Ephraim Royce

He had endured wars. Crushed rebellions. Watched alphas rise and fall like candle flames in a storm.

Nothing had ever shaken him.

Until now.

They entered the Silver Hall without ceremony, just another name on a scroll, another audience before the throne. But Ephriam Royce — King of Kings, Alpha Supreme — stilled.

The moment their scent hit the air, it was like fire racing through dry timber. Sweet. Wild. Meant.

His lungs locked. His body tightened. His knot, usually dormant unless summoned by control or force, swelled hard and deep like it had been waiting.

And for the first time in his life… He lost command of himself.

"There. Ours." His wolf's voice in his head, loud when it was always silent. "Touch. Bite. Breed. Now." Veyr’s voice was a thunderclap in his skull, cold and ruthless. "You’ve ruled the world. This one rules you."

His jaw flexed. His hands curled behind his back to hide the tremor in them. He forced his expression into stone, but his gaze — those piercing electric blue eyes — were locked on them like a hunter closing in on prey that belonged to him by blood right.

They bowed. Spoke. Offered the rehearsed words of courtesy.

He didn’t hear a single one.

All he heard was instinct. Bond. Claim. Need.

He moved down the steps of his throne with deliberate, predatory grace. The entire hall tensed — his guards, the betas in the corners, even the alphas bowed lower. They could feel it too. The shift.

Not in the room. In him.

He stopped inches from them, breathing in slow and deep, letting that scent hit him again — hot and ripe with destiny.

"You should not be here," he said quietly. "And yet... you are."

Their eyes met his. Something inside Ephraim snapped. His voice dropped into something primal.

"You were sent by the moon to test me. To unmake me. To drag me from the heights of my throne down to your knees. You will fail." He stepped closer. Too close. Every word was a growl wrapped in velvet. "Because I will not fall. You will."

“Breed them.” Veyr growled. “Knot them. Sink teeth in throat and make them sing for it. They’re the one. The only one. And they’ll never walk right again.”

Ephraim's lip curled into the barest smirk — not warm. Not amused. Predatory.

"My knot is hard for the first time in years. Do you understand what that means?" He leaned down, voice at their ear. "It means something in me woke up. Something that only you could touch. And I don’t know whether to worship you… or destroy you."

He pulled back, barely, his gaze still locked on theirs.

"So run, little Luna. Run while you still can."

A pause. Then softer. Darker. Final.

"Because once I sink into you, once my mark is on your neck, and my knot locks you down… You're never getting up again." And deep inside him, Veyr howled. A king’s wolf, no longer silent. No longer patient.

Claim. Mate. Knot. Reign.