The Royal Guard

POV: Arabella

I stare up into his dark, amused eyes. It has been exactly three long years since I last laid eyes on Soren Vane, the notoriously rebellious second crown prince of the Lycans. More importantly, he was my late brother Callum’s closest childhood friend. Growing up, Soren and Declan made it their life's purpose to infuriate me and Callum. Seeing him standing here in the middle of a mundane university hallway is jarring. He looks larger, broader, and infinitely more intimidating than the teenager I remember. The raw power rolling off his frame commands the space, pressing down on the air in the corridor. Students passing by give us a wide berth, their eyes wide with recognition and awe. A few girls from my morning lecture stop dead in their tracks, whispering fiercely to one another as they take in his aristocratic features and broad shoulders. Soren ignores them all, his attention fixed solely on our interaction.

"My prince," I step back, creating some necessary distance between us, and drop into a fluid bow. It is an ingrained habit, a sign of respect beaten into the children of high-ranking military families.

"Don't even do that," Soren laughs, a rich, booming sound that echoes off the lockers. He reaches out, his large hands catching my shoulders to stop my descent.

I smile, crouching down to gather my scattered textbooks. He drops to one knee right beside me, his expensive leather jacket creaking as he helps me stack the loose papers.

"Are you okay, Arabella?"

The sharp voice cuts through the hallway. Professor Kensington steps out of her classroom, her brow furrowed. Her eyes dart from me to the massive male kneeling beside me. She is vibrating with concern, her gaze widening as she recognizes the royal features. The sharp lines of his jaw, the dark, piercing eyes—he is a spitting image of the Lycan King.

I stand up, clutching my heavy books to my chest. "I'm sorry for the interruption, Professor. I ran into an old friend. This is Soren Vane. The second crown prince."

I introduce him simply so she can retreat inside and leave me the hell alone. Is everyone on this campus going to constantly ask me if I am okay? The lingering pity from my peers is becoming unbearable. It is the last thing I need right now. Leaving school early and having to work twice as hard in the upcoming term to catch up might not be as bad as I thought. The perfectionist in me would riot at the missed lectures, but escaping these sympathetic stares sounds like heaven.

"My prince," Professor Kensington stammers, her face flushing red. She drops into a deep, overly formal bow. She looks up at me, hesitating for a second. Her hand twitches at her side, as if she considers reaching out to comfort me, but she pulls back and gives a stiff nod. "Be careful."

She practically sprints back into her classroom, shutting the heavy wooden door firmly behind her.

"What was that?" Soren asks, rising to his full, towering height. He dusts off his dark jeans, looking genuinely amused by her frantic retreat.

"Don't ask," I shake my head, adjusting the heavy strap of my bag on my shoulder. "It's been a long time, your highness."

"I know. I'm sorry, but it's been a long two—"

"Three years," I correct him, my tone flat.

I was sixteen the last time I saw him. Not long after his final visit to our estate, I presented as an omega. I always assumed my low-ranking status was the exact reason he and everyone else pulled away. When the pack heard I never shifted, they recoiled. I became a contagion, a weak link in a bloodline of fierce warriors.

"Shit, it's really been that long?" he runs a large hand through his dark hair, a sheepish grin spreading across his handsome face. "Time flies when you are avoiding royal duties."

"I'm heading to the noisy cafeteria to catch up on breakfast. Want to come?"

"Lead the way. You know I love to eat."

Walking through the crowded hallways, I guide him toward the massive double doors of the dining hall. The smell of grease, roasted coffee, and sugary pastries hits us the moment I push the doors open. We navigate the crowded room, weaving through tables packed with gossiping students. The sheer volume of chatter drops noticeably as we pass. Soren draws stares from every direction. His towering height and undeniable alpha aura make him impossible to ignore.

We grab plastic trays and slide them along the metal rails of the food line.

"So," I say, tossing a green apple onto my tray. "What brings the second crown prince to Veridia City? It is a long way from the capital."

