Claimed by the Lycan Triplets

If someone had told me a couple of months ago that Lucien—my first love, my best-kept secret—would ask me to dance with him at the Christmas party, I would’ve laughed and told them that they were delusional. But it happened. Lucien had asked me to be his date for the party, his voice warm and soft when he promised, "It's going to be a night you’ll never forget." My heart soared at those words. I thought it would be magical, that under the soft glow of mistletoe, we’d share our first kiss. I imagined that, in the perfect crescendo of the night, we’d finally shift together for the first time—a moment I’d secretly dreamed about for years. But dreams have a way of shattering, don’t they? Because the reality of that night was far from magical. It was Willow who ended up on Lucien’s arm, her smug smile searing into my memory as she clung to him like he belonged to her. She swept him away in the final moments, leaving me standing in the middle of the grand ballroom like a fool. Everyone else had their partners—laughing, dancing, sharing moments of joy—while I stood alone, my cheeks burning with humiliation. And then it happened. The air shifted around me, sharp and heavy, making every nerve in my body tingle. A shiver crawled up my spine as I felt it—no, them. Not one but three pairs of eyes locked on me. My throat tightened, my breath hitching as I slowly turned toward the balcony. There they were. The Lycan Princes. Triplets. Dressed in black, their silhouettes were carved against the winter moonlight, each one tall, broad, and radiating an aura of dominance that sucked the air out of the room. Their gazes bore into me, their amber eyes glowing with something… primal. I’d been looked at before. People stared at me all the time because of my unusual eyes or the rumors about me. But this was different. Their stares weren’t just curious or passing—they were sharp, dangerous, and heavy with something I couldn’t name. It felt like their eyes weren’t just on me but inside me, peeling back layers I didn’t even know I had. The clock chimed midnight, each strike loud and deliberate, like a countdown I hadn’t prepared for. . . Chapter 1 Annalise When I was younger, I could never understand why my father married Petunia. To me, she wasn’t just some charming blonde-haired woman who swept into our lives—she was a witch. And not the metaphorical kind. A real, spell-casting witch. I didn’t realize it back then, but my eighteen-year-old self knows better now. She bewitched him. I know it, she knows it, and even her precious daughter, Willow, knows it. The only person clueless about it is my father. I remember when we first moved to Crescent City after my mom died. I thought it would be us against the world. Just me and him. But the moment Petunia set her sights on my father, it was like he couldn’t look away from her. Her spell worked perfectly. He became love-sick overnight. I used to think he’d just forgotten about my mom, his one true love—his mate. I was so angry with him for it. But now I know better. He didn’t forget her; he didn’t have a choice. Petunia made sure of that. I can’t even count the number of times I saw him kiss her, smiling like a fool while I stood there, fighting the urge to gag. I tried telling him she wasn’t who he thought she was, tried warning him about the spells, but he wouldn’t listen. Every time I brought it up, it ended with a slap across my face and a night outside, cold and hungry, while Petunia and Willow lounged in the luxury of what was supposed to be my home. I hated him for it. I hated the way he abandoned me, how he fell so easily into Petunia’s trap. But now? Now I don’t even feel anger. Just pity. He’s as much a victim as I am, stuck under her spell, completely blind to what she’s done to us. I pray every day that he’ll wake up, that the curse will break, and he’ll throw them both out of our lives. But until then, all I can do is survive. Just like I always have. As soon as the front door closed and my father left for work, Petunia’s sweet, doting smile dropped like a mask she couldn’t wait to rip off. Her voice turned sharp, barking at me the way you’d shout at a stray dog. "Off the couch. Sit on the floor where you belong," she snapped, her tone cutting through the room. I didn’t argue. Arguing only made it worse. Instead, I moved quickly, sitting cross-legged on the cold, hard floor. "Did you do the dishes?" she asked, her arms crossed. "Yes, ma’am," I replied softly. "The floors?" "Yes, ma’am." "The basement?" "Yes, ma’am." "Willow’s room?" My throat tightened. I stayed quiet. Her hand flew before I even had a chance to blink. The sting of her palm burned across my cheek, but I didn’t flinch. I couldn’t. "Go finish