The fire teaches the wolf to kneel-or burn.

The black SUV sliced through the ancient forest, its engine a low growl under a sky thick with twilight. Pines, gnarled and towering, stood like old sentinels, their skeletal arms clawing at the fading light. Inside, Ethan Hale sat perfectly still-jaw tight, shoulders squared, eyes fixed ahead. He breathed in the scent of damp earth and pine needles, a raw, wild smell that cut through the sterile hum of the AC.

He'd studied this estate for months, devoured every shred of intel: blueprints, satellite photos, security rotas, even the kitchen staff's shift patterns. But no amount of data, no pixelated image or hushed rumor, could prepare him for the sheer, suffocating weight of the place. The Vandresa estate wasn't just a stronghold; it was a cathedral of violence. A sanctuary where monsters wore tailored suits and spoke in velvet tones, where power was measured in spilled blood, and the moon watched like an indifferent god, casting long, predatory shadows.

The massive iron gates, forged into snarling wolf heads, swung open without a whisper, as if they knew him, a pre-programmed acknowledgment of his arrival. The SUV glided into the sprawling courtyard, where fountains bled red water into marble basins, and colossal wolf statues, carved from white stone, howled perpetually toward the bruised sky. The air here was heavy, thick with ozone and something metallic, something like iron and old fear.

Ethan stepped out. He was six-foot-two, with dark, neatly cropped hair and olive skin that hinted at distant, sun-drenched ancestries. Beta-born, cursed with no shift potential, yet impossible to overlook. He wore a black turtleneck beneath a charcoal wool coat, a minimalist ensemble that made his lean, athletic frame seem almost predatory. His beauty was sharp, etched with angles and an inherent intensity. And his eyes-a startling, luminous gold with a subtle, almost imperceptible upward slant-gleamed not with awe, but with cold, precise calculation. Every breath was measured, every muscle coiled.

Two guards approached, their movements deliberate, almost lazy. Both shirtless, their torsos a roadmap of scar tissue, both branded with the Vandresa crest-a stylized, rampant wolf-burned across their chests like cattle.

Alphas, he noted, judging by the effortless arrogance in their stride, the way their shoulders rolled with contained power. Too confident. Too slow, for someone like him.

"Name?" one barked, his voice like gravel, his gaze sweeping over Ethan with open disdain.

"Ethan Hale. Enforcer transfer from the Marrow Ridge Pack," he said smoothly, his voice a low, even baritone that carried no tremor. "Approved by Alpha Vandresa himself."

They exchanged a glance, a silent conversation passing between them. The bigger one, a brute with a broken nose, lifted his head, sniffing the air with almost theatrical disdain. "Beta," he grunted, the word dripping with contempt.

Ethan didn't flinch, didn't react. His face remained a mask of polite indifference. "Efficient," he countered, the single word a quiet barb, highlighting their unnecessary slowness.

The bigger one's lips curled into a smirk, a flash of white teeth. He stepped forward, closing the distance, his bulk intimidating. "You don't smell like loyalty." The implication was clear: he smelled like an outsider, like prey.

"I don't smell like fear either," Ethan replied, his voice still low, but the temperature in the air seemed to drop several degrees. "Your Alpha wouldn't like delays." He met the man's gaze, his golden eyes unblinking, holding the challenge.

That earned a pause. The Alpha's sneer faltered, a flicker of uncertainty in his eyes. A second later, a voice, crisp and authoritarian, crackled through their earpieces-cleared access. A silent command, a reminder of the hierarchy even these Alphas couldn't ignore. The grand doors to the estate, massive and carved from dark, polished wood, swung open with a groan of ancient hinges.

Inside, the opulence was breathtaking, yet it was laced with an undeniable undercurrent of threat.

Crimson carpets swallowed footsteps, muffling all sound, as if the very air absorbed noise.

Chandeliers, intricate and heavy, hung from vaulted ceilings like skeletal jaws, dripping crystal teeth. Guards stood at every turn, some in their hulking wolf forms behind reinforced, mirrored glass panels, their eyes glowing in the dim light.

Others were human, towering figures-armed, bare-chested, their bodies a tapestry of old scars, each one a testament to battles fought and won.

The air was thick with the scent of old money, expensive cigars, and something else, something animalistic and dangerous that permeated everything.

Ethan was led through a labyrinth of echoing corridors to the Grand Hall, a throne room carved from dark, gleaming stone and a profound, watchful silence. The silence here wasn't peaceful; it was the silence of anticipation, of a predator waiting for its prey.

There, on a raised dais, Dominic Vandresa sat.

