The Wicked Wolf

Three

*eleven hours before being taken*

The gossips were not lying.

For angels would d a m n themselves for him.

He is truly the most handsome man I have ever seen, and I have brothers who pride themselves on their beauty. Aggressively so.

Yet nothing compared to him.

My father made him sound like a mad man, someone lost to insanity, but he looks… he looks dreadfully handsome. It was easy to forget that this man was a k i l l e r when he looked like that.

The new King is so overwhelmingly beautiful that it was almost painful to look at him, so much so that my chest squeezes at the sight with my throat closing. But what catches me completely off guard isn’t his powerful build or his unrivaled beauty, it is how dangerous and d e a d l y he looks. It’s as if someone attempted to claw his face from his skull. In fact, his entire body has an alarming number of scars, big and long and more gruesome than the last, his ferociousness almost louder than his good looks.

Even while sitting down, I can tell he is incredibly tall and muscular, built like a warrior, built like someone that has seen war and d e a t h. Dressed in black and grey and red, the fabric is tight against his deeply tanned skin and firm muscles.

He keeps his obsidian hair short and neatly pushed back, allowing a full view of his marble sculpted jaw. I watched almost hypnotized as his lips curved in an almost permanent looking scowl as he sat as still as stone... a perfectly carved statue among his flawed subjects.

The Wicked Wolf is unbothered by his surroundings, staring ahead with this vacant and bottomless look in his eyes, and even in such a manner, he looks that much fiercer than all of us. He didn’t look to be entertained by all this frivolousness and debauchery, his eyes focused on a bare wall.

And then, like magnets helplessly pulled to each other, our eyes locked, a second, two seconds, and it felt like my entire life had tipped over.

I watch his eyes rake up and down my figure before it stops at my face.

And it doesn’t leave.

His expression is impassive and empty, devoid of all emotion, making it hard to guess what he’s thinking. If he was amused or disgusted, I could not tell, but he didn’t look away from me.

And I don’t look away from him.

There was something about the way he was looking at me, how there were a hundred or so people in the crowd and a dozen would be Lunas— the prettiest, the richest in the werewolf world, all lined up in a row just for him to inspect, but he stared at me like I was the only one there.

Like I was the only one he would ever look at, the only one that mattered.

“Vasilisa Rhys against Erica Debrav,”

I blinked, suddenly brought out of the trance I was in.

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 u c k i n 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 u c k do you all hurt like a b i t c h.”

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. He never does with any of us, quickly leaving to converse with the other Alphas who pat him on the back in congratulations. I hear the words ‘beautiful’ and ‘favorite’ a few times between them before I tune out their group and walk back to the tunnel where I came from.

Within a single step, I find my eyes drawing upwards as if magnetized to that one spot.

But that spot is not where my future husband sat.

In the crowd that has already started to disperse, I find him yet again, the Wicked Wolf. Goddess, he is devastatingly gorgeous, but more than that, he is powerful to behold. He was looking at me with eyes so intense it was hard to pull my gaze away from him. He managed to pin me in place like a gazelle seconds away from being devoured. His eyes are piercing and all seeing, the color of molten lava, the intensity startling.

It’s as if he can see right through me.

Like he could see me.

And not just another perfect Rhys.

My heart leaps from my chest, beating quickly and foolishly.

It took everything in me to look away from him, glancing at the large man who sat behind him as if a shadow, a bodyguard. He had thick unruly hair and had more tattoos on his body than skin. From his neck to his wrists, all of it were covered in dark sprawling tattoos. And unlike his expressionless King, this man was clear with his emotions… his distrust. If looks could kill, this man had already strangled me. He stared at me with suspicion in those narrowed moss green eyes, his lips curled in what looked to be distaste before looking away.

He, too, had scars all over his body, long and painful and recent. All their wounds seemed to be blows intended to k i l l. It’s just that d e a t h didn’t want them.

Between the two of them, the tension is thick and heavy in the air, making it hard to breathe properly. It clung to my skin, to my throat, to my muscles, to every part of my body. But I’ve been taught to school my face to hide my emotions, my turmoil, my nervousness. Because Rhys’ are perfect, and we do not panic or skitter. For anyone. We are werewolves… better than Alphas and Kings, we are Rhys.

Just as I put my chin up at the Wicked Wolf and his bodyguard in a show of defiance, the new King quirks an eyebrow and as if that wasn’t surprising enough, there was the tiniest movement in his lips.

As if to smile.

If he even knew how to do such a thing.