Chapter 1: Cruel Attraction

Raenerys once saw the world as a place where good and bad lived in harmony, a delicate balance she believed in. She didn’t realize there was more to the world than that—and that sometimes, even those who seem good can hurt you the most.

She was never the type to take center stage. She preferred the shadows, keeping her head down, not out of cowardice, but because she cared too much. Cared for a people who never truly accepted her as one of their own. Their kindness was fleeting, conditional. And when the betrayal came—when they turned their backs on her—Raenerys ran.

She fled from the cold of the North to the edges of the West, leaving behind the remnants of her old life. There, she rebuilt herself. She trained, pushed past her limits, and strengthened the parts of her she once ignored. In time, she became one of the rogues—werewolves cast out from their packs, or those who chose to walk away. Some rebelled against alphas they couldn’t follow. Others, like Raenerys, had been betrayed.

After a year of silence, her name began to echo across the Western packs. Whispers turned to rumors. A rogue she-wolf, brutal and relentless, taking down werewolves one by one—stronger even than the alphas. They called her a conqueror. Her legend spread fast, reaching the North and South.

"Raenerys!"

She barely turned her head at the sound of her name, her focus locked on the fight. Her fists landed with brutal precision, claws tearing through flesh, her movements a blur of rage and control.

It was Acheron—the rogue who had once trained her, who believed in her when no one else did. He hurled a dagger toward her, its blade laced with wolfsbane and silver. She caught it mid-air without hesitation, spinning into a vicious roundhouse kick that floored the wolf in front of her. In one swift motion, she slashed through her enemies with the dagger until they collapsed at her feet, a bloody heap.

Raenerys showed no mercy. One by one, the wolves collapsed before her, their howls fading into silence. She didn’t flinch. Compassion, pity—they were luxuries she no longer afforded anyone. The world had been cruel to her, and now she had become just as cruel in return. Mercy was a weakness, a weight she had shed long ago.

She had clawed her way to power, through blood, betrayal, and unbearable loss. And now that she was here, she wasn’t about to let anything—anyone—pull her back down.

Sera’s words echoed in her mind like a mantra: There are things you must give up in order to rise.

And Raenerys had given up everything.

Breath ragged, she let the bloodied dagger fall from her hand. Her chest rose and fell as sweat trickled down her face and neck. She looked up slightly, catching sight of Acheron—his torso streaked with blood, his face bruised, but his wounds were already healing. He ran a hand through his hair, exhaling sharply as he stepped closer.

“Where’s the alpha?” Raenerys asked, scanning the area. But there was no sign of him—not even a shadow.

Another pack had fallen. Just two rogues—Raenerys and Acheron—had brought down an entire stronghold. One by one, they were toppling the Western packs. And now, their eyes were set on the East.

She wasn’t just destroying the old order—she was building a new one. From the ashes of fallen alphas, she was creating her own pack. Her own empire. The wolves she spared would have no choice but to bend the knee. She would be their alpha female—the empress of the kingdom she was forging in blood and fear.

No one would dare run from her. Not anymore. Whatever nightmares they feared in Westeros, they feared her more. Those who resisted her were already dead.

“That was the last of the Western packs,” Acheron said, adjusting his torn shirt. “The alpha might’ve fled—to the North, South, or East. Doesn't matter. He won’t get far.”

Raenerys said nothing, lost in thought. A few minutes later, they moved out. Shifting into their wolf forms, they ran side by side through the dense forest, the night swallowing their presence.

When they neared home, they split paths. They couldn’t stay together—not yet. They hadn’t built their Den, and it was dangerous to linger in one place for long.

As Raenerys sprinted through a tree-lined path, the world blurred past her. She didn’t see the figure that suddenly blocked her way—until it was too late.

She crashed into something—or someone—so abruptly that it sent her rolling across the dirt-covered pavement. Her head struck the ground hard enough to blur her vision.

Dazed, she forced herself to her feet, blinking through the sting of sweat and blood. She whipped her gaze toward where the figure had been.

Gone.

The forest stood still. Silent.

She was alone again.

Even so, she couldn’t shake the image of the man from earlier. His golden-yellow eyes burned in her memory—sharp, piercing. His fangs were razor-like, glinting in the light. Though he wore black pants, his bare torso had been smeared with blood. She’d only caught a fleeting glimpse of his face before he vanished, but she remembered the way he glared at her—like a predator assessing his prey.

After standing frozen for a few more minutes, Raenerys forced herself to run again.

Even when she finally made it home, the memory clung to her like a second skin. She ran a hand over the back of her neck, her hair rising as goosebumps prickled her skin. With a sigh, she shrugged off her leather jacket and headed into the kitchen for water. But just as she turned around—

Crash.

