The Lycan King

POV: Viktor

The stench of sex was thick enough to choke on, a cloying mix of sweat, female heat, and the lingering musk of my own release. On the rumpled silk sheets, the two she-wolves I’d just finished with were tangled together, their limbs pale and slick in the low light. They were still coming down from the high, kissing each other with breathless moans while I sat on the edge of the mattress, utterly detached. I felt nothing but the slight dampness of my skin and the familiar, hollow thrum of my pulse.

I reached for the pack on the nightstand, pulled out a cigarette, and lit it. The first drag hit the back of my throat with a dry, satisfying burn. I didn’t look back at them. One was an Omega from a neighboring pack, the other a bored Beta’s wife looking for something her husband couldn't provide. To me, they were just bodies—conduits for a physical necessity. They wouldn't be able to walk straight for the next forty-eight hours; I had been brutal, driving my cock into them until they screamed, but that was what they came for. They’d fulfilled their purpose, and now their presence was an irritation.

Women are all the same once the lights go out. I fuck them, I drain them, and I move on.

I am thirty-four years old. In the world of werewolves, that makes me an anomaly—a King without a Queen, a powerful male without a mate. Most men my age would be losing their minds, clawing at the walls in a desperate search for their "other half." Not me. I’m glad the Moon Goddess saw fit to skip me. I’m not mate material. I’m a twisted freak of nature, a Lycan whose blood runs colder than any wolf’s. Maybe because I’m not a standard werewolf, I didn't get a soulmate. It’s been sixteen years since my first shift, and I’ve accepted the silence in my soul.

Actually, I prefer it. It means I can have a hundred women, a thousand, and never have to answer to a single one. I don't have to deal with the suffocating bond, the shared emotions, or the vulnerability of a "soulmate." I’ve seen Alphas, men who could tear a man’s throat out without blinking, fall to their knees and weep just to please a woman. They become soft. They become targetable.

I don’t have a fucking heart, and I don’t want one. My life is built on isolation, and that’s exactly how I like it. People call my mateless state a curse; I call it a tactical advantage. No bitch to fuck with my head, no "Luna" to protect. The only thing I need satisfied is the biological urge between my legs, and there is never a shortage of volunteers for the Lycan King’s bed.

I stood up, the cigarette still clamped between my lips, and walked toward the bathroom. I didn't bother with the lights. My eyes had adjusted long ago, turning the shadows into shades of grey and silver. I tossed the cigarette butt into the bin and stepped into the shower, turning the handle until the water was a frigid, stinging spray.

The cold didn't bother me. Neither did the heat. Most of the time, I didn't feel much of anything at all. As the years passed, the human part of me seemed to recede, leaving behind an animalistic core that only felt truly alive when I was inflicting pain or ending a life. I loved the chase. I loved the moment a predator realized it had become the prey. My sole purpose in this world was to act as the ultimate janitor, sweeping the earth of the magical trash that regular wolves couldn't handle.

I was lathering the soap over my shoulders when a familiar pressure bloomed in the back of my mind. A mind-link.

*‘Alpha. We’ve got a location.’*

It was Torsten, my Beta. He was an Alpha in his own right, born to lead a pack in the north, but he’d renounced his title to serve under me. He was the closest thing I had to a friend, mostly because he knew when to shut up and how to kill.

*‘Where?’* I linked back, my voice echoing in the mental void.

*‘Heading toward Birmingham. If we move now, we can intercept.’*

*‘Be ready in ten minutes,’* I commanded.

I cut the link and stepped out of the shower, grabbing a towel. A humorless smirk tugged at the corner of my mouth. Birmingham. That was right on the edge of Evaric’s territory. Alpha Evaric of the Crimson Lunar Pack—a man who sat on my council but would gladly put a silver blade in my back if he thought he could survive the attempt. He was only six years older than me, but he carried himself with an arrogance that begged to be broken. I was scheduled to visit his pack tomorrow for a formal inspection, but why wait? Pissing him off sounded like the perfect way to spend a Tuesday night.

*‘Torsten,’* I called again.

*‘Yeah, Alpha?’*

*‘Tell Evaric we’re coming tonight. Not tomorrow. Tell him we’ll be there in a few hours and they can play host. I’m in the mood for a midnight run.’*

I walked back into the bedroom to grab my phone. One of the she-wolves was sitting up now, clutching the silk sheet to her chest, her eyes wide and hopeful.

"Alpha..." she started, her voice a soft, needy purr.

I didn't even look at her. I grabbed my phone, pulled on a pair of oversized, baggy cargo shorts—the kind that wouldn't rip during a partial shift—and walked out the door.

