To Breed a Beast BOOK 2

"You look like you just walked out of a territorial bloodbath," Lucien said, his eyes scanning me from across the carved oak table. "Did the Blood Moon Council drag you into another interrogation, Chika?"

"Nobody dragged me anywhere," I muttered, dropping onto the leather bench beside him and ignoring the phantom ache in my shoulder where my Lycan marks throbbed. "Just the usual pack borders dispute."

"Eat this, Chika. It stabilizes the bloodlust when the moon gets high." Malik pushed a dark, iron-infused marrow biscuit toward me, rolling his amber eyes when I didn't immediately take it. "Seriously, you look dead on your feet. Take the offering before I eat it myself."

"What brings you to the Dominion safehouse, Malik?" I grabbed a steaming towel from the guard at the door, wiping the scent of copper and silver from my palms. "Shouldn't you be monitoring the southern docks?"

"The Alpha King’s execution orders are nearly fulfilled," Lucien answered for him, sliding a raw venison strip across the platter. "His little execution spree ends tonight. He came here to demand his final payment before retreating to the den."

Malik tore off a piece of his food with sharp, elongated canine teeth. "I actually came to deliver intelligence regarding the Vale Bloodline. Real, actionable pack movements."

"What kind of movements?" I leaned forward, my wolf stirring at the mention of the rival territory.

"I tracked Seraphina Vale's scent to the border lines three nights in a row," Malik purred, his eyes flashing gold in the dim light. "She’s meeting with the Northern Enforcers in secret. Three summits in three nights."

Lucien didn't look up from his blade. "The Vale line controls the black-market wolfsbane trade. It makes perfect sense for her to be securing an alliance before the old Alpha succumbs to his silver poisoning."

"Is she trying to claim the Alpha seat before the succession ritual?" Malik grinned. "Three secret meetings with the enemy. The female wants blood."

"The old Alpha received three doses of experimental moon-serum this month alone," Lucien said, his voice flat, dead, and lethal. "Eighty-six thousand silver coins per injection. Seraphina needs an alliance before he drops dead, or the rival packs will tear her throat out for the inheritance."

"That’s an Alpha Council secret," I said, my voice dropping an octave as my wolf pushed against my ribcage. "How do you know the exact cost of the serum, Lucien? The Vales execute anyone who speaks of their weakness."

Lucien raised his eyes, the absolute dominance in his gaze forcing Malik to look down first. "I have ears in every shadow from the Moonveil Grand Hall to the deep wilderness. Doesn't the Whitmore Bloodline keep spies in the dark?"

Malik scoffed, shifting his weight. "My scouts don't even go that deep."

I stayed quiet, watching the rhythmic rise and fall of Lucien’s chest. The Afolayan Dominion was supposed to be fractured, stripped of its ancient enforcers, yet this man knew the exact medical blackmail of a tier-one pack. He wasn't just a rogue hiding in the underbelly of the city; he was building an underground syndicate right under the High Council's nose.

If he had the power to overthrow the current Alpha King, why was he playing the submissive exile? Why keep me in the dark when my own bloodline could back his coup?

"I want to see you lead the war-drum cadence at the Blood Moon Reunion Gala tomorrow," Malik said, breaking the silence as he leaned toward Lucien. "The whole pack is talking about the Whitmore heir taking the center stage."

"You won't see me," I told him, shifting my shoulders under my leather coat. "I am not the lead Enforcer. I am just another body in the shield wall."

"I have Lycan sight, Chika," Malik laughed, nudging Lucien. "I can pick your scent out of a thousand rotting carcasses. Are you attending the ritual tomorrow, Alpha?"

Lucien’s eyes narrowed into slits. "Why do you care?"

"I want to ride in your transport," Malik said, baring his teeth in a mock challenge. "The security clearance for the Afolayan line gets you through the front gates without a scent-check."

"Buy your own passage," Lucien said.

"The gala starts at moonrise," Malik argued, his claws clicking against the table. "The front row seats are reserved for the execution squads. You have three royal passes. Chika told me."

Lucien glanced at me, his jaw tightening. "I am taking the enforcer detail."

"Three passes?" Malik hissed, turning his focus back to me. "Why are you keeping them from the syndicate?"

"I will give you a pass," Lucien snapped before I could answer.

"Give the third one to Ronan Blackwell," Malik suggested, a malicious grin spreading across his face. "He’s been desperate to watch Chika command the pack lines since the winter war."

"He can ask me himself," I said, my grip tightening on my glass until the crystal cracked. "The Blackwell Pack knows where the Whitmore borders are."

"He wouldn't dare ask," Malik muttered, watching Lucien’s knuckles turn white. "You belong to the Afolayan Dominion now, Chika. Ronan knows Lucien would rip his jaw off if he crossed the line."

The Silverfang Ceremony Chamber smelled of sweat, adrenaline, and old blood by the time the vanguard arrived at dawn. I had left the safehouse before the sun cleared the trees to strap into my ceremonial obsidian armor.

Darren, the vanguard commander, was standing by the weapon racks, his eyes locked on Vicky. His scent was sour with agitation.

"What is bothering your wolf, Darren?" I asked, checking the edge of my broadsword.

"Look at her," Darren growled, gesturing toward the center of the staging floor where Vicky stood among the elite warriors. "She’s flagging."

"She looks ready for the charge," I said, watching her adjust her gauntlets.

Darren didn't answer. He marched across the stone floor, his boots echoing like thunder, and grabbed Vicky by her iron shoulder-guard. "Drop the stance, Vicky. Your wolf is failing. Are you trying to get us slaughtered?"

"Take your hands off me!" Vicky snarled, her voice cracking as she ripped away from his grip. The raw, breathless quality of her shout made half the room draw their daggers.

"You’re harboring a silver-infection," Darren yelled, stepping into her space to dominate her stance. "If you shift during the vanguard charge, you will break the line and shame the Silverfang Chamber in front of the entire High Council!"

"I am not infected!" she screamed, her throat rattling as she reached for her blade. "Stop lying to the pack!"

"Get the pack healer down here," Darren ordered a young scout near the door. "Tell him to bring the silver-leech needles."

Vicky lunged to stop the scout, but her knees buckled. The silver sickness took her coordination, sending her swaying toward the stone floor. I caught her by the chest plate before she hit, the intense, unnatural heat radiating through her armor burning against my palms.

"How long has the poison been in your blood?" I whispered, holding her steady against my chest. "Did you take the serum?"

"Get away from me, Whitmore," she hissed, shoving her elbow into my ribs to break my hold. "I can fight."

The pack healer burst through the iron doors, flanked by three heavy enforcers. He held a black extraction syringe that gleamed in the torchlight. Vicky backed away, her fangs baring instinctively, but the enforcers pinned her arms against the weapon rack.

"This is an invasion ritual, Vicky," the healer said, pressing the needle against the vein in her neck. "If your blood is compromised, the Blackwell pack will hunt us to extinction for breaking the treaty. Do you want that blood on your hands?"

Vicky stopped thrashing, her breathing coming in ragged, shallow gasps. "Test it then."

The healer pulled the plunger. The fluid inside turned dark, smoky gray instantly. "High concentration silver-rot. You are stripped of the vanguard lead. You stay in the dens."

Vicky looked at the floor, her chest heaving as the remaining warriors turned their backs on her.

"Chika," the healer called out, pointing the stained needle at my chest. "You take the lead position at the head of the charge. Commander Darren will authorize the shift. Move to the front line now."

My wolf let out a low, victorious rumble in my skull as I looked back at Vicky. Her eyes were wild with hatred, her lips curled back over bleeding gums. I went to speak, but the war-horns blasted through the chamber walls, and the enforcers shoved me toward the staging gates.

The quiet preparation of the war-room dissolved into chaotic barking and the scraping of iron. Vicky sat alone in the dirt by the weapon racks, stripped of her rank, watching the pack leave her behind. I tossed a skin of pure mountain water at her feet as the heavy iron gates began to lift.

"Are you happy now, Whitmore?" she spat, her voice raw from the poison. "You and Darren planned this. You wanted the vanguard leadership from the moment the Afolayan Dominion bought your loyalty."