The glass slipped from her hands and shattered at her feet. Her heart pounded in her chest. Her throat went dry.

Because standing in front of her was a man. Not just any man.

The same golden eyes.

The same electric presence.

Nevil Lancaster.

He was the one who blocked her path earlier—the one who hadn’t just looked at her… but into her.

Rage surged in her chest, but she kept her expression flat. She couldn’t afford to lose control. Not when everything she’d worked for depended on staying calm.

“Raenerys,” the voice growled—not out loud, but in her mind. Deep, primal, unmistakably his. She could hear the rumble in his chest, see the tight clench of his fists, the rise and fall of his breathing. And despite the fury in his golden eyes, they were strangely... empty.

His presence seeped into her like smoke, thick and choking. His hair was tousled, and now he wore a black t-shirt that did nothing to hide the raw power beneath it. Still Nevil. Still dangerous.

“What do you want?” she asked, voice sharp. “What is the Alpha of the North doing in my home?”

He stepped forward. She instinctively took a step back, her fingers curling around the hilt of the dagger hidden behind her. She’d killed alphas before—doing it again wouldn’t bother her. But Nevil… he was different. Unpredictable. Powerful. She had no idea what he was truly capable of.

And then—he touched her face. Just a brush. But it sent jolts of electricity down her neck, through her spine. Her grip loosened on the dagger as something inside her cracked.

A connection.

His face inched closer, so near his nose grazed her cheek. She could feel his breath, warm and erratic. He inhaled her scent like he was trying to memorize her. Lips grazed her skin. His hand wrapped lightly around her throat, sensual and threatening all at once.

She moaned, involuntarily. His lips lingered near hers, then moved lower—down her neck, slow and possessive.

She clutched his shoulder, knees weakening, breath caught in her throat. She was slipping—losing control.

“S-Stop…” she whispered, but it came out breathless, helpless.

He didn’t stop.

His tongue slid along her skin, soft and hot, making her gasp. Her body betrayed her. Her stomach fluttered. Her chest heaved.

“Raenerys Lauregnory,” he breathed, voice both seductive and cold, laced with hunger.

“F-Fuck!” she cursed when he pressed his body against hers, and she felt his arousal. Her eyes widened—he was hard. Turned on. And she was too.

Was this real? A hallucination? A fevered dream?

She jolted awake, panting, drenched in sweat. The sunlight was blinding. Her eyes burned.

The window was open—she must’ve forgotten to close it. Her clothes lay scattered on the floor, a messy habit she never broke. No blanket, nothing. Just raw sleep.

But the dream haunted her. Was it a sign? A warning?

Or was it permission?

Later that day, Raenerys met Acheron. They were preparing to march East, but first, they stopped by the Den under construction to inspect the progress. The structure was halfway done—vast, unfamiliar, but promising.

The moment they stepped in, every werewolf nearby bowed their heads. Raenerys arched a brow, lips curling. She liked the power. Liked the respect. She’d never had it before, and it tasted good.

Then, a crow landed on Acheron’s shoulder.

A letter was tied to its leg.

Raenerys snatched it and opened it, her expression souring.

To: Raenerys, The Conqueror

You are cordially invited to the Northern Alpha’s Orgy on the next full moon.

We look forward to seeing you.

She scowled. The full moon was this Friday. Why would Nevil invite her? It reeked of something more.

Good.

She was ready for anything.

“What’s that?” Acheron asked, eyes narrowing.

“I was invited to a party,” she replied with a smirk. “Perfect timing.”

But as she turned her back, the smirk faded. Her lips pressed into a thin line. Her eyes—burning gold.

---

They were now sailing toward the East. The sea stretched endlessly before them, and Raenerys hadn't spoken a word. Acheron glanced at her. She was silent, staring out at the horizon.

He remembered when they first met. She’d been starving, broken, desperate. He hadn’t planned to help her—not until he saw the fire in her eyes.

Revenge.

That’s what they had in common.

And now, she was his strongest weapon against Nevil Lancaster.

“I’m going,” Raenerys said suddenly, still staring into the waves.

“Should I come with you?” Acheron asked, even though he already knew the answer.

“No. Stay in the West. Watch them. I can handle myself.”

He smiled. Her voice held steel. She was no longer the frail girl he’d found. She’d become something sharp—something unstoppable.

“You’ll take the North, Acheron,” she said quietly. “You’ll get your revenge.”

He nodded, his expression hardening.

“I’ve been waiting for this for years. When I take the North, I’ll make the Lancasters kneel—and when they do, I’ll cut off their heads. Every last one of them.”

His voice dripped with hate. Raenerys knew that hatred well. She lived it too.

