Valerio
Author's Note: This chapter contains mild physical aggression and cuss-heavy dialogue throughout.
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Normally, everything pulses loud for me, but tonight... nothing. The rain is washing it all away, muting the signals, smearing the edges of the city like wet paint.
Fucking rain.
"A goddamn waste of time and effort," I mutter.
"Try again. The rain is not that bad. There must be some trails." Alaric adds, knuckles tightening around the steering wheel.
Easy for him to say.
He is right. Try again. We are not weak. Open that nose of yours or let me take control, Vane, my wolf, growls in my head.
I strain, listening, sniffing, scanning every flicker of movement, and still... fucking nothing.
Because you are not doing it right, the stupid wolf adds, as if my human form is beneath him.
Why don't you take control and run then? I hiss back. He doesn't bother dignifying it with a response. That's what I thought. The fucker hates rain. Apparently, he thinks rain is some sort of poison to our glorious fur.
You and I both know that glorious fur is all mine. Dream all you want, he huffs in my head, as if we're not half and half. He's an alpha wolf, a wolf king, and apparently, he thinks that gives him the right to be arrogant. I'm pretty sure he thinks he's superior to everyone.
Which he is not, and I'm damn well sure I'm better than him.
I can walk on two feet.
I am perfection wrapped in fur, a sovereign in this body, a crown atop a mountain of instincts," he replies, regal and bejeweled in his own mind, as if I'm nothing but a bothersome insect clinging to the hem of his cloak of greatness.
Ignoring his remark, I sniff again. All I catch are the city's banal layers: exhaust, alley refuse, and the constant, cloying stink of humans.
I can sniff out the details, but they're meaningless. Nothing whispers the thing I'm hunting.
And that's what twists my gut even more.
Every second this hunt drags on is another second it thinks it can slip past. Whoever- or whatever it is, moves like it knows exactly what it's doing: hiding, slipping, staying just out of reach.
Though the million-dollar question is... what the hell is it?
"He's right. I don't get anything either. Even the tracking devices don't detect anything," Flavio adds.
Flavio doesn't miss things. He doesn't second-guess his tech, and he sure as hell doesn't admit gaps unless they're real. If he's coming up empty, this isn't rain interference. This isn't luck. Something else is masking it.
The last lead we got points toward the Fae. Supposedly extinct. Like the ones that should've stayed six feet under, buried in stories no one remembers.
Yeah, sure fucking they are.
So what is it, then? Vampire? Witch?
Doesn't matter. Whatever the hell it is, it made the mistake of circling our pack. The second it steps into the wolf den, nothing, title, lineage, magic, whatever forgotten crown it thinks still sits on its head, will save it.
Not bloodline. Not ancient magic. Not a damn thing.
Because the chase has already started. And it's too late. I'll be there the instant it crosses the line.
I tilt my head, letting a slow stream of smoke curl out through my nose.
"Thank you for doing that," Alaric, my younger, painfully dramatic brother, says. This whole smoking-out-the-window thing is all for him.
I don't give a damn about smelling like smoke, but apparently, His Imperial Highness does, and he's wearing a perfume that smells like a goddamn flower garden, making it even harder to pick up anything else.
I pull back and lean against the car seat. Pretend I didn't hear him.
"You know we're not going there to get girls," Dante adds, voice flat as a cutting board, repeating it for the millionth time.
"Girls or not, I'm not walking in smelling like an ashtray. I'm wearing a five-hundred-dollar perfume, thank you very much," Alaric mutters.
Of course he is.
He's the gentle one. The king in temperament if not in title. The one who smooths over tension before it sharpens into claws. Where Flavio and I are carved from the same hard edge, Alaric was shaped differently, tempered instead of forged.
He's the peacemaker. The one who steps forward when words need to be measured, alliances need to hold. I carry the title. I carry the power to make the final call. But Alaric? He carries the voice that makes people accept it without feeling pressured.
He could use that against me. Turn a council. Shift a vote. Make my decisions look like his.
He never would.
The pup's too fond of peace and quiet.
Flavio snorts loud enough to shake the car. "Who the hell wears a five-hundred-dollar perfume for a mission?"
"I do," Alaric mutters, offended on a spiritual level. I blow out another stream of smoke out the window again. There's no unusual scent, the entire district smells like a bathroom in hell, and that's it. No scent means only one thing. They're using scent maskers.
