Chapter 9
My eyes locked on the glowing screen, the photo grainy yet undeniable. The girl’s face was blurred, hidden by some deliberate hand, but the headline itself carried the weight of truth. written in blood. The name beneath it struck harder than silver.
Magnus Vale.
The old wolf king.
For years, I circled his empire like a starving wolf, locked out of the kill. I’d clawed at doors, traded blood and secrets, and offered enemies’ heads for a place at his table. Nothing swayed him. Angelo Rossini was old blood, descended from the first Alphas. My power was smoke against his fire.
And now this.
A daughter. Claimed. Publicly.
Not family news, power. Bloodline restored, inheritance reforged, influence that could realigr entire packs. If I could reach her, twist her loyalty toward me, then even Rossini would finally turr his gaze my way.
“Did they release her name?” I asked Mark, my voice low, sharp as claws, as I snatched the phone from his hand.
“Not yet,” he said quickly. “The Elders said she’s been hidden for years. But the press conference is tomorrow. Milan.”
Of course, it was Milan. Loud. Flashy. A theater for wolves who dealt in spectacle as much as in
power.
Marga leaned over my shoulder, silk clinging to her skin like water, her eyes filled with shallow curiosity. “Who is it? Why do you look like you’ve seen a ghost?”
I ignored her, my attention fixed on the blurred photograph. A daughter. A new wolf was brought out of the shadow into the full glare of the moon. The gods themselves could not have handed
me a better card.
I tossed the phone back at Mark, straightened my cuffs, and rose with the authority of a king moving into battle. “Get me flights to Milan. Private jet. I will stand in that room before the announcement begins.”
Mark blinked, still too soft despite carrying my blood. “Why? What are you planning?”
“Because,” I said, my smile as sharp as a wolf’s grin before the kill, “if the Vales has a daughter, then she is my next chess piece.”
Marga gave that trivial laugh of hers, trailing after me. “You don’t even know her.”
“I don’t need to,” I snarled softly, pacing with the energy of a beast that had scented prey. “I know opportunity when it walks into the open. And this one reeks of power.”
But then Mark tugged at my sleeve, hesitant, like a pup unsure whether to whine or stand tall. “Dad… wait. They just updated it. The press conference got moved. The daughter isn’t ready to show herself yet. They said she needs time.”
I stilled, letting the silence stretch, then cracked my knuckles. “Smart girl,” I muttered. “Delays
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build mystique. Keep the wolves hungry. It’s the oldest strategy in the book, never give the pack meat until they’ve starved for it.”
Then I turned sharply, pressing a claw-tipped finger to Mark’s chest-no blood drawn, but the pressure enough to remind him of the rank between us. My wolf stirred under my skin, thrumming with command.
“Listen well,” I growled, my voice low and edged with a snarl. “This is your hunt. Track her. I don’ care if she hides in a monastery, beneath a blood-rite sanctuary, or in the frozen caves of the Alps; sniff her out. Tear through earth and ash if you must. I want everything. Her name, her age the birthmark on her skin, the first tooth she lost. Her lovers. Her rivals. The scars she hides when the moonlight touches her flesh. I want her life ripped open, marrow and all.”
He blinked, caught between pride and dread, and then nodded quickly. “Yes, Father. I’ll dig. I’l
watch her.”
“Good. Do that, and perhaps I’ll allow you to shadow me when I claim Milan.”
He smiled then, puffed up, tail wagging invisible behind his words, like a pup tossed a bone. But before he turned away, he asked the wrong question. “Do you think Ma is alright at home?”
I raised a brow, the growl caught in my throat.
“She blocked me,” he muttered, half-laughing, half-wounded. “First time she’s ever done that.” “Tch.” I waved him off like a gnat. “Let her sulk. She’s grown. She knows the game. She blocke me, too, remember? She’s probably pacing barefoot through her villa with a bottle of wine waiting for me to come crawling. Classic Stella. Always dramatic, always chasing a reaction.” Marga appeared in the doorway then, silk slipping like water, birthday smile plastered on her lips her scent sweet and empty. I raised my glass to her, letting the light shimmer against her skin. “She’s not our concern,” I said, voice low and final. “Tonight, it is Marga’s celebration. Not you
mother’s theater.”
And with that, I led them back to the lights and the music, to the world where wolves toasted my name, where power lingered at my fingertips, where I was still king. Out here, I was not the man Stella walked away from. Out here, I was the Alpha they envied, the wolf they feared.
STELLA’S POV
1 woke before dawn, as wolves do-half-resting, never truly still. The estate breathed with memory, walls steeped in my father’s reign, stone reeking of his power.
The message glared back at me: Your husband refuses to sign. Says there’s still time to talk.
I laughed, sharp and humorless, the sound cracking against velvet drapes and polished floors. Poor Alpha Shawn. He still thought this was a game of patience, a tantrum he could outlast, a storm that would pass if he stayed inside long enough. He had forgotten, or perhaps he had never known, that I am Magnus Vale’s daughter. That my blood runs thicker than any vow I ever swore to him. I tossed the phone aside, silk sliding against the nightstand. He would sign. Whether his hand was warm or cold when it pressed against that page would be his choice, not
mine.
A knock broke the silence. Three measured raps, soft but insistent. Lucia, the housekeeper, voice muffled through the carved oak. “Lady Stella, your father requests you in the private parlor. He
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says… it is urgent.”
Of course he did.
I slipped out of silk and into steel, black slacks, a blouse tucked sharp, hair bound away from my face. My scars were no longer on my skin, but I wore them just the same.
The parlor smelled of lemon oil and cigars, of a dynasty that refused to bow. My father sat at the center, cane resting by his side, his eyes still sharp enough to cut. But it was not him I noticed at
first.
It was the wolf in his right hand. His trusted Beta, Damien.
The air itself shifted when his gaze met mine, the faint silver gleam in his irises marking him as no ordinary wolf, but something far older, something tied to oaths and blood-rites.
And in that breath, the hunt shifted.
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Lucia Morh is a passionate storyteller who brings emotions to life through her words. When she’s not writing, she finds peace nurturing her garden.