Maeron stood at the window of his private chambers, the city below aglow with torchlight, stars swallowed by clouds. The Capital never slept—but neither did his obsession.
Celine.
She moved through the palace like prophecy cloaked in skin, eyes gleaming with silver, every breath a contradiction—soft and defiant, graceful and dangerous.
She hadn’t been made for court, and yet, she ruled it just by breathing.
It infuriated him.
And it turned him on.
He could still see Celine from their last private meeting—the gentle slope of her neck as she looked away, the curve of her mouth fighting back sharp words, the line of her body beneath that modest dress that did little to hide the truth of it.
She wasn’t untouched.
Not anymore.
Leon had had her.
But not like he would.
Maeron closed his eyes and imagined her the way he wanted her—naked beneath silk sheets, hair spread like moonlight over his pillows, mouth parted, breath ragged with need. Not wild and radiant, but undone. Eyes hazy, hands reaching for him, whispering his name not like a title—but a plea.
He’d make her forget the Alpha.
Make her crave the crown instead of the bond.
She could fight him. She likely would. And gods, how he wanted her to.
He didn’t want obedience. He wanted surrender. Real, guttural, helpless surrender—the kind only a truly strong creature could offer.
The kind that came from a wolf who thought she was free… until she realized she’d been waiting to be claimed by someone greater.
By him.
A White Wolf carrying his child—that was legacy.
Leon didn’t deserve that kind of power. That kind of bloodline.
Let Lilith play her games with poison and jealousy. That was desperation.
Maeron had no need for petty sabotage.
Not when he could take Celine for himself—her body, her heir, her name—and make her the most powerful she-wolf in the realm by binding her to him.
He just needed to get Leon out of the way.
Permanently.
A single mistake. One swing. One public loss of control.
And then Celine would be grieving. Alone.
Vulnerable.
And Maeron would be there—comforting her, guiding her, showing her what real power felt like under his hands.
Not prophecy.
Not fate.
Him.