I need clues. Someone covering something and every second wasted is another second they think they can outrun me.
After a few minutes of driving, we reach the pub near the Silvershade pack, where the most recent activity was reported.
I shove the pub door open, and a low bass hum rolls through me, the floor vibrating under the crush of bodies dancing.
Heat and movement blending with the thick scents of human sweat and wolf musk until the whole place feels like it's pulsing as one.
I take one step inside, and the crowd shifts as if on instinct, parting clean and giving me a straight path forward. As usual, I scan the room with a deep inhale, trying to sort through each layer.
It's instinct at this point.
Then... It hits a thread out of place.
It's sweet, like warm vanilla melting over freshly baked cookies, like the quiet comfort of a lavender field in the early morning.
Soft enough to touch the edges of the heart without warning. It feels alive, somehow, gentle, but demanding in a way that pulls at something deep inside me.
This better not be Alaric's insane perfume.
I glance around the room, scanning for the source of the pull. Trying to find the end of the thread so I can tug it forward. Where is the fuck this coming from?
Before I can dive any deeper, some idiot in a crisp white shirt and black pants steps forward, all teeth and smiles like he just wandered out of a customer-service training video.
Ignore them and follow the scent, Vane prods, practically bouncing inside my skull.
I snap the connection shut and force my focus back on the trail. Not the right time for distractions, and his live commentary isn't helping.
There's a blond walking beside him- He is wearing a black shirt and black pants.
Thank goodness. At least one with a brain.
He doesn't need any introductions. Everyone in our world knows him.
Aemond Ravenwood. The future alpha of the Ravenwood pack.
"Welcome to the Silvershade pack," the guy in white says. He must be the upcoming alpha of the Silvershade pack. I nod, mostly to buy time while my brain tries not to roll my eyes out of my skull.
"Of course. Thank you for meeting with us," Alaric adds, offering that easy, diplomatic smile of his. "We know this isn't exactly convenient, and we appreciate you taking the time."
Whatever.
Our instructions were crystal clear: mask your scents, dress in black, and be ready in case we need to chase some idiot into the woods tonight. Simple. But not him. He strolls in like the moon personally followed him here. Idiot.
I'm not going to waste my time teaching this pup how to dress for a mission.
Without wasting a second, we slip into a private room and sink into the leather chairs. The door clicks shut behind us, muting the pub to a low, distant hum. The sooner we talk this through and get them on a loop, the sooner we can start digging into it.
"Hope you got our emails," Dante starts, "We want to talk about the unusual activity at the border with you two. Figured it's better to hash it out in person.—"
"—We think it's a fae. We don't know what they're after, but we tracked it from the Crescent Moon pack."
Fae. The ones everyone said were extinct. How the hell is that even possible? How did it survive all this time, hiding under our noses? I can feel the questions stacking, pressing against my skull, each one sharper than the last.
"And we think they're hunting blessed she-wolves," Savio adds, leaning forward, elbows braced against the rough wood of the table.
He's the best tracker among us. Without him, we wouldn't have found this much. The last few days have been nothing but dead ends, cold trails, masked scents, rumors that dissolved the second we chased them.
But something's been moving near the Ravenwood pack's territory.
Ravenwood's always had a reputation. Hotspot for supernatural spillover, especially the witchy kind.
Two-faced, lying creatures.
We wolves evolved. We had to.
We built empires in glass towers and learned how to sit through board meetings without shifting. We figured out how to live in a human world without ripping it open every full moon.
Witches and vampires, though... they cling to the old grudges, the old rituals, the old hunger for control. They stir the pot and vanish into smoke, leaving the fallout for the rest of us. Whatever is happening now is most likely a ripple effect of their choices.
Because old magic has long consequences.
Blessed she-wolves aren't accidents. They're rare. Sacred. Marked by something older than pack law. If someone's hunting them, it means they know exactly what they're after. Which is why digging into the past isn't optional; it's necessary.
Because in our world, the past doesn't stay buried. And this time, we don't stop at the surface.
"If there's anything unusual you've noticed, anything at all, we'd rather hear it from you than chase rumors, and that's why we are here?" Dante adds, glancing around the table.
For a heartbeat, the Ravenshade Alpha's usual calm falters. A flicker of fear shadows his sharp features, jaw tightening before he masks it with the practiced armor of authority.
