She felt him long before the knock.
The pull of his presence pressed against the walls like a storm approaching—uninvited but inevitable. The air changed when he came near. He carried hunger in his silence, tension in the way shadows deepened just before his arrival.
Seraphina stood at the window, the moonlight caressing her bare skin like it knew her secret. She wore only a whisper of fabric—silk, nearly sheer, clinging to the curves of her hips, her chest outlined like temptation sculpted by starlight. Her hair was unbound, wild, and fell down her back in loose waves.
She didn't dress for modesty tonight.
She dressed for the king who could not resist knocking.
And right on time…
A single knock.
Low. Measured. Controlled—like him.
She didn't call out.
Didn't answer.
She let the silence stretch.
Then the door creaked open, and Kael stepped in.
He froze.
Just for a moment.
His eyes—gold, sharp, and suddenly darker—raked over her figure, lingering on the hem of the robe as it shifted against the candlelight. His breath caught, but only slightly.
He had seen war. Death. Betrayal.
But nothing, nothing, prepared him for this sight.
"Wearing silk to sleep?" he said, voice like gravel laced with restraint.
"I wasn't planning to sleep," she murmured, not turning around. "You came earlier than I thought."
Kael closed the door behind him with a quiet thud.
She turned slowly to face him, letting the robe slide open just slightly more, enough for suggestion. Enough for his wolf to snarl beneath his skin.
"I should leave," he said hoarsely, though his feet didn't move.
"You should," she said. "But you won't."
She stepped closer, every movement deliberate. Slow. Liquid.
Kael watched her like a starving man forced to eat with his hands bound.
"You wore that for me," he said.
"I wore this," she said, "because I knew who would knock first."
A pause.
Then he reached for her—but stopped just short of touching.
She leaned in, her voice brushing his ear.
"You play king well, Kael. But tonight, you came as something else."
His hands found her waist—warm, trembling, firm. His lips hovered near hers.
"I came," he whispered, "because if I stayed away, I'd lose my mind."
Then he kissed her.
The tension cracked like glass under heat.
His mouth was fierce, desperate, but not careless. His hands explored the curve of her hips, the dip of her lower back, tracing her like a map he was afraid to forget. She let him touch her, let him fall into her heat—knowing every inch was a trap.
And just as the robe slipped from her shoulder—
Another knock.
Harder. Sharper.
Seraphina stilled. Kael cursed under his breath.
The door opened without permission.
Rhydian.
The Lykan King filled the doorway, taller in the dark than Kael had looked in the light. His eyes burned silver—and when they landed on Seraphina, they flickered with something close to pain.
Kael didn't move.
Neither did she.
Rhydian's voice was a low growl. "You dressed for him."
Seraphina's voice was soft, smoky. "I dressed for the one who couldn't help himself."
A silence pulsed between them.
Rhydian stepped inside. The tension thickened, sharp as a drawn blade.
Kael's voice was low, warning. "Get out."
But Seraphina raised a hand—stopping them both.
"No."
She stood between them now, barely clothed, completely unshaken.
"You both came. You both want."
She looked to Rhydian. "And now you burn."
Then to Kael. "And now you'll bleed."
The moon watched in silence as she walked past them both.
And neither king could move.
Because they knew:
They were no longer hunting her.
They were the ones being hunted.
---
The scent of her lingered.
Even now, hours later, it clung to his hands, his skin, soaked into the threads of his coat. The scent of divine omega. The scent of Seraphina.
Rhydian stood in the moon-drenched courtyard beneath the old stone arches, the place where she last danced—not with him—but with Kael. He could still see it, feel it: the way Kael's hands had moved across her waist, the way her robe slipped just low enough to drive a kingdom mad.
He had watched her let Kael kiss her.
And she had looked at him afterward.
Like she meant for him to see it.
He bared his teeth to the dark, but did not growl.
Control.
That's what separated a Lykan King from a wolf.
But it burned—gods, it burned—to let another man touch what his blood howled to claim.
She had made a game of it. He knew it. He felt it.
But if Kael thought this was over…
He didn't understand what kind of man Rhydian had become.
At dawn, he summoned his second-in-command.
"I want a territory marked inside the Eastern Court."
The man blinked. "You mean to stay?"
"I mean to hunt."
The command was clear. The Lykan King had never staked presence outside his realm—not for treaties. Not for wars. He preferred wilderness to courtrooms, instinct to words.
But now…
Now he would use their language.
He would stay. He would stalk.
And he would win.
That evening, Seraphina returned to her chambers and found something new.
No roses. No grand gestures. No courtly gifts.
Just fur-lined leathers, neatly folded and placed on her chaise.
And a mark burned into the leather strap: a crescent moon pierced by two fangs.
The royal mark of the Lykan King.
Not a gift.
Not a demand.
A warning—or a promise.
She touched the fabric, her fingers lingering on the warmth still held in the leather.
And she smiled.
Because she knew what it meant:
Rhydian wasn't waiting anymore.
He had begun to move.