Chapter 24 Power feels Good
Maureen Laurent
“Change everything!” I snapped at the maids hovering around me, their hands frozen mid-twirl in my hair. “I want it bleached—full ginger. Bright. Fiery. Nothing like before.”
They blinked, startled, but nodded quickly and scurried to mix the dyes. I didn’t explain. I couldn’t. The words tangled in my throat: I don’t want Silas to see the girl he broke. I don’t want him to recognize the ghost he sold.
An hour later, I stared at my reflection and barely knew the woman looking back.
The silver-white was gone—replaced by bold, blazing ginger that caught the hellfire light like living flame. It fell in wild waves around my shoulders, framing my face in a color that screamed defiance instead of moonlight.
Do I love it?
I don’t know.
But it’s different.
It’s mine.
Not the little star my father called me. Not the lunar witch the southern packs branded. Not the broken slave Silas collared.
Just… me. Whoever that is now.
“Perfect,” I said, waving a hand to dismiss the maids. They bowed and vanished like shadows.
The door opened softly