Soren takes a deep breath and lets out a heavy, dramatic sigh. I hide a small smile. His flair for the dramatics has not changed one bit since we were kids playing in the mud behind the Varg estate.

"I got in trouble," he admits, throwing a massive slice of breakfast pizza and three hash browns onto his tray. "The night before a huge, sensitive political summit, I went out with some Northern alphas. We got plastered. I didn't show up the next morning, and Cassian benched me. He exiled me for the rest of the year."

"Soren," I groan, shaking my head in annoyance. The alphas of the North are infamous for their wild, destructive parties. They are a bunch of untamed cowboys who love nothing more than drinking and fighting until the sun comes up. They have no regard for protocol, and their packs are notorious for flouting the strict rules established by the capital. Running around with them on the eve of a crucial diplomatic event is exactly the kind of reckless behavior that King Cassian despises.

"I know. I know," he shrugs, unbothered by his punishment. "But honestly, I don't even care. I am tired. I hate politics, and my dad wants me to be beta."

His aristocratic features twist in pure dread as he contemplates his future.

"That means I would have to walk one step behind Cassian for the entirety of my immortal life. I cannot think of a single fate worse than that. Nodding at his orders, managing his schedules, cleaning up his diplomatic messes—it sounds like a prison sentence."

"I thought you two were close. Did something happen between you and the future King?" I ask, picking up a cold bottle of lemonade from the cooler.

"Nah," he waves a hand dismissively, grabbing a stack of napkins. "I just hate how meticulously planned his life is. He doesn't know how to have a single ounce of fun. He is devoted to sucking up to our dad and training around the clock to be the new Lycan King. I don't want that suffocating responsibility. We have an amazing up-and-coming Beta in the ranks right now. I don't see why my father envisions this rigid future for me."

"I can think of one good reason," I say, turning to face him as we step out of the line. "You would be the King's most trusted confidant. There is no one better equipped to watch a powerful King’s back than his own fiercely loyal brother."

Soren stops sliding his tray. He stares at me, a slow smirk forming on his lips. "Okay, when you put it like that, it makes me sound entitled."

"Just a little," I laugh, moving toward the cashier. "So, you decided to come down to the city and slum it with the ordinary civilians to escape your royal crisis?"

His playful, careless banter vanishes. The smirk drops from his face, replaced by a stoic mask. He steps closer, lowering his voice an octave so only I can hear him over the din of the cafeteria.

"Actually, I'm here on guard duty."

I raise an eyebrow, genuinely confused by his statement. "Oh yeah? Who are you supposed to be guarding?"

"You," he states smoothly, holding my gaze.

"Me?" I glance back at him, grabbing a plastic fork. I let out a sharp snort of disbelief. "Why would I need guarding? I am just a college student trying to pass my midterms."

"You tell me," he replies, his eyes narrowing slightly. "Major General Varg personally ordered it. My orders are to stay glued to your side until your official, permanent move to the Lycan territory of Ironridge. She didn't specify the details."

A cold knot of pure panic tightens my stomach. Katerina sent him. She could not come down here herself, so she sent the most formidable, untouchable Lycan she could find to ensure I make it back to the estate in one piece.

Mateo is incredibly possessive. He demands control over every aspect of my life. He is not going to like the presence of another powerful male one bit. Having the second crown prince trailing me like a shadow is going to drive Mateo insane. This is a disaster waiting to happen. Mateo’s jealousy is a dark, twisting thing. It simmers just beneath the surface of his charming exterior, ready to boil over at the slightest provocation. If he comes home to find Soren marking his territory in our shared space, the confrontation will be explosive. I can already picture the shattered glass and the shouting.

"Ms. Varg," the cashier, Tess, greets me, snapping me out of my racing thoughts.

"Hey, Tess," I force a polite smile, though my lips feel stiff. "The two lunches, please."

