Chapter 23 The devil’s claim
Vuk Kael Lasković
After more than a decade, the Southern City Orphanage finally reached my hands.
The name had haunted financial circles for years—whispered in back rooms, praised in public records, shielded by layers of influence I hadn’t bothered to question before. Orphanages made perfect camouflage. People rarely looked closely at places built on sympathy.
I leaned back in the obsidian chair as the tablet glowed in the dim war room, page after page unfolding beneath my fingers. Reports. Ledgers. Internal memos disguised as charitable reviews.
My eyes moved calmly, efficiently.
Donations never quite matched expenses.
Transfers occurred too frequently.
Names vanished from records without explanation.
A faint smirk tugged at my lips.
“So careful,” I murmured. “And yet… so predictable.”
One hundred years of activity, buried beneath charity work and glowing public approval. The wolves who ran it had convinced themselves they were untouchable. That kind of arrogance always left cracks.
I scrolled further.
Restricted files opened under a biometric seal already overridden—proof that whoever sent this wanted me to see everything.
Transport schedules logged as “relocations.”
Medical evaluations without attached hospitals.
Security payments rerouted through shell foundations.
Children reduced to line items.
I set the tablet down slowly and glanced at Eryx, who stood against the wall, arms crossed, expression carved from the same stone as the fortress itself.
“They used hunger as discipline,” I said quietly. “Kept them weak enough to obey. Strong enough to sell.”
Eryx’s lip curled—just enough to show fang. “Wise,” he said, voice flat as a blade. “Wasteful to feed the ones who won’t profit.”
I nodded once, scrolling again.
The orphanage had never been about care. It was a holding pen. A sorting system. The strongest disappeared first. The rest were kept just visible enough to maintain the façade.
Another document caught my eye—highlighted, flagged, deliberately placed at the top.
A profit summary.
That was when my interest truly sharpened.
“Well,” I said, rising. “This changes things.”
“Orders?”
I hadn’t come looking to save anyone. Compassion was inefficient. Charity even more so. But this—this was a machine already in motion, already profitable, already protected by wolves who believed themselves powerful.
Wolves like that hated competition.
I picked up the tablet again, smirk deepening.
“Prepare the necessary contacts,” I told him. “Quiet acquisitions. Shell companies through the eastern holdings. I want every donor, every board member, every silent partner mapped out by tomorrow.”
“Consider it done,” Eryx replied, fingers already flying across the console.
I paused, eyes lingering on the orphanage’s emblem glowing softly on the screen—gentle colors, childish symbols, a lie perfected over generations.
“Locate the source of this leak,” I added. “Anyone brave—or foolish—enough to hand me this much ammunition either wants protection… or expects a reward.”
“Either way,” I said calmly, setting the tablet aside, “the Southern City Orphanage no longer belongs to them.”
The doors sealed behind him with a soft hiss, leaving me alone in the war room’s crimson glow.
I turned back to the holo-screens, pulling up acquisition timelines, when a quiet knock sounded—three measured taps, almost hesitant.
I lifted my head.
The door slid open just enough for her to slip through.
Maureen.
She stood framed in the threshold, barefoot in one of my black shirts again—sleeves rolled, hem skimming her thighs, collar slipping off one shoulder to reveal the faint gleam of my bite mark. Her silver-white hair was loose, tousled from sleep or fingers running through it. She looked impossibly small in this room built for war and blood.
I was on my feet before I registered moving.
“Little moon,” I said, voice rougher than I intended. “You’ve never come in here before.”
She gave a tiny, nervous smile, stepping fully inside. The doors closed behind her.
“I know. It felt… important.”
Her gaze drifted past me to the glowing tablet on the obsidian table, then to the holo-display frozen on the orphanage emblem.
“Southern City Orphanage?” she asked softly, reading the header.
I crossed the distance in two strides, settling my hands on her shoulders—gentle, grounding.
“Yeah,” I said. “They’re involved in some very dirty work.”
Her eyes widened, silver bright with shock. “Really? I… I know that place. When my father was alive, we used to donate—clothes, books, toys. We’d go every winter solstice. The children…” Her voice cracked, just slightly. “They were always so grateful.”
I brushed my thumb along her collarbone, feeling her pulse jump.
“Impressive, little moon.” I leaned down, lips grazing her temple. “I’m going south in three days to settle some matters. Personally.”
She pulled back just enough to meet my eyes—steady, fierce in a way that made my blood heat.
“I want to go.” A pause. “It’s… home. Or it was. Not anymore.”
I studied her face, reading the storm behind the calm.
I smiled—slow, lethal.
“You want to use this opportunity to slaughter?” I murmured.
Her chin lifted. “More like ask him why he did what he did.” A breath. “I deserve answers, don’t I?”
“Absolutely.” I cupped her jaw, thumb tracing her lower lip. “Then you’ll come with me.”
Something electric passed between us—shared purpose, shared darkness.
Her shoulders loosened under my hands, relief and hunger mingling in her scent.
Then her gaze dropped to my mouth.
The air thickened.
I felt it the same moment she did—the shift from conversation to combustion.
She rose on her toes, fingers curling into my shirt, pulling me down.
The kiss started soft—gratitude, trust—but ignited fast.
I growled against her mouth, backing her up until her hips hit the edge of the obsidian war table. Papers and tablets scattered, clattering to the floor.
She gasped as I lifted her onto the cold stone, stepping between her thighs, shoving the black shirt higher until it bunched at her waist.
No underwear. Of course.
“Fuck,” I rasped, dragging my mouth down her throat, fangs scraping over the bite mark. She arched with a broken moan, nails raking my shoulders.
I dropped to my knees—right there in the war room—gripping her thighs and spreading them wide.
Moonlight and hellfire painted her skin silver and gold.
I licked into her slow and filthy, savoring the way she jolted, thighs clamping around my head.
“Vuk—” Her voice cracked, hands fisting in my hair.
I didn’t answer with words.
I devoured her—tongue thrusting deep, fangs grazing sensitive flesh, sucking her clit until she was sobbing my name, hips grinding desperately against my mouth.
When she came, it was violent—back bowing off the table, slick flooding my tongue, a high, shattered cry echoing off the black glass walls.
I rose while she was still trembling, freeing my cock with one hand, the other pinning her wrists above her head.
Our eyes locked.
Golden fire meeting lunar silver.
I drove into her in one brutal thrust.
She screamed—pleasure, overwhelm, mine.
The table rocked beneath us, obsidian groaning.
I fucked her hard and deep, every stroke a claim, every growl a vow.
Her legs locked around my waist, heels digging into my back, urging me deeper.
“Look at me,” I snarled.
She did—tears of too-much glittering on her lashes, lips swollen and parted.
“You’re going south as my mate,” I rasped against her mouth, hips snapping harder. “My Luna in everything but name yet. And when you face whatever ghosts wait there—”
I angled deeper, grinding against that spot that made her sob.
“—you’ll do it with my scent on your skin, my seed dripping down your thighs, and my bite burning on your shoulder.”
She came again—harder this time—walls clamping down, milking me.
I followed with a roar, knot swelling, locking us together as I pumped her full, hot and endless, until it spilled out around us and soaked the war table.
I stayed buried deep, forehead pressed to hers, both of us shaking.
After a long moment, I brushed damp hair from her face.
“Three days, little moon,” I whispered. “Then we burn the past down together.”