I’d never actually set foot on Crimson Lunar land. Evaric usually came to me for meetings. It would be interesting to see how he ran his little kingdom. People said he had the strongest pack in the region, a claim that made me laugh. My pack, the Nocturnal Prowlers, didn't follow the traditional "family" model. We were a pack of warriors, hand-picked from across the globe for their strength and lack of sentimentality. We were the Royal Pack, the elite guard of the supernatural world. I took my position by force eight years ago, making every Alpha who stood in my way submit until they recognized the Lycan blood for what it was: royalty.

Every pack is safer under my reign, whether they want to admit it or not. Innocent wolves don’t get slaughtered when I’m around. If an Alpha gets out of line, I’m the one who ends him.

But lately, the threats haven't just been rogue wolves. Something darker has been crawling out of the shadows. Wendigos—wolves who succumbed to the ultimate taboo, eating the flesh of their own kind until they lost their humanity and turned into gaunt, whistling monsters. And then there are the Manananggals, those disgusting, vampire-like hags that detach their torsos to hunt children and the pregnant.

These things aren't natural. They’re birthed from dark magic, a corruption that’s been spreading for sixteen years. I’ve been tracking the source, following the breadcrumbs, but the architect of this chaos is smart. They stay in the shadows, letting their abominations do the dirty work. Just the thought of it made my blood boil, my Lycan side growling for a throat to rip.

When I reached the courtyard, my four elite warriors were already waiting. I didn't say a word. I simply let the change take me.

The transformation of a Lycan isn't like a werewolf’s. It’s more violent, more visceral. I felt my ribs snap and elongate, my spine cracking like a whip as it curved. My muscles bunched and tore, rebuilding themselves into something denser, stronger. The pain was a sharp, electric jolt that felt better than any drug. I cricked my neck, feeling the thick black fur sprout along my spine, and then I was on four legs.

I was a massive, shadow-black beast, easily twice the size of a standard wolf. My eyes blazed a predatory red. With a huff of hot breath, I took off, the four warriors trailing behind me.

I was faster than them—much faster. I let the wind whip through my fur, the rhythm of my paws hitting the earth grounding me. I hadn't seen a Wendigo in months, a silence that had my gut twisting. Usually, when things go quiet, it means something bigger is coming. But this one had been spotted moving south, and I wasn't about to let it pass through my territory. I wanted to capture it, to see if I could extract any information from the mindless beast, but I knew how it would end. I always ended up tearing them to pieces.

The moon was high and full, its light pouring over the landscape like liquid silver. I felt the surge of power that always came with the night. I was a black blur against the trees, a nightmare given flesh, closing the distance toward Birmingham with every lunging stride.

Two hours of hard running passed. We bypassed the main city, skirting the edges of the Crimson Lunar Pack’s borders. Suddenly, a scent hit me. It was sharp, like rotted meat mixed with the ozone of a coming storm.

A Wendigo.

I slowed my pace, my nose twitching as I tracked the trail. It was heading toward a cluster of lights on the horizon. I frowned, my inner beast pacing with agitation. Wendigos usually stayed in the deep woods, sticking to the shadows where they could snatch lone travelers. This one was heading straight for a populated area.

I realized with a start that we were on the outskirts of Stratford-Upon-Avon. A tourist town. Full of humans. And, more importantly, full of wolves who lived among them.

Something wasn't right. The scent was erratic, zig-zagging. Was it hunting someone specific?

I shifted back into my human form at the edge of the tree line, the transition seamless and silent. I tightened the drawstring on my shorts, my chest heaving slightly from the run. The night air was cool, but I was radiating heat.

The town was quiet, the streetlights casting long, orange glows on the pavement. I stuck to the shadows, my senses dialed to the maximum. The scent was getting stronger, but the creature was fast. It was playing with me, weaving through alleys and behind buildings.

I looked up. A web of electrical wires crisscrossed the street above me, humming with power. A cold, predatory smirk spread across my face. The thing wanted to play hide and seek? Fine. I’d change the rules of the game.

I crouched, then launched myself upward with the explosive power of a Lycan. My fingers elongated into claws, sharp and iron-hard. I caught the main power lines in one hand and ripped.

Sparks exploded in a violent shower of blue and white, dancing across my skin and illuminating the alley for a split second. Then, with a series of loud pops and the hum of dying transformers, the entire block plunged into darkness. The streetlights flickered and died. The neon signs in the shop windows went black.

The silence that followed was heavy, broken only by the distant, frantic heartbeats of humans in their homes.

Then, from the darkness of a nearby parking lot, I heard it. A low, whistling growl. It was a jagged, unearthly sound, like wind being forced through a broken pipe.

My eyes flashed red, cutting through the pitch-black as if it were midday. I could see the silhouette of the beast now—a gaunt, elongated horror crouching near the edge of a cinema lot.

I bared my teeth in a silent snarl.

"Game on, fucker," I whispered into the void.

I stepped out of the shadows, my muscles tensing for the kill. The darkness was mine now, and the hunt had officially begun.