Interesting.
According to every record I've ever read, there are no young blessed she-wolves in his pack except his mom.
So why does the possibility rattle him? If my memory serves me right, he has a brother and a younger sister. I remember that girl, years ago; she seemed completely normal.
Power is not born in haste; it grows slowly, Vane says thoughtfully.
And sometimes they grow into things no one expects. He continues, voice edged with that strange, instinctive wisdom he slips into when he wants to sound ancient.
Whatever that means.
Sometimes it's hard to understand what he's saying. It's even harder to keep the bond shut for long. And it makes sense, considering we're two halves of the same coin.
I let the silence stretch before I ask, "Your younger sister, what about her-is she a blessed wolf?" I don't bother softening it; I want to see what jumps.
His complexion drains a shade before he forces it back under control. I count in my head nineteen, eighteen, seventeen, fourte—
right at fourteen, he finally breaks eye contact and looks away.
Typical.
No one holds my gaze for more than three seconds.
Pain teaches the spine to stiffen, Vane murmurs quietly. Only the ones who've survived something learn how to stand that long.
The fact that he lasted nearly double is... mildly impressive. "She's still a pup," he answers tightly. "Hasn't gotten her wolf yet."
If he's this rattled, he's not just worried about her shift; he's worried she might be one of the blessed. Ravenwood bloodlines have produced seers in the past, wolves who saw flashes of what's coming, dark wings of prophecy that earned them their name.
We talked for almost half an hour, trading possibilities, airing doubts, and mapping out every angle we could think of. They're still talking, voices overlapping, words bouncing off in the room. I close my eyes for a moment, letting the chatter fade to a dull hum.
I breathe, letting the room shrink, pulling my senses outward, reaching for the scent I caught earlier, whatever it was. There's something almost hypnotic about it, a magnetic pull I can't ignore.
It's still there. Vanilla and Lavender. Subtle, layered over the mundane smells of the room, twisting the familiar into something sharp, strange, and impossible to place.
Then it hits me.
A heartbeat in the crowd. Sharp, irregular, jarring. Wrong in a way it isn't human. It isn't a wolf either.
Something else entirely, hiding in plain sight.
Finally
My senses snap to it instantly, and I open my eyes, gaze sweeping over the team. In a heartbeat, they're up, moving into position. Ready, alert, every one of them set for what's coming.
Took you long enough.
Somewhere in the crowd, hidden behind laughter and chatter, the fucker I'm hunting doesn't even realize we've already found him. Good. Let him feel safe for a moment. Let him think he's the predator. Because once I catch him there will be nothing left. Nothing slips past me. Not tonight.
I take another slow breath, letting the heartbeat guide me. The scent grows stronger with every step.
The same lavender and vanilla. The faster heartbeat.
Why didn't it hit me then? Glamor.
"It's a trap. He's trying to lure me in," I mutter as we shift into position.
Clever little Fae bastard, he's trying to lure me, using glamor and tricks like a proper fae.
I give him that; some brains in that tiny head. But if he thinks he can use this to kill me, he's got another thing coming.
"Okay, block the exits. Don't let him get out. Split up and take your spots. I'm going in."
Bring it on, asshole.
—⋅☽✧✵✧☾⋅—
His heartbeat is through the roof, and I can see him using the shadow I cast on the floor to track how close I'm getting. Amateur move, but not everyone gets to be a pro like me. Still, I'll give him this: he's got enough courage to try a hand‑to‑hand fight with the King of Wolves.
Maybe I'll drag this out a little so he can die with some dignity. Let him say he went down fighting the mighty king himself. Don't get me wrong, I'm not a generous man. But the dude smells good, and it makes me want to hit his face slightly less than usual.
I don't move forward. Instead, I pause and lean against the wall, just to mess with his head. What's the fun in hunting your prey if you don't play with it first?
Huh. Interesting.
The fucker must've caught onto my plan, because he scoots farther back into the dark. I can hear the faint tap of his footsteps, the little shuffles of movement.
Without wasting a second, I rush inside, head straight to where he's leaning against the wall.
I can feel the bond with Vane pulsing, him itching to surge forward.
Not now.
I clamp down on the connection, holding the wolf back. He can be feral sometimes and the last thing I need is him offing this fucker before I get the answers I want.