She rings us up, and Soren hands her a crisp bill before I can even pull out my debit card. We walk away from the register, scanning the massive room for a quiet spot. I lead him toward a secluded corner table by the tall windows, far away from the prying eyes and straining ears of the student body.

We sit down. Soren drops into the cheap plastic chair across from me. His massive frame makes the standard cafeteria furniture look incredibly fragile. He stabs his pizza with his fork, but his dark eyes remain locked on my face, studying me with unnerving focus.

"Is there something you want to tell me?" he asks, his tone probing.

I avoid his gaze, reaching across the sticky table to grab my bottle of lemonade. As I extend my arm, the sleeve of my oversized grey hoodie catches on the rough edge of the table. The thick fabric slips down, sliding past my wrist and exposing my forearm.

The dark, ugly bruises Mateo left on my skin are on full display.

Purple, black, and sickly yellow fingerprints are stamped deeply into my pale flesh. They are a stark, horrific contrast against the bright fluorescent lighting of the room. They wrap around my arm like a shackle, a clear, unmistakable sign of a brutal grip. The skin is swollen, tender to the touch, and radiating a dull throb that I have been trying to ignore all morning. Each individual finger mark tells a story of lost control and misplaced rage.

I frantically yank the fabric back down, tugging the cuff hard over my knuckles to hide the evidence. I pull my arm close to my chest, my heart hammering wildly against my ribs. I try to act natural, picking at my food, but my hands are shaking.

Soren’s sharp Lycan vision catches it instantly.

His relaxed, playful demeanor shatters. The teasing glint in his dark eyes vanishes, replaced by a terrifyingly intense stare. The temperature around our table seems to drop ten degrees. I can physically feel the raw, suffocating aura of a pissed-off royal alpha radiating from him. It presses against my skin, making the hair on the back of my neck stand up.

He leans aggressively across the table, invading my space. The plastic fork in his hand snaps with a sharp crack, the two halves falling onto his tray.

"Who did that to you?" he demands. His voice drops into a dangerous, low growl that rattles around in my chest.

I stare at my half-eaten apple, unable to meet his furious eyes. What am I supposed to do? Lie to a crown prince? Tell him the truth and watch him march straight across campus to confront my mate? The fallout would be catastrophic. It would make my living hell infinitely worse. Mateo would punish me for running my mouth and making him look bad in front of the royal family.

"I mostly did it to myself," I mutter, throwing out the first vague, unconvincing excuse that comes to my racing mind. "Training accident. I fell hard on the mats."

"Did Mateo hurt you?" Soren ignores my flimsy lie. His eyes lock onto mine, pinning me in place. The lethal intensity in his gaze promises extreme violence. He looks ready to shift right here in the cafeteria and tear someone to shreds.

I freeze. My breath catches in my throat. My mind scrambles, desperate to figure out how to navigate this volatile situation. Anything I say will be analyzed, judged, and acted upon. Mateo chose another over me, but things are so complicated, so twisted, that I don't even know where to begin to explain the nightmare I am living in. If I confirm his suspicions, Soren will tear into Mateo.

I stay silent, gripping my cold drink until my knuckles turn white.

I brace for him to push, to demand a straight answer, to order me to speak using his royal command. But he doesn't. He stares at me for a long, agonizing moment, reading the sheer terror in my posture. He slowly sits back in his chair, his broad chest rising and falling with a deep, controlled breath. The suffocating pressure of his alpha aura recedes just enough for me to take a shallow breath.

I feel an overwhelming wave of immense relief wash over me. I am a coward for feeling grateful that he dropped the interrogation, but I don't care. I am not ready for that explosion.

"Can we talk about this later?" I ask, my voice trembling slightly. I desperately need to change the subject before I break down. "Where are you staying?"

"At the Varg Estate," he replies, his tone tight. He reaches into the inner pocket of his heavy leather jacket.

He pulls out a thick, heavy envelope and slides it across the table. It stops right next to my tray.

