King's Rage

Layleen

Ragnar.

The name alone sends a shiver down my spine. I know exactly who he is.

The Alpha of the Blood Moon Pack.

No—scratch that. The Alpha of Blood Moon, the most feared warrior pack in the entire kingdom, operating under the direct command of the Lycan King himself.

They call them the King's Rage—and from the stories I've heard, they live up to the name.

They say the Blood Moon Pack moves like wildfire, sweeping through lands and leaving nothing behind but the ashes of their enemies. And among those brutal warriors, Alpha Ragnar stands above them all.

I remember Dion mentioning him once. No one truly knows who Ragnar is. Some claim he's the Lycan King's own son, while others whisper that he's a cursed wolf—an orphan the king found on one of his patrols and raised as his own.

Whatever the truth may be, one thing is certain: when Ragnar appears, it means trouble. A lot of trouble.

"What the fuck does this mongrel want with us?!" Storm snarls, his grip on my arm tightening so hard I fear he might snap the bone.

The third man swallows hard, his attempt at composure failing as he stammers, "I—I'm not sure. Our men spotted their wolves near our lands, and before we knew it, they had already crossed the border. There are cars too."

"Cars?" Jack chimes in, his interest piqued. "So they're not just patrolling?"

Storm mutters a curse under his breath before spitting on the floor. He turns to his companion, his jaw clenched. "Do we have anything to dress them in?"

He jerks his chin toward me, and Jack scratches the back of his head thoughtfully, likely running through their options. "Might be able to scrounge up some pieces of the maids' uniforms from the basement. Pretty sure we've got something left from that roleplay orgy we had last summer."

His lips stretch into a vile grin, but Storm doesn't share his amusement. His expression remains cold and unreadable as he shoves me toward Jack with enough force that I nearly stumble. Jack catches me with ease, his grip tightening as he skillfully gathers my wrists behind my back—just as he had done with Sheryl.

"Dress them as maids and send them to my office once they're ready," Storm orders, already turning away. Two men follow closely behind him as he strides toward the door. "And get some drinks ready. Dig into the luxury supplies."

"Sure thing, Alpha Storm," Jack replies smoothly before pushing me and Sheryl toward the opposite end of the dimly lit, narrow hallway. "You heard the man, sweet cheeks. Move it."

Sheryl lowers her head and follows without resistance, her silence unsettling. I hesitate, casting a final glance over my shoulder as Storm disappears from view.

Ragnar is here.

And soon, I'll be standing face to face with him.

***

I watch as Sheryl fastens a small, round apron around her waist, the delicate white frills unexpectedly complementing her current outfit. With her usual elegance, she picks up a white frilly chocker and puts it on with practiced ease. But even in her graceful movements, I catch the faintest tremor—an unguarded slip in her carefully maintained composure.

The chocker looks odd, almost out of place, but it serves a purpose—concealing the needle marks on her neck where they injected the poison to suppress our wolves. Cunning bastards.

Sheryl adjusts the apron, then shifts her gaze to me, her striking features twisted in a silent but unmistakable question: What the fuck are you looking at?

I flinch, dragging my eyes away. They settle instead on the short black maid's dress lying crumpled at my feet. I wasn't as lucky as Sheryl—my current dress is too long, too elaborate, making it painfully obvious that I don't belong in a servant's uniform. If I walk into that room dressed like this, it'll raise suspicion.

"Well?" Jack's gruff voice snaps behind me, punctuated by an impatient nudge of his elbow against my back. "Get dressed."

I let out a slow, reluctant breath. I have no choice but to obey. My fingers rise to my shoulder, hesitating before undoing the first strap that holds my sleeve. I don't want to undress in front of this man. I don't want to undress in front of anyone but Dion. Enough people have already seen my body against my will.

The strap slides down my arm, baring the first sliver of skin—

Suddenly, Sheryl steps forward, planting herself between me and Jack.

"She can't wear that." Her voice is firm but measured, laced with an underlying tension. "Her body is covered in scars. I doubt Alpha Ragnar will find that appetizing, even if it's just to serve drinks."

I freeze, momentarily speechless, caught off guard by Sheryl's unexpected words. Is she… trying to protect me?

"What?" Jack barks, shoving her aside before grabbing my arm. His thick fingers yank at the flowing sleeve of my dress, tearing it down my shoulder. The moment my skin is exposed, he recoils, his face twisting with disgust. For a brief second, he just stares—then, with a curse, he shoves me back, as if my scars physically repulse him.

"Fuck!" He growls, kicking the discarded maid's dress aside.

"Fine! Whatever!" His irritation crackles in the air as he gestures sharply at my torn sleeve. "I'll tell them you're dressed fancy because it's a special occasion or some shit!"

Muttering another string of curses under his breath, he snaps his fingers at both of us. "Follow me. The drinks are in the kitchen."

Sheryl moves first, and I fall in line behind her. I quicken my steps, wanting to whisper a quiet thanks for stepping in, but the second I part my lips—

"Don't bother." Her voice is a low, menacing hiss, cutting me off before I can utter a single word. "I just couldn't stand watching you fidget with your clothes. You would've only caused us trouble."

My mouth snaps shut, and I instinctively step away, putting some distance between us. The heat radiating from her body is palpable, thick with hostility.

Of course. Why would she want to help me?

We finally step into the kitchen, and I immediately take in the stark contrast to the one in the Dark Wood pack house. The space is suffocatingly dim, the air heavy with the scent of old wood and something metallic, like rust or dried blood. There are no windows, no sign of natural light—only a few sparse, flickering orange bulbs, casting eerie shadows against the dark walls.

Where the hell are we?

One thing is certain: Alpha Storm does not like the light.

The atmosphere is suffocating. Heavy. Depressing.

A large, round man greets Jack with a knowing nod before motioning toward the table in the center of the room. It's laden with bottles of alcohol—luxurious brands, their labels gleaming under the dim, flickering light. Most of them are unopened, their pristine condition suggesting they were hoarded rather than enjoyed.

How generous of Alpha Storm to share his private stash.

Then again, who wouldn't?

It's Ragnar, for Goddess's sake.