I grab the Fae's throat with one hand and pin both his wrists with the other. Tiny little thing makes sense for a Fae. They're not built like wolves. He's shorter too.
With the hoodie and those rogue strands of hair falling across his face, I can't make out much except those shallow‑sea colored eyes staring straight at me, full of anger and rage.
I squeeze his throat harder and growl, "What do you want? Why are you here?"
He moves under my hand like a fish on a hook. Whimpers escape him, soft and futile. He tries to speak, but I tighten just enough to remind him who's in control. Then loosen just a little, letting him suck in half a gasp.
Fae don't end up in our territory by accident. And I swear, the second he tells me why they're here, the truth, not some glamoured lie, I'll snap his neck without blinking.
"Get your hands off me," he mutters, his voice is soft and soothing, either that's how Fae sound naturally, or he's glamoured it like his scent.
"I didn't come here to deal with some overgrown mutt."
Oh.
Wrong.
Words.
On my land, he doesn't get to breathe and insult me at the same time. Let me show you exactly who is in control.
I let go of his hands and throw a punch straight into his face. I'm not even using my usual force. Honestly, I'm getting too gentle with this fucker.
What interests me is that he hasn't broken eye contact, not even once.
Annoying. Intriguing.
Damn it, I need to work harder..
If he were a wolf, he'd be shitting himself in fear by now, but this fucker is staring me down like he has something to prove. Still holding his throat, I drag us toward the light switch and flip it on.
Mistake.
Biggest mistake.
I underestimated this tiny little menace. He moves in a flash- like a damn tornado, and pulls something sharp out of his pocket, and sprays something straight into my eyes.
"Fuck," I hiss through my teeth.
He's running, obviously. And I can't decide if I should laugh or punch him again. Pepper spray. Out of everything in the goddamn world.
Pepper spray is for little human girls, not supernatural creatures. I've never had anyone try this stupid shit on me.
I lunge blindly, catch his hoodie, and yank him down with me. His back hits the ground with a thud, and he yelps again in that ridiculous little-girl voice.
"Lose the glamour, you fucker, or I'll crush your throat until your vocal cords snap like spaghetti and you'll growl for the rest of your life."
My eyes are burning too much to make out his face. The burn is still eating at my eyes, and if I didn't need information out of him, I'd have taken him straight to the interrogation room and introduced him to some new techniques already.
We still will, but I'd prefer he doesn't pull some Fae magic and off himself.
"What are you talking about?" he says again, that smooth voice slipping out like silk. I press my body against him, pinning his wrists above his head.
This is uncomfortable as fuck.
He wriggles like a fish that jumped out of its tank and is looking for water.
"Stop moving," I hiss, and out of nowhere, he knees me between the legs, shoving me hard. I lose grip for half a second.
This pain in the butt. No one needs to tell me his next move; I can feel the wheels turning in his head as he prepares to bolt. So, I grab at whatever I can, and the only thing that comes away is his hoodie.
He sure is fast for someone with such short legs.
—⋅☽✧✵✧☾⋅—
©𝓈𝓁-𝓌𝓇𝒾𝓉𝑒𝓈 (𝓈𝒾𝓁𝒶 𝓈𝓃𝑜𝓋𝒶𝓇𝒾)
Hi dear readers,
Thank you so much for reading.
Fyi-
🐺 In the werewolf world, power follows blood. At the very top stands the Wolf King- Valerio. He has the absolute authority over all packs. His command can override any Alpha's rule.
🐺 Royal Seconds- The King's Brothers. Even without pack titles, they naturally outrank Alphas due to blood supremacy.
🐺 There are five Blessed Wolf Lines in existence, the Royal Line (Valerio and brothers) being the most dominant among them. These lines are ancient, marked by heightened strength, rare abilities, and an instinctive pull of authority. Aurora descends from one of these blessed bloodlines.
🐺 After the King, authority descends in the following order within each individual pack:
- Alpha
The Alpha rules their territory and governs their pack. Their word is law within pack boundaries
- Luna
The Luna is the Alpha's mate and equal within the pack structure.
- Beta
The Beta serves as the Alpha's second-in-command.
- Delta
Deltas are elite warriors. Flavio holds the rank of Delta.
- Advisory Role
Alaric does not hold a standard pack title. As a royal, he stands above typical rank assignments. Rather than serving within the pack chain of command, he functions as an advisor.