Chapter 57 58
“Gregor…” I cried out, my voice a raw, animalistic sound, and he matched me, his own body convulsing with a guttural roar. We collapsed together, breathless and slick with sweat, our bodies a tangled mess of limbs.
We lay there for a long time, the only sounds our ragged breaths and the soft thumping of our hearts. He held me close, his arm a warm weight across my waist, and I burrowed my face into the crook of his neck, breathing in his scent—pine, rain, and a newfound intimacy that was intoxicating. The scent of our combined pleasure hung in the air, a silent testament to the bond that had been forged.
He hadn't marked me yet. The final, irreversible step was still unmade. But in the quiet aftermath of our shared climax, in the tangled warmth of our bodies, I knew it was only a matter of time. The almost-marking had led us here, to this quiet, vulnerable space where we were just two souls, raw and exposed, and so completely, utterly intertwined. Tomorrow might be war, but tonight, we had found a peace, a home, in each other's arms.
His wolf roared inside him—I felt it in my bones, in the air, in the way he trembled over me. “I need you, Marigold. You are the best thing that ever happened to me.” He whispered against my ear. Then he pressed one last burning kiss to my neck, right where the mark would go—hot, wet, claiming. And then, with a growl that shook through both of us, he forced himself back an inch, his chest heaving.
“Not tonight,” he panted, forehead pressed to mine. “Not with war at our door. But soon, Marigold. Soon, I swear by the Goddess, I’ll mark you and never let you go.”
My heart thundered. My body ached. My wolf howled.
And I knew—no matter how much war was waiting outside, inside this room, in his arms, I was already his.
The morning after was far too quiet for a castle that had nearly been torn apart the night before. Outside, the banners of the realm snapped in the wind, the guards at their posts none the wiser that the foundations of their world were about to crack.
Deep inside the royal wing, the Queen sat alone in her private library. The curtains were drawn, the grand hearth cold, her figure cast in shadow as though she belonged to another realm altogether.
On the desk before her sat a plain, black laptop. Not connected to the castle network. Not traceable. A machine known to no one but her. From the folds of her velvet robe, she slipped out a silver USB drive—the one her maid had delivered at dawn, hidden beneath a tray of tea.
Click.
The device slid into place. The screen flickered, and then the video opened.
Her painted lips curled into a smile—not the gentle mask she wore at banquets, but something sharp, predatory. A smile made for the dark.
On the screen, Alpha Gregor and Margaux.
No—Marigold.
She watched the bodies entwined, the stolen kisses, the hunger that spilled from the screen like fire. Her husband’s most trusted ally—his favored Alpha, the wolf who had shielded the throne for years—betraying them with the future bride of Prince Leon.
But the Queen did not gasp. She did not rage.
She smirked.
Because she had known.
She had known since the beginning.
Her fingers tapped against the desk, a rhythm like war drums. “You think you’ve fooled me, little wolf?” she murmured, eyes glinting. “You think you can crawl into my palace, slip into my son’s engagement, and I would not see through you?”
She leaned back in her chair, the shadows kissing her sharp cheekbones.
The truth had been hers for weeks. Since the day she sent her agents into Wolfgang Pack during the coming of age of Margaux and Marigold. That night had not gone as planned. The Whiteland brothers—sniveling, greedy, desperate to please their golden Margaux—had gone too far.
They killed their own sister.
Not the one they meant.
Their precious, polished Margaux had bled out instead, leaving the raw, dangerous Marigold alive. Marigold, with her Dark Warrior Wolf—the one power the Queen feared and craved in equal measure.
The Queen’s nails scraped the desk, a hiss of satisfaction curling from her throat. “Fools. Stupid, arrogant fools. They snuffed out their jewel and left me with a weapon.”
Now, that weapon had walked into her palace disguised as a spoiled princess, clinging to Gregor like fate had ordained it.
But fate, the Queen believed, was hers to command.
She removed the USB drive and slipped it back into her robe. Then, with slow, deliberate motions, she put the broadband USB that has its own internet connection then she began typing a message into an encrypted system few in the kingdom could even imagine existed.
It is time.
Gregor must fall.
The girl will be locked away.
Begin the rebellion.
She pressed send.
Somewhere, in the shadows of the kingdom, the Black Fang stirred—her loyal order, bound by fear and gold. They would move before the day ended. Alpha Gregor would be arrested under the guise of treason. Marigold would be dragged to the royal chambers, stripped of her freedom, paraded as a pawn.
And her allies in the council would begin to fan the embers of rebellion, whispering of a king too blind to see, too weak to act.
The King himself, she thought with a curl of her lip, was a relic. A husband too stubborn to yield the crown, too trusting of his wolves. He believed Gregor was loyal. He believed the council worked for him.
But she knew better.
If he would not step down for Leon, then she would tear him down herself.
The prophecy would not wait. Her son would wear the crown before destiny burned it from his hands.
She closed the laptop with a sharp snap and stood, her gown pooling around her like spilled ink. The malice in her smile was almost beautiful.
“Yes,” she whispered to the empty room. “Let the war begin.”
And somewhere, far below, the first drums of rebellion began to beat.