I stare at the pristine parchment. A deep red, intricate royal wax seal presses the paper shut. The insignia of the Lycan King stares back at me, demanding compliance. Next to it, he pulls out another envelope, identical in weight and importance. One for me, one for Mateo.

"There are instructions for you," Soren says quietly.

I wipe my clammy hands on my jeans before reaching for my letter. My fingers trace the raised wax. I am already exhausted, drained to my very core, knowing exactly where this path leads. I dig my thumb under the seal, breaking the wax, and unfold the heavy paper.

The words are typed in crisp, uncompromising black ink.

'By order of Major General Katerina Varg and the Lycan Crown, Arabella Evangeline Rose Varg is mandated to return immediately to the heavily fortified Varg estate for the remainder of her school term. You are directed to aggressively liquidate all properties and secure the family's valuable assets to ensure their safe transport to Ironridge. No outsiders are permitted to enter the estate grounds under any circumstances to protect said valuables. Prince Soren Vane is specifically assigned as your personal guard to ensure this rigid schedule is strictly followed without interference.'

I scan the bottom of the page. The signatures are glaring. My grandmother's sweeping, elegant cursive, and right beside it, the bold, dominating signature of the Lycan King himself. These orders are legally binding. They are final. If anyone tries to question this mandate, they will have to travel to the capital and take it up with the King directly. No one in Veridia City has the authority to challenge this.

"Fuck my life," I whisper in pure defeat.

I let the paper slip from my trembling fingers, tossing the heavy envelope back onto the table. It lands next to Mateo's letter.

Mateo is going to read his copy. He will immediately know exactly what this mobilization means. There is no hiding a royal decree of this magnitude. Even if I try to play the devoted, submissive mate for a few more weeks to keep the peace in our apartment, he will know the clock is ticking. The school term ends in three months. He knows I am leaving the city. He knows I am taking all the Varg assets with me, stripping him of the resources he thought he controlled. The properties, the bank accounts, the family heirlooms—they will all be locked away and moved out of his reach. This mandate cuts off his financial leverage and severs the ties he relies on to keep me grounded here in Veridia City. He is losing his grip on me, and a desperate alpha is a dangerous alpha.

A deep, terrifying anxiety consumes me. The walls are closing in fast. I stare blankly at the plastic tray in front of me, wondering if we are ever going to make it out of this escalating situation alive. The sheer power dynamics at play—Mateo’s volatile possessiveness clashing with royal military authority—feel like a massive powder keg waiting for a single spark to blow everything to hell.

Soren tracks the silent panic rolling across my face. The harsh, deadly expression he wore moments ago softens slightly at the sight of my undeniable distress. He can see how broken I am.

"You promise to tell me what's going on when we get home?" he asks. His voice is surprisingly gentle, a stark contrast to his massive, imposing presence.

He pauses, running a hand through his dark hair again, messing up the styled strands. He leans forward, resting his forearms on the table, closing the distance between us.

"I'm going to have to keep him off you, aren't I?"

I lower my gaze, unable to look at the sympathy in his eyes. The shameful, humiliating truth feels incredibly heavy on my tongue. I hate admitting my weakness. I hate admitting what my life has become behind closed doors. I am supposed to be a Varg, a descendant of warriors, yet I am terrified of the male who claims to be my mate.

"I'd like to think he's above that," I quietly admit, my voice barely above a broken whisper. "But it's a probability."

Soren nods firmly. A deadly seriousness settles over his aristocratic features, wiping away any lingering trace of the careless, exiled prince. He is a Lycan warrior now, analyzing a direct threat to his assigned charge.

"Okay," he vows, his voice low and steady. "I'll try not to kill him."

He offers a small, tight smile, trying to comfort me, but the dangerous glint in his dark eyes remains burning bright. He means every word.

"Although," he adds, the corner of his mouth ticking upward in a cold, ruthless smirk. "I doubt my brother would hate it when I tell him I mistakenly started a full-blown war because someone is hurting you."