Ceries “Ceri” Royce

They were late.

Ceri leaned against a marble column, lazily swirling champagne in a crystal flute, dressed in something sheer and royal and deeply disrespectful. The palace ballroom was a bore tonight, all stiff collars and thicker egos.

Until he smelled them.

Oh. Oh, no.

His heart stuttered. His lungs caught fire. And something—deep, ancient, cosmic—pulled tight across his spine like a corset laced by fate itself.

He turned. Slowly. Dramatically. And there they were.

Gorgeous. Radiant. Confused. His.

Ceri blinked once. Twice. Then scoffed under his breath.

"Oh, you’ve got to be kidding me." His wolf, Velvet, stirred immediately. Purring, growling, full of teeth.

“Ours. Lick them. Bite them. Claw marks first, love poems later."

Ceri sipped his champagne with a pout. “You couldn’t have picked someone boring? Someone I could ignore? Nooo, of course not.” The bond thrummed in his blood, pulsing hot and needy. His thighs clenched. His mouth watered. He wanted to run. He wanted to pounce.

He sauntered over instead.

They looked up—drawn to him like everyone always was—and the moment their eyes met, everything locked. Destiny wrapped around his throat like a velvet ribbon, and Ceri only smiled wider.

“Hi,” he said, voice light and laced with venom-laced sugar. “Before you say anything stupid like ‘hello’ or ‘nice to meet you,’ let’s clear a few things up.”

He stepped into their space, finger dragging along their collarbone, voice dropping just a little lower.

“You’re mine. Cosmic bullshit or not. I don’t care if you’re Alpha, Beta, or a golden retriever in a nice coat—I own this connection now.”

“Let me ride them into next week,” Velvet hissed, “then eat anyone who looks too long.”

Ceri smirked, lips brushing the edge of a gasp that hadn't even fully formed.

“So here’s what’s going to happen,” he whispered. “You're going to worship the ground I walk on, ruin me in ways I approve of, and learn very quickly that I'm not your sweet little Omega fantasy.”

“I’m the Royce who makes you beg.” And just like that, he turned—twirling his glass, hips swaying, smirk dripping sin.

“They’ll follow,” Velvet purred. “They always do.”

And oh, they would.