Forced to Marry the Wicked Werewolf Prince

1.The Masked Truth

[MAGNUS]

I recline in the bathtub, the warmth of the water enveloping me as the palace servants go about their tasks. Steam swirls in the opulent chamber, the scent of chamomile lingering in the air and my mind wanders through the labyrinth of lies spun by my detested uncle, the king.

As the palace servants meticulously wash me, their eyes averted, I stare at my own half-naked reflection in the mirror. I'm not disabled; it's a fabrication concocted by my uncle's twisted mind, fueled by his hatred and fear. The king seeks to undermine me, to strip away any sense of power or influence I might possess. He's afraid of what I could do to him. But it's time to reclaim my power, turn the tables on my enemies, and catch them off guard.

Alistair, my loyal beta werewolf, stands guard outside the chamber, a silent guardian of my secrets.

As I rise from the bathtub, the servants hastily rush to cover my body with linen. Alistair makes his way toward me before his eyes follow a servant as she walks out of the chamber.

I know the look in his eyes. It screams trouble.

I gesture for him to walk with me. The servants meant to dress me up for court follow suit, however, they halt the moment I turn. "I wish to be alone," I tell them.

Once we're in my quarters, Alistair releases his breath, knowing that it's safe to talk now. "I've found the witch for you, Your Highness," he informs me, his lips set into a straight line.

"Excellent. When can I see her?" I inquire, reaching out to grab my clothes that the servants have set out as I let the linen fall to the polished floor.

Alistair averts his gaze. "Whenever Your Highness wishes."

"Now, Alistair."

There's not a hint of surprise in the beta's voice when he replies, "Certainly, Your Highness." He bows and that's when I notice the gash on his exposed neck once again—a bitter reminder of the time he saved me from one of the several assassination attempts.

"And my uncle?" I put forward the question before he leaves to acquire the witch.

"Still very much alive."

I frown at his response, a flicker of disappointment swirling in my chest.

Moments later, Alistair reenters my quarters as I'm sitting by my desk, shuffling through a heap of scrolls. A scarlet-eyed witch trails behind him, her scrutinous gaze hovering all over my quarters. When her unblinking eyes finally settle on me, she brings forward her braided hair. I give her a charming smile, a glimmer of mischief in my gaze as I rise from my seat.

"Prince Magnus... aren't you a delight? I expected something else... Oh, how silly of me!" She shakes her head as if she has committed some error, flashing me a wide grin. "I'm Morgana," she says, curtsying as she raises the back of her hand for me to kiss. I chuckle at the audacity. But the nature of witches is known. They like to be treated well; they expect to be pampered and peppered with compliments for their beauty—which is often nothing more than just an illusion.

"Welcome, Morgana," I say in a smooth, seductive tone, pressing a lingering kiss on the back of her hand.

Alistair withdraws to a corner, and while his eyes are directed on the tapestry in front of him, his ears are glued to all the words that will pass between me and the witch.

"I must admit, I have brought you here for a rather unconventional request."

Morgana's lips curl into a curious smile. Her voice is playful when she speaks. "Pray tell, Your Highness, what is it that you desire? Strength? Courage? Do you want me to end a life? Oh, perhaps... create one? Well, what about—no, I can't say it... You're already a work of art. But if you wish to become a beauty that men and women, both, tremble to behold, I can do it for you."

I'm glad when she finally shuts up. Leaning against the desk, I lower my voice to a suggestive whisper, knowing full well the effect it has on those around me. "None of that. I seek your enchantment, Morgana, to transform me into a deformed man. Temporarily. It should wear off after I'm wed. Precisely within a week from today."

The witch's eyebrows arch in surprise, her eyes darkening under the scanty light in the quarters. "How intriguing. And may I ask what is it that you hope to achieve with such a charade, Your Highness?"

I take a step closer, closing the gap between us. "You may not."

Her eyes flicker with understanding, a spark of excitement dancing within them. "A game of manipulation and revelation. It seems you have a taste for daring, Prince Magnus."

I reach out, lightly tracing a finger along her cheek, relishing in the thrill of the forbidden. "Indeed."

Creed, my wolf, growls in warning. I choose to ignore him.

The air crackles as our eyes lock. The witch's gaze holds curiosity and a hint of desire. It's as if she's caught in a spell of her own, captivated by the audacity of my request.

I take a step closer to her, closing the remaining distance. Her scent, a mixture of wildflowers and ancient magic, swirls around me, intoxicating my senses. I trace my thumb over her lower lip. "Tell me, Morgana," I murmur, "are you willing to aid me in this grand deception?"

A mischievous smile tugs at the corners of her lips as she responds, her voice a velvet whisper, "Prince Magnus, I find myself unable to resist the allure of it"

I reach out to brush a strand of her raven-black hair behind her ear, my touch gentle yet charged with intent. "You possess a rare beauty and power, dear witch. Your presence alone commands attention. I can't help but wonder if your enchantments extend beyond magic."