Acheron pressed himself against her back, his arms wrapping around her waist as he kissed her neck. She didn’t resist. She leaned into him, arching slightly as his hand slid up her abdomen, his lips trailing toward her jaw.

Their desire wasn’t love—it was survival. Lust sharpened by rage. A ritual they returned to, over and over, to burn away their pain.

“Damn, you’re so fucking hot, Raenerys,” Acheron growled, biting her earlobe.

She smirked, turned around, and grabbed his neck. Then shoved him hard to the floor of the boat.

They became a blur of limbs and heat, clothes torn and scattered, skin on skin beneath the stars.

Moans filled the air. His lips were on her breasts. Her nails clawed down his back. Their bodies crashed together like waves on rock, wild and desperate.

Raenerys bit her lower lip as Acheron pressed his body against her back, his touch possessive, electric. His fingers curled around her waist, firm and claiming, as his lips found the sensitive skin of her nape. Heat spiraled through her as his hand slid from her waist to her abdomen, his kisses trailing a slow, deliberate path up to her jaw.

Her lips parted on a soft gasp. She leaned into him, aching for more, her fingers weaving into his hair as her hips rolled back, grinding into him. They were caught in a cycle—lust, release, distance—never admitting how much they craved each other beyond the physical. And yet, here they were again.

“Damn, you’re so fucking hot, Raenerys,” Acheron growled, his voice rough against her ear before he bit her lobe and dragged his tongue along the curve of her ear. Raenerys smirked, biting back a moan as she spun around to face him. Her hand gripped his neck in a mock choke, dominant, daring, before she shoved him backward.

They crashed to the floor of the boat, limbs tangling in a mess of need and aggression. The sky had turned black above them, moonlight and the distant glow of a lamppost casting silver light over their bodies. But it wasn’t the stars igniting them—it was the fire in their blood.

Acheron’s hands found her breast, kneading and teasing with urgency, while Raenerys pulled him down, lips colliding with his in a kiss that was more battle than surrender. Their moans echoed across the water, raw and unfiltered, as they chased the release they both knew wouldn’t be enough.

She devoured the sight of him—his sculpted form, the way his loose strands of black hair fell from his topknot, wild and perfect. His eyes, once a deep forest green, now burned gold, predatory, hungry. And gods, she wanted to be devoured.

Their bond was supposed to be casual. Physical. But every time, it felt like something more was clawing to the surface—something they refused to name.

She bit her bottom lip, her voice a sultry murmur. “Let’s get this over with, Ache. I want you now.”

Acheron didn’t need to be told twice. He grinned darkly as he tore through her garments, leaving her in nothing but moonlight and the cool night air. His eyes, once burning with desire, now softened—devouring her with a gaze full of need and unspoken reverence. She returned the favor, ripping his clothes away with urgency, until both stood bared under the stars, stripped of everything but want.

Acheron leaned in, his tongue tracing her lips before his mouth claimed hers. The kiss was punishing and sweet, like fire laced with honey. His tongue demanded entry, demanded more, and she gave it—panting, gasping, overwhelmed by the pressure building deep in her core. His hips shifted, his hardened length brushing right where she ached most. Her body arched with a cry, instinctively seeking more.

But he stopped.

“Gods, you’re such a tease,” she breathed, her tone laced with frustration and lust.

“Don’t leave me hanging,” she growled, about to push him off when he flipped her over with ease. Her breath caught as her back met his chest, and his hand anchored her in place. Then—release.

Stars danced in her vision as she screamed out his name, the world blurring in pure, frenzied pleasure.

He grinned against her neck. “My little firestorm’s insatiable tonight,” he whispered, nipping at her ear before slamming into her again. Her body jolted with every thrust, pushed to the edge with delicious, punishing rhythm. Skin against skin, sweat-slick and hungry—their coupling was chaotic, frenzied, and perfect.

Her cries echoed across the still waters. She was close—too close. But just before she tipped over the edge, Acheron flipped her onto her back again, never breaking rhythm. His strength pinned her down as he thrust into her hard enough to shake her bones. She loved it rough with him. And he knew exactly how to give it.

His hands braced on either side of her head. Their eyes locked. His gaze—intense, glowing—cut through her defenses. She closed her eyes to escape the vulnerability it stirred, but it was too late. The moment shattered around them as their bodies reached for oblivion.

They came undone together—still burning in the flames of their twisted heaven.

When the high faded, Acheron collapsed beside her, chest rising and falling in rhythm with hers. The night air kissed her skin, cold and sudden, but the ache between her thighs still pulsed hot and raw.

She pressed her legs together, her breathing slowing. Then she looked at him—at his sharp jawline, his lashes, the curve of his cheekbone. Familiar.

A mature version of Nevil.

Of course.

He was his older brother, after all.

. . .