all this?” Mason asked as his eyes began to calculate the cost of every decorative detail around him, while they waited—nervous and expectant—for the arrival of the royal limousine, which had just passed through the first gate.

“I didn’t see the total amount, Alpha,” Milo replied with a half-truth. The truth was, he had glimpsed the impressive sum on Helena’s computer screen, though he knew some expenses had yet to be added. So technically, he didn’t have the final number in mind.

“Then find out.”

Milo nodded just as the limousine came into view, watched by the most notable members of the pack, who that day would feast on pheasant and other fine game—at the expense of their host, who was already irritated by such extravagance. That money, he thought, could have gone toward upgrading his helicopter—or something equally important.

The luxurious car stopped in front of the double entrance, and everyone shivered as they felt the raw energy radiating from the lycan Beta as he stepped out to open the door for his master.

If that was the power of a Beta, no one dared imagine what a lycan Alpha—let alone the crown prince—must feel like.

Everyone, including Alpha Mason, was nervous, though they hid it behind forced smiles.

Damn lycans. Who the hell created such a filthy, powerful species? Mason thought, just as the limousine door was about to open.

The shock of energy was brutal.

Some of the lower-ranked Gammas instinctively took a step back.

The rest managed to hold their ground, veins bulging in their foreheads.

Mason bit down on his lower lip hard enough to almost draw blood, and Fenrir—his wolf—tucked his tail between his legs as the prince’s presence swept through the air.

It was overwhelming.

A man nearly as wide as he was tall, and a full head taller than Mason—who was already the tallest in the pack, tied only with his Beta. But the most striking thing about the lycan prince was his gaze: deep, intense, and amber-red, with an abyssal depth that made Mason swallow hard.

Now he understood why his ancestors had surrendered to that species three generations ago.

His mere presence made you want to drop to your knees.

“Welco—” Mason’s voice cracked. He inhaled deeply, regained control, and tried again. “Welcome, Your Royal Highness.”

Mason’s bow was exaggerated, and though the prince’s flawless face remained unreadable, he was secretly amused by such a pitiful display of submission.

“Thank you, Alpha. It’s a pleasure.”

He waited for his host to raise his head and look him in the eye, which took Mason a few agonizing seconds of willpower. Finally, with a nervous smile that barely hid his anxiety, the Alpha met the lycan’s gaze.

“Please, Your Highness. Consider this your home.”

Leofrik moved past the gathered crowd with slow, regal refinement, his dismissive gesture subtle but perfectly executed.

After the initial shock, everyone in the pack house felt overtaken by the magnetic admiration the lycan prince inspired—especially the women, who had never laid eyes, not even in glossy magazines, on such a perfect male specimen.

Leofrik’s amber gaze wandered through the grand entrance hall. Though his expression remained unreadable, he was genuinely impressed by the elegance, precision, and subtle beauty of the decor.

There had to be a brilliant mind behind it—not just intelligent, but also remarkably sensitive to detail.

He made a mental note to ask about the decorator… and perhaps bring them to his palace, which was in dire need of such taste.

At his side, as the prince examined a commemorative hunting painting, an annoying, syrupy stream of flattery babbled on—a shrill cacophony saying everything and nothing at once.

“... as Your Highness can see, the rifle collection spans generations…”

“Do you hunt with rifles, Alpha?” Leofrik asked, abruptly cutting off the chatter.

Mason fell silent, calculating which answer would please his guest most.

He had already boasted about the rifles—he had no choice but to stick with it.

“I do, yes. Of course, each prey and terrain requires a different specialty—”

“I do it the traditional way,” Leofrik interrupted again. “And by traditional, I mean the way of our ancestors—completely naked, and without transformation.”

Alpha Mason was speechless for longer than was polite.

“Is… is that serious?” he finally asked, when the silence threatened to become humiliating.

All his flatterers pretended to hold private conversations, but in truth, they were following Mason closely—trying to get nearer to the only man who truly impressed them.

“Of course it is, Alpha. Surely you know I speak only with seriousness. Or did you expect I was lying?”

Alpha Mason shook his head immediately, ashamed.

“Oh, no—of course not. I’m just surprised, that’s all. Please, don’t take my words literally, Your Highness.”

The lycan prince moved deeper into the mansion. Beneath the exquisite decoration that had already impressed him, a refined aesthetic was becoming more and more evident.

And then he realized something he hadn’t considered before entering.

“Your wife, Alpha. The Luna of this pack—where is she?”

Mason’s nerves became obvious. The thing he hated most was having no answer—especially in front of his people. But what bothered him even more was the fact that this answer depended on his wife.

Where was she?

Why hadn’t she told him she wouldn’t be there?

“She’ll be down shortly, Your Highness,” Milo said, saving Mason, who was still fumbling for an excuse. “She asked me to apologize in case you noticed her absence. She had a sudden headache and went upstairs for some quick medicine.”

Mason was about to use the mental link to demand an explanation from his Beta—until he realized he didn’t care.

Why should anyone care if a woman attended or not? This was a men’s event.

“In case I don’t get the pleasure of seeing her today, do tell her she has excellent taste in decoration,” Leofrik said politely—surprising Mason.

“Oh… of course, Your Highness. But, moving on to more important matters…”

Mason bit his tongue as he realized his guest had stopped listening.

The prince’s gaze had risen—above him.

Mason turned, compelled, to see what had captured the lycan’s attention so completely.

And then, he saw her.

At the top of the staircase stood his wife—radiant, powerful, dressed in a way that made jaws drop, including his own.

And just then, without meaning to, the prince’s wolf—Asmodeo—awoke with such force that Leofrik had to use all his strength to hold him back.

“Mate!” howled the beast within.