Three

Justin

I stood beside my mother in the suffocating heat of the hall, the air thick with the cloying scent of werewolf desperation. Their hungry eyes followed every Lycan who passed, and disgust stirred in my chest. 

If it were up to me, I wouldn’t be here. The entire werewolf nation was a chaotic mess born of their greedy alpha and his incompetent council.

My mother sipped her wine, her gaze sweeping the crowd with a bored detachment.

“What exactly are you doing?” I asked, letting a yawn stretch my jaw. “Our workforce is already bloated. We don’t need more mouths to feed.”

A quiet chuckle slipped from her. “I’m offering them hope, darling.”

“You’re manipulating them.”

“Empires are built on manipulation. How do you think our kingdom rose to power? It certainly wasn’t by playing fair.”

I tipped the last of the crushed wolfsbane from a leather pouch into my mouth. The bitterness barely registered anymore. After years of micro-dosing, it was part of my routine.

My mother’s gaze landed on the pouch, and her smile vanished. She hated the habit. It frightened her. But the acrid herbs dulled the tearing pain under my skin better than any physician ever could.

Her eyes flicked to my hand, softening with a concern she reserved only for her children. I hated that look, the pity in it.

We were here because some werewolf seer had delivered a cryptic warning: If the future King wishes to survive, he must agree to the rites of the moon.

Probably nonsense. But my mother was desperate enough to grasp at anything. She believed this ritual might fix what was broken in me.

A small part of me wanted it to work. Not for myself, but to erase the fear I now saw etched into her face. She was a queen running out of faith. And I was a future king living on borrowed time.

Since my first shift, a curse had taken root in my bones. My wolf—the core of what it meant to be Lycan—was a traitor, turning against me from within. The Royal Healers called it Spirit Fragmentation, a polished name for a slow death.

They said the curse would hollow me out, consuming the wolf first, then my mind, and finally my body. My only hope, they claimed, was to find my fated mate. The one soul who could bind the fraying edges of my own.

But she remained a ghost. A hope that faded with every agonizing shift.

She could be standing right in front of me in this crowded hall, and I would never know.

The wolfsbane dulled the tearing. Meaningless sex numbed the emptiness. But only for a while.

“Find the seer and let’s get this show over with,” I muttered.

My mother offered a faint smile. “Patience, darling. He prepares under the full moon. Go and dance with Wendy.”

A muscle in my jaw ticked. Wendy—the attention-hungry daughter of the Eastern Lycan king. My future bride on paper, but in reality, a chore.

“I’m not in the mood for her drama tonight.”

My mother’s smile thinned. “Wendy’s father is a powerful ally. Be careful. She’s already filed several complaints with me about your carelessness.”

As if summoned, Wendy materialized. Her floral perfume reached me first. I fought the instinct to recoil as she latched onto my arm.

“Justin, darling!” she chirped, voice too high. “You simply must say hello to Count Regis and his wife. They’re dying to hear all about the wedding plans!”

My gaze drifted across the room and landed on a group of young females bowing in her direction. While she was distracted, I slipped free and moved toward the quieter edge of the hall.

That’s when I saw Marcus’s daughter. The lawyer.

If her father had any sense, he’d be grooming her to lead his crumbling pack, not parading her around like livestock. But he was already trying to pawn her off on half-rotten old men.

A real shame.

She didn’t look afraid. She looked... interesting. Storm-grey eyes, a full mouth, and a curvy body built for command, not submission.

Raw, unshaken confidence that pulled at something in me.

She looked up. Our eyes met. For a heartbeat, I saw a flicker of heat before she looked away.

Tonight, I needed a distraction. Sex had become my shield. I crossed the room and stopped in front of her, offering my hand.

“Care to dance?”

She blinked, hesitating, then placed her hand in mine. Up close, she smelled of berries. I led her to the floor.

Strong women had always been a weakness of mine. Especially the kind who didn’t care who I was.

I pulled her into the dance, letting my arm slide around her waist and drawing her closer than etiquette allowed. My fingers traced the bare skin at her lower back.

I leaned in, brushing my lips against the shell of her ear. 

I’d expected resistance. A sharp retort. A challenge. That would have made it a game.

“You’ve been watching me all night,” I murmured. “I thought you might want a closer look.”

Her gaze met mine, and a faint blush crept up her neck, cracking her composure.

“Aren’t you well-accompanied tonight, Your Majesty?”

A real laugh escaped me—the first one all night. She had fire, and I liked it. 

My hand dipped lower, guiding her body against mine in rhythm with the music.

“With the way your eyes kept finding mine,” I said, voice dropping to a rumble, “and with your father groveling for scraps, I assumed you were applying for a more physical position.”

Her blush deepened, but she didn’t pull away.

“Funny. I assumed the future king of the Lycans wouldn’t be such a coward.”

My jaw tightened. My grip on her waist tightened just enough to send a message. “What does that mean?”

“You’re hiding behind a title. Strip it away, and all that’s left is this.” She gestured between us. “Cheap ego.”

The music swelled, but her words cut through the noise. She was baiting me—or maybe just bleeding after what her father had put her through. Either way, I wasn’t backing down.

I leaned closer, my breath ghosting across her jaw. “If this is ego,” I murmured, “come see what it looks like without an audience.” Our eyes locked. “Room 512. Grand Oak Hotel. Ten o’clock.”

---

Midnight

The bitter taste of wolfsbane burned my tongue. The curse twisted in my gut.

I slammed my fist into the wooden bed frame of the hotel room.

A scream tore from my throat, muffled by the down pillow I crushed against my face. I sank my teeth into my own forearm, welcoming the pain, but it wasn’t enough.

I wanted to break everything. To shatter the mirrors, rip the curtains down, claw my way out of my skin.

The seer’s ritual had done nothing. The blessed water. The sacred oils. The ancient chants.

All of it, useless.

There was no vision. No clarity. No name.

No mate.

Only this suffocating, endless darkness.

And through the haze of agony, one truth carved itself into my soul.

I was out of time.

My mate could be anywhere. She could be someone I saw every day.

But I would never know.

The curse had stolen even that from me.

And it was winning.