A blush creeps up on her fair cheeks but she bites down on her lower lip. "Oh, Prince Magnus, it seems you have quite the silver tongue. But be warned, I am not easily swayed. You must prove yourself worthy of my trust."

A challenge. I enjoy a good challenge. With a playful smile, I respond, "Consider me an open book, ready to be unraveled by your skilled hands."

Her laughter rings through the room, a dangerous sound that resonates deep within me. "Very well, Prince Magnus. I accept your proposition. But remember, power can be a double-edged sword."

As the witch speaks, her voice takes on a seductive timbre, sending shivers down my spine. It's the effect of a charm she has subtly cast, but that's the most it can do to me.

With a boldness I haven't felt before, I close the remaining distance between us, my hand resting lightly on her waist. "Then let us revel in the thrill of unraveling the tapestry of lies that surrounds me. But first, a toast to our newfound partnership."

I pour two glasses of ruby-red wine from a nearby decanter, the liquid sparkling like captured starlight. I hand her a glass, our fingers brushing, and raise my own in a toast. "To the power of secrets, and the beauty of unmasking them."

She clinks her glass against mine, a smile playing on her lips. "To the unraveling, Prince Magnus."

We drink in unison, the rich wine sliding down our throats.

I invite Morgana into my embrace. There is a hunger in her gaze as I guide her toward the plush canopy bed, adorned with silken sheets and decadent pillows. Then I begin unraveling her.

My lips find hers with a fervent hunger, exploring her mouth with a tantalizing rhythm. Our tongues intertwine, engaged in a dance as old as time. The witch responds with equal fervor, her nails tracing along my back, leaving a trail of desire in their wake.

As our bodies meld, my touch is confident and deliberate. Every caress, every stroke, is designed to elicit waves of ecstasy. My hands glide along the curves of her body, knowing exactly how to draw forth the moans and gasps of delight that echo throughout the chamber.

Hours slip away unnoticed. As the final moments of our encounter draw near, my touch becomes tender, a gentle caress that lingers upon her skin.

While she's sleeping, I take the opportunity and present myself in the court—which is a lot more than my uncle ever does—however, I hear the whispers that originate from those involved in my uncle's treachery.

Ministers approach me, reminding me of my upcoming wedding as if that's something I can get out of my head. They tell me that it is my duty to make alliances with independent territories. That marrying their Lunar Crest’s beta's daughter would be beneficial to Caelondor. I don't ask them how that would work because these men work for my uncle. Now that I'm so close to getting what I want, I hold myself back, letting the anger I feel subside.

I do as I’m told. I agreed to marry a random woman. I don’t know what her name is or what she looks like. I don’t really care. Marrying her is merely a political move, supported even by my close allies. They tell me it’s beneficial to my own cause—that having one of the strongest packs on the continent by my side will aid me in the distant future. I choose to believe them because they showed their loyalty to my father even when he passed away—while the other bastards revealed their true nature.

As the moon reaches its zenith, I return to my quarters, Alistair always following closely on my trail. I see Morgana standing by the large mirror. Its ruby-clad border now sprouts wildflowers, something that did not happen before, and even though I don't like the new addition, I smile at it anyway.

“Prince… I was quite disappointed when I opened my eyes and found you gone. You’re quite warm,” Morgana says, slithering towards me. Her scarlet eyes are darkened by some strange look that I fail to decipher.

“I had some Princely duties to tend to. I must maintain the balance between work and pleasure, mustn't I?” I retort back.

“Certainly,” she agrees, circling me with her scarlet gaze fixated on my face. I barely hold the urge to roll my eyes.

"Morgana, I leave at dawn. Perform the spell now," I say, failing to keep the sense of urgency out of my voice. Maybe I can't really conceal my emotions as well as I think.

Her lips quiver and I see a look of hesitation cross her eyes, but she does not ask for her p*****t before. Witches never do.

With a wave of her hand and an incantation spoken in a language long forgotten, she casts the spell upon me. For a moment I feel Creed howling inside of me as an invisible hand grips my heart. My wolf never approved of this decision. In fact, he has approved of very little since our mate died.

I can feel the magic course through my veins, altering my appearance, and reshaping my features into something unfamiliar.

One of my feet feels unbelievably heavy. The length of my left arm shortens, ending in a stout. The transformation is startling.

"If you remind yourself that it's an illusion, you will not feel any of the changes," Morgana informs me, a smirk forming on her face.

I look upon my reflection, seeing a distorted version of myself staring back. The once handsome prince is now marred by scars, a twisted visage that would surely evoke pity and revulsion.

"How do I revert?"

She giggles, the sinister sound of her laughter echoing in the room. "True love's kiss of course!"

I laugh, but dread fills my heart as Nyra's face flashes in my mind. "Then I suppose I shall stay like this for the rest of my life."

Morgana reaches me, her finger tracing one of the scars along my chest. "Kiss the woman you are marrying, and she'll see the true handsomeness of you, Prince Magnus."