The Alpha of Alphas. A living myth, whispered about in hushed tones across the continent, draped in black and gold, exuding an almost palpable aura of lethal power. His silver-streaked hair, a striking contrast to his dark suit, was slicked back, sharp and severe, like the edge of a newly honed blade. His eyes were obsidian, depthless and ancient, fixed on a glass of deep red liquid that might've been the finest vintage wine-or something thicker, something that truly bled.

Around him, a semicircle of lieutenants stood in calculated proximity, their postures radiating deference mixed with their own simmering power.

Some leaned casually against pillars, their gazes bored yet watchful. Some growled under their breath, low rumbling sounds of impatience. Every man here had killed, had taken, had conquered something just this morning, or was planning to before the moon set. They were the apex predators, and Ethan, a beta, was the smallest fish in the deadliest pond.

Ethan bowed with perfect precision, a move rehearsed a hundred times in his mind, calibrated to convey respect without subservience. His gaze remained fixed on the space just above Dominic's head, an old trick.

"Beta Hale," Dominic said, his voice smooth as oil over flame, an unsettling calm that held a promise of violence. "You served under Varkos?"

"Yes, Alpha. Two years. He speaks highly of you."

A calculated lie, delivered with effortless conviction. Varkos was a worm and spoke of

Dominic only with a mixture of terror and grudging respect.

Dominic scoffed, a low sound that rippled through his lieutenants. "He speaks highly of who he fears."

A few chuckles ripped through the circle, sharp and predatory. Ethan remained still, his face unreadable, refusing to rise to the bait.

Dominic waved a hand, a dismissive gesture that nonetheless held absolute authority. "Your bloodline?"

"Maternal. Hale line. No shift potential. But I excel in infiltration, extraction, and-"

"We don't need mercenaries," Dominic cut in, his voice hardening, the pretense of politeness dropping away. "We need wolves who bleed for the cause. Who are loyal to the bone."

"I don't bleed," Ethan said, his voice flat, devoid of emotion, a counter-statement not a challenge. "I finish."

A profound silence descended, thick and heavy.

The air crackled with unspoken tension. The lieutenants shifted, their eyes narrowing, waiting for the Alpha's reaction.

Then, a slow, predatory grin crept across Dominic's face, spreading like a stain. The kind of smile predators made right before the lunge, a silent declaration of intent. "Confidence," the Alpha purred, rising from his throne with a fluid grace that belied his power. He stepped forward, closing the distance between them, his presence overwhelming. "That's rare in your kind. Most betas know their place."

"I know it, Alpha," Ethan replied, meeting his gaze directly now, his golden eyes unyielding. "I just have no intention of staying in it."

More silence, pregnant with anticipation. Then, a roar of laughter erupted from Dominic, deep and guttural, echoing through the hall. It wasn't friendly laughter; it was mocking, approving, a dangerous amusement. Dominic clapped Ethan on the shoulder, the weight of his hand heavy as iron, a test of his resolve.

"You may stay. For now. You'll shadow Rafe-my Second."

From the deeper shadows to Dominic's left, Rafe Danner stepped out. Built like a wrecking ball and twice as mean, with buzzed blond hair cropped brutally short and eyes like chips of frozen piss-cold, hard, and utterly devoid of warmth. He looked Ethan up and down, a slow, deliberate appraisal, like a lean dog sizing up a deer that foolishly claimed to be a lion. His lips, thin and bloodless, curled into a sneer.

"I'll enjoy watching you fail," Rafe muttered, his voice a low growl, clearly audible in the sudden hush.

"I'll enjoy proving you wrong," Ethan replied, his voice calm, unflappable, the quiet confidence a stark contrast to Rafe's open hostility.

Dominic raised his glass, a glint of red light catching his obsidian eyes. "Let's see how long before the wolves eat the beta." The words hung in the air, a dark promise.

They didn't notice her at first. No one ever did-not until it was too late, not until her shadow had already fallen upon them.

She sat near the back of the hall, beneath an arched window veiled in moonlight, a stream of cool, silver light illuminating her in the vast, shadowed space. A throne of her own, though it lacked the theatrical spectacle of Dominic's. No towering guards flanked her. No spotlight followed her every subtle movement. Just a chair carved from obsidian, its surface like polished night, with blood-red velvet cushioning that seemed to absorb the light. And the figure perched upon it.

Luna Vandresa.

Ethan saw her as he was being dismissed, her image burning itself into his mind. His gaze, usually so controlled, was drawn to her like prey to predator, or perhaps, he mused, the reverse.

She didn't look like royalty in the conventional sense. She looked like a curse in the shape of a woman. A beautiful, devastating curse.

