Chapter 13 Wolves Don’t Forget
13\. Wolves Don’t Forget
The next morning began as all mornings in Dravenmoor did: with me questioning my life choices and Lucian proving that tyrants don’t understand the concept of personal space.
He was already awake, of course. Probably hadn’t even slept. He just stood at the window like some gothic gargoyle, cloak pooled at his feet, staring at the courtyard below as if he could bend the sunrise to his will.
“Do you ever sleep?” I asked groggily, rolling over.
His head tilted, that predatory grace of his making me instantly regret opening my mouth. “I rest when I must.”
Which, translated into Human English, meant: No, because brooding is a full-time job and someone has to keep the shadows employed.
Breakfast was the usual circus. He cut my food, reminded me to drink water, and when I tried to butter my own bread, he stared at my knife hand like I was committing high treason. I muttered something about having opposable thumbs for a reason, but he didn’t rise to the bait. He rarely did in the mornings. Mornings were for controlling. Evenings were for… other things.
I thought that was the strangest part of my day. Spoiler: it wasn’t.
It happened in the courtyard, when I slipped away from him for all of two minutes—long enough to “accidentally” trip into conversation with one of the guards. I was starting to think of eavesdropping as my cardio.
The man—stiff posture, scar across his jaw—looked like he’d been carved from old oak. At first he refused to meet my gaze, muttering “my lady” like it burned his tongue. But when I joked about Lucian glaring at me for breathing wrong, something in his expression cracked.
“You think him cruel,” the guard said quietly.
“Think?” I snorted. “Please. I have empirical evidence. Bread-cutting. Wolves-as-bodyguards. A whole tyranny résumé.”
The guard’s eyes darted around, then lowered. “You do not know what he lost.”
And then, without waiting for permission, he told me.
Years ago, before he was the Tyrant Alpha, Lucian had been just another heir—a younger brother. His pack was strong then, the fortress teeming with wolves who howled together, hunted together, lived and bled for each other. He wasn’t king; he wasn’t even supposed to be. His brother held the throne.
And then the rebellion came.
The way the guard described it, I could almost see it—fire lighting up the sky, the fortress gates shattered, wolves falling one after another. Betrayal within the ranks. Lucian had been away, leading patrols at the border. By the time he returned, the rebellion was inside his home.
And his brother—his own blood—had struck the final blow. He’d sided with the rebels. Promised peace to the enemies in exchange for power.
Lucian walked into his fortress and found his pack dead. His home burning. His people screaming.
And at the heart of it all—his brother on the throne, blade still wet with their father’s blood.
The guard’s voice dropped lower. “Our lord fought through the flames. He slaughtered every traitor. And when none remained… he killed his brother.”
I blinked. “Oh.” My brilliant, empathetic response. “That’s….”
The guard gave me a look, the kind that said outsider without using the word. “He has not forgiven himself. Nor forgotten. Every shadow here is haunted by that night.”
Before I could ask more, a shadow far larger than the others fell across us. Lucian.
The guard bowed so fast I thought his spine might snap, muttered something about duty, and vanished.
Lucian didn’t say a word. Just looked at me. Long enough that my skin prickled and I suddenly felt like the world’s nosiest raccoon caught with its paws in the royal trash.
“I was… uh, learning about grain distribution?” I squeaked.
He didn’t answer. Just took my hand—cold, steady—and led me back inside.
That night, I couldn’t stop thinking about it.
The fortress was too quiet. Torches flickered along the halls like watchful eyes. Every creak of stone sounded like ghosts whispering in the walls. I told myself it was fine, that I wasn’t scared, but the truth was my brain was replaying the same image: Lucian standing over his brother’s body.
I wandered out onto the balcony again, the moon spilling silver across the courtyard below. My fingers curled around the cold stone railing as if it could ground me.
And of course, because the universe hated me, Lucian joined me. He moved so silently I didn’t notice until his shadow draped over mine.
For a long moment, we didn’t speak. The night was too vast, the silence too heavy. Finally, I blurted, “So… you had a brother.”
His gaze snapped to me. Silver, sharp, unreadable.
“That’s not in the travel brochure,” I added weakly, trying for humour. “You know—‘Come to Dravenmoor, home of scenic cliffs, brooding tyrants, and the occasional fratricide.’ Really catchy.”
For a terrifying second, I thought he’d snap. But instead, his shoulders shifted, the faintest ripple of something cracking in his armor.
“Yes,” he said at last. “I had a brother.”
Had. Past tense. The word hung between us like a blade.
I swallowed. “The guard told me you… that you…” I trailed off, because accusing your tyrant captor-slash-whatever-he-was of murdering his own family felt like a shortcut to an early grave.
Lucian turned his face toward the courtyard. Moonlight carved his profile into something stark, almost tragic. “He betrayed our blood. Our pack. Our father.” His voice was low, raw. “There was no choice.”
I wanted to argue. To say there’s always a choice. But the words died on my tongue when I saw his hands—those deadly, clawed hands—clench at his sides, trembling almost imperceptibly.
“I still hear them,” he murmured. “Their cries. Their howls as the fire consumed them. At night, when the fortress is quiet… they return.”
The air seemed to shift, heavier, charged. I realized then that the tyrant wasn’t just obsessed. He was haunted. Every bit of control, every ounce of paranoia—it wasn’t just power. It was penance.
I tried to joke. I really did. “Well. That explains the bread micromanagement. Trauma response via carb control. Classic.”
But my voice cracked halfway, betraying the lump in my throat.
His eyes found mine, and for once, they weren’t sharp silver daggers. They were…. vulnerable.
“You see too much,” he whispered.
And then he stepped closer. One step, then another, until the cold stone of the railing pressed into my back. His hand rose, not rough this time, but slow, hesitant, cupping my cheek like I was something fragile he wasn’t sure he was allowed to hold.
“Lucian,” I breathed, though whether it was a plea or a warning, I didn’t know.
“Say the word,” he murmured, voice rough, “and I will stop.”
Deja vu. The same choice as before. Only this time, I knew the weight behind it—the ghosts, the brother, the fire.
And then his mouth was on mine.
It wasn’t gentle. It wasn’t soft. It was desperate, raw, a storm breaking open in the dark. I gasped against him, my humour, my defenses, everything crumbling as his lips claimed me like he was trying to drown out the cries he still heard.
When he finally pulled back, breath ragged, his forehead pressed to mine, his next words were barely more than a growl.
“Wolves don’t forget. And now, neither will you.”
My pulse thundered, my skin burning where his hand still held me. And in that moment, I realized something terrifying: I didn’t want to forget either.