your work," she barked, her tone laced with venom. "Yes, ma’am," I murmured, standing and heading toward Willow’s room—the room that was supposed to be ours. Once, it had been. But now, it was Willow’s space. Her posters on the walls, her perfumes on the dresser, her clothes spilling out of every drawer. I wasn’t even allowed to touch the bed. I slept on the cold floor in the corner, curled up with the single, threadbare blanket I’d been allowed to keep. My clothes were limited to three worn-out dresses, thin enough to barely protect against the Crescent City’s chill, and two pairs of shoes that were more patches than soles. That was all I had. But to my father? Oh, Petunia and Willow were saints. They made sure to act like the perfect, caring family whenever he was around. Smiles, sweet words, and the occasional “Annalise needs this” to make it seem like they were looking out for me. I guess the curse didn’t make him completely blind—just blind enough to fall for their act. For them, it was all a performance. For me, it was survival. When I stepped into Willow’s room—because it sure didn’t feel like mine anymore—the mess hit me like a wall. Clothes strewn across the floor, makeup smudges on the dresser, books and crumpled papers everywhere. Typical. To the world, Petunia was just a sweet, unassuming human, and Willow was her half-wolf daughter, born of some tragic love story Petunia spun for my father. She claimed Willow’s father was a wolf who abandoned them, leaving her to raise a child alone. My father, kind-hearted and gullible, bought every word. Willow, of course, treated me like I was her personal servant, someone beneath her. Any time I tried to stand up for myself—yanking her hair or snapping back—I’d pay for it. First with a slap from Petunia, then another from my father. He loved me, I knew that, but the curse twisted everything. If he wasn’t hexed, I was sure he’d never hurt me. I sighed and began cleaning the room, picking up her mess. It was humiliating, but I had no choice. My eyes flicked to Willow, lounging on the bed like she was the princess of Crescent City. She wore one of her fancy white dresses, the kind Petunia always bought her, and lay on her stomach with her legs kicking in the air. A book was propped in front of her, and every few minutes, she’d giggle or blush. Probably reading one of those romance articles she loved so much. I paused for a moment, staring at her. How much I wanted to grab her ankles, yank her off the bed, and send her crashing to the floor. The thought of punching her smug face and knocking her teeth out sent a thrill through me that scared me a little. Violet tendencies, I called them. They were always lurking, just beneath the surface. “Don’t just stand there like an i***t!” Willow snapped, her shrill voice cutting through my thoughts. “Iron my clothes. Now!” I clenched my fists, swallowing my anger. It was me who had to go to school tomorrow, not her. But did that matter? Of course not. She didn’t have to worry about uniforms or classes. She was homeschooled by the best tutors money could buy, thanks to my father. Meanwhile, I was the one clawing my way through Thalvion Academy, where the stakes were higher than anything Willow could imagine. But none of that mattered in this house. Here, she was the queen, and I was just her servant. For now. Thalvion Academy was my only escape, the one place where I felt a sliver of freedom. Within its walls, I could learn about myself, my powers, and my kind—at least what little of them I could claim. The royal scholarship, granted because of my father’s position on the council, was the one perk I had. Everything else? I had to fight for it. But even here, something always nagged at me. A reminder of what I lacked. I should’ve gained the ability to reckon scents when I was fourteen, like every other wolf. But I didn’t. No matter how hard I tried, no scent came to me—not mine, not anyone else’s. It was as though my senses were broken, a constant source of shame. I had to fake it, pretending to recognize scents when others asked, crafting careful lies to mask my embarrassment. Still, the fear gnawed at me. What if I was wolfless? What if I was an omega—weak, powerless, and forever at the bottom of the pack hierarchy? I refused to accept it. I couldn’t. I needed my wolf. Not just to fit in but to rise above. To grow stronger, to prove I was better than my father, to fight for myself in a world that constantly pushed me down. The more I thought about it, the clearer it became. Petunia had to be behind this. She must have cursed me, just as she’d cursed my father. But even she couldn’t strip me of my destiny. A wolf was my birthright. My legacy. And I’d do whatever it took to claim it.