Golden skin, flawless and luminous, lit by the moon's cool embrace. Black hair, long and untamed, falling in chaotic waves around her shoulders, a dark waterfall against the pale light. A red slit-dress, the color of fresh blood, wrapped around her impossibly lithe figure like sin stitched into silk, clinging to every curve. Her legs were crossed, one stiletto-clad foot swaying idly, betraying a deep-seated boredom-or something far deeper, something simmering beneath the surface. Her slender fingers, tipped with dark polish, drummed a restless rhythm against the obsidian armrest, not nervously, but with a vibrant, barely contained impatience.

Their eyes met. Just for a breath, a fleeting connection across the cavernous hall.

Her gaze didn't waver. She didn't offer a smile, not even a flicker of acknowledgment. But she saw him. Not just his physical presence, but through him, piercing the layers of his carefully constructed facade. A silent, potent recognition.

Then she turned away, her attention drifting to the moonlight on the windowpane, as if he had ceased to exist.

Dismissal? Disinterest?

No. That was the mistake everyone made with Luna Vandresa. They underestimated her. They believed her silence was weakness, her stillness, apathy. She didn't look away because he was unworthy. She looked away because she already knew.

He would come to her.

Later that night, long after the last echoes of the pack's revelry had faded, Ethan stood alone on a sweeping marble balcony overlooking the ancient, moon-drenched forest. The moon, a colossal, luminous orb, hung above like a slit pupil, watching, judging every shadow that stirred. Inside, distant music still echoed from the east wing, a faint throb of bass and laughter. The pack was celebrating something-probably nothing of significance. Every kill was a feast, every victory a brutal, triumphant fuck. That was the Vandresa way: raw, unbridled indulgence.

Ethan lit a cigarette, the flare of the match a brief, defiant spark in the vast darkness. He inhaled slowly, deeply, the acrid smoke filling his lungs. He didn't smoke for pleasure; he smoked to remember how to breathe like them. Like he belonged. Like the burning didn't matter.

"She's dangerous, you know."

Rafe's voice, rough and low, cut through the quiet behind him.

Ethan didn't turn. He took another drag, the tip of his cigarette glowing. "Who?"

Rafe stepped forward, joining him at the railing, his hulking frame casting a longer shadow. "The daughter. Luna. Dominic keeps her locked away for a reason, despite what the others whisper."

"I thought it was tradition," Ethan said, blowing a plume of smoke into the chill night air. "The Alpha's daughter, kept close, protected."

"It's fear," Rafe countered, his voice flat, devoid of the usual sneer, a rare moment of stark honesty.

Ethan finally glanced sideways, his golden eyes meeting Rafe's cold gaze. "Of what?"

Rafe exhaled slowly, a heavy sigh that carried the scent of stale whiskey and raw power. "She's not meant to lead, not in the way Dominic rules. But she's not meant to be silent either. She's... volatile. Untamed. Like moonlight on gasoline. You think it's beautiful. You're mesmerized by it. Until it burns everything, and everyone, around it." There was a grudging respect, perhaps even a hint of fear, in Rafe's tone.

Ethan smiled faintly, a brief, cold curve of his lips.

"Then maybe I'm fireproof."

"You're not," Rafe said, his voice dropping to a low, chilling growl. "No one is. Not when it comes to her." He turned abruptly and walked away, his heavy footsteps echoing down the marble corridor, leaving Ethan alone with the moon and his thoughts.

In his assigned quarters, Ethan lay on the plush, oversized mattress, eyes wide open in the absolute dark. The room was luxurious-rich fabrics, dark wood, an expansive view of the forest-but sterile. Like everything here. Clean.

Expensive. Empty. A cage, however gilded, was still a cage.

He closed his eyes, letting the image of her burn behind his lids, a vivid, compelling afterimage.

Luna Vandresa.

Not just beautiful. She was that, undeniably. But there was something more. He saw it in her posture, the way she sat like royalty, but not by choice, a captive queen. The way no one approached her, not a single guard, not an advisor, not a friend. She was isolated, kept, like a precious, dangerous relic. Or a weapon too potent to be unleashed.

She hadn't spoken a single word in the Grand Hall-but Ethan had felt her hunger. A deep, silent yearning for something more than gilded captivity.

He would feed it.

Not because he loved her. Not because he felt any affection or even empathy for the captive princess of this violent empire. His motivations were far colder, far more calculating.

Because she was the key. The inside. The lever that would break the empire, the Vandresa stronghold that had held his family, and countless others, in its iron grip for generations.

He whispered into the dark, the words a silent promise, a vow to the moon, to himself, to her.

"I'm coming for you, Luna."

And in some other wing of the house, miles away, bathed in the same cool moonlight, Luna shivered.

Not from cold.

From instinct. The whisper of something new, something dangerous, finally stirring the stale air around her.