Slave Mate of the Cursed Lycan King

That half-moon night, the wood was a silent one…

Until all hell broke loose in the Lycan King’s Palace.

He practically growled loud enough for the whole pack to hear and no one, absolutely no one dared to break the curfew that had been laid during the peace week.

That week, as named so, is a week where no wolf, despite his or her ranks was to engage in any form of violence.

It had been deathly quiet until the Lycan King howled.

It was evident to everyone within earshot that it was one of pain, one of terrible agony.

In his clawed hands he held the body of his mate, Luna and wife, stabbed to death by a silver knife still embedded in her chest, right into her heart. Her body was starting to grow cold and stiff but the King refused to let go, letting his tears fall freely. Beside her body lay a small note, the same sign in a series of murders across the Kingdom bearing the pack’s signage.

There was no greater pain in his heart than the death of the woman he has come to love, to cherish and to hold as his forever one and only. The woman who stayed when he did not think about her, the woman who held his hand while his rage threatened to overcome him and so many more times when he did not deserve her or her love.

But here she is, dead, on the first night of Peace week…

The worst thing now is that he knows the pack of wolves behind this murder.

“Dahlia, I will avenge you!” He howls into the night, letting his pain take over him and as the pain comes, so does his bloodthirst climb over him until his body begins to tremble in anger, his growing fur glistening with danger.

He drops Dahlia gently and rises to his feet, the tears still falling nonstop down his face, he shifts in the middle of the floor, his bloodthirst climbing over every single logical thought he could possibly have and in his wolf form, he bounds out of the palace, no one there to restrain him.

At the White Moon Pack, the celebration of a new pup belonging to the Alpha is underfoot.

In the bright but incomplete moonlight, they are dancing, laughing, eating, drinking and making merry, happy that their pack is having a reason to celebrate among the gloominess that had surrounded them lately.

No one, absolutely no one has any plans to go to their own homes sober that night as it is a celebration thrown by the Alpha to welcome his new baby girl.

There is no greater freedom than this free living tonight.

The Alpha comes forward, a homely looking man in his late forties stand on a podium, holding a glass flute filled with bubbling champagne and clinks on it with a fork, a bright smile on his face as he opens his lips for the speech. “If the pack doctors told me my wife, your Luna, will birth another pup for me, I would laugh them to scorn. But there she was, screaming her lungs out this morning, I almost removed someone’s head listening to my wife scream like that…”

Every werewolf within listening range laughs at his joke.

“But here we are, naming another of my pups. This will be the last one, I promise you,” They all laugh again. “I consorted with my wife and we let her choose the name. We will name our new pup Amaris.”

Every wolf in the vicinity stares in awe at the small pup being brought up in the light of the bright, full moon.

With the angle which some of the bystanders are watching, the baby’s head stay right in between the circle of the moon, the bright moonlight illuminating her small, round face as she gurgles, kicking her legs happily in the air.

“AMARIS WHITEMOON, OF THE WHITE MOON PACK!” The Alpha, her father, yells, his smile deepening in the light. On the girl’s wrist as her name is proclaimed loudly to the Moon Goddess, a small, round and moonshaped mark appears behind her neck, shining for a split second before it takes her skin color.

Cheers go up in the crowd and applauses as the baby is being slowly brought down from her throne in the air.

That moment, exactly, is when the first scream pierces the air.

There is first silence as the wolves look around for the source of the painful howl.

Then the second shriekis even more earsplitting than the next as it suddenly gets cut off halfway, the sound of a bone snapping filling the air.

A round thing flies through the air and comes to land at the Alpha’s feet.

It is the head of his Beta, Beta Ronald, his dead eyes and terrified mouth forever in the middle of a scream.

The entire place erupts into one mass hysteria as wolves begin to run in all directions, but even more and more wolves can be heard screaming as heads are torn off the bodies, spines coming off and there is blood, gore and innards everywhere.

And smack in the middle of the whole furor is a berserk, blood thirsty and furious Lycan king.

As he snaps up a werewolf’s head, he raises his eyes and he meets that of the Alpha.

The Alpha trembles as their four eyes become one, shooing his wife and his children into the house behind him, locking the door on the outside.

“I love you, Amelia.” He whispers against the door against the panicked yelling of his wife, swallowing the key before turning back to the larger than life King that is now stalking towards him.

Faintly, he can hear his baby crying inside.

The Lycan King wades through many bodies, shifted and half shifting and normal bodies, all torn to pieces, the stench of death wades thickly through the air but neither of the two men break their eye contact.

The clearing is empty now, as everyone is now on the ground, writhing or dead.

Leaving the Alpha and the King to be the only ones standing in the large clearing that had just been filled with smiling wolves and a flourishing pack.

“King Damon, what a surprise…”

Snap.

The turn of the Alpha’s head makes a loud sickening crunch as his head makes a three hundred and sixty degree turn before the King, with a loud growl, pulls it cleanly out of his body, his spine coming out along with it.

He dangles it in the air, staring at the still wide open eyes of his prize.

He does not feel satiated for some reason.

Dahlia is dead… Dahlia is dead… Dahlia is dead… Is the mantra ringing over and over in his head and then a baby’s crying interrupts his riotous thinking and the sound grates on his already frayed nerves.

The door in front of him collapses in only one kick and it collapses to the ground.

Inside it is a woman with flowing silvery hair, a baby in her hands and two boys hiding behind her.

“Please, my King, spare us… Spare my children... Please, may the Moon Goddess favor you if you spare us and the remaining members of this pack. We do not know what it is that we have done, but please, spare us…” The woman pleads, falling on her face.

She is the opposite of Dahlia.

Dahlia would fight not beg, Dahlia had long blonde hair, Dahlia had only one son…

No.

Dahlia is dead, every other woman must die, especially the one belonging to that Alpha who dared to murder his mate.

With a loud, painful growl, he strikes them down without mercy, one by one.

From the mother whose hair seems to suddenly lose it’s silvery sheen, to the taller boy, to the smaller boy.

Leaving the baby.

He looks down at the girl who stares up at him with wide, googly eyes, tear stains at the edge of her eyes as she brings her crying down to a sniffle, looking at him with curiosity in her eyes.

Then she gurgles, laughing, reaching out and suddenly grabbing his front paws. He retreats immediately. He is covered in blood.

His claws hovered over her head, the faint scent of milk from the baby reaching his nose. The smell reminded him of his own son when he was born… faintly, remembers, in the haze of his fury, something Dahlia had said to him while she’d been rocking his son, “Life should not be sacrificed to hatred.” And for the first time in five hours, a peaceful thought crosses his head… “She is wearing white, don’t stain it.” He chides himself, taking a few cautious steps backwards.

She frowns and pouts her lower lip and it trembles softly as though she is about to start crying, as she watches him draw back.

Slowly, he makes his way forward again and she laughs, even louder than before.

He lets out a small grunt as he muzzles the baby, rubbing his cheeks on her small body before taking one big step backwards, his growl loud and dangerous.

No matter how much she laughs, she is a descendant of this cursed pack. He raises his large paws in the air, his claws long, shiny and sharp, ready to do damage to her, like he did to the others.

But the girl laughs again.

Amaris laughs.

Unable to do any harm, he picks her up, running on all fours in the direction of the moon, away from the mass dead bodies he has left behind, the baby cooing softly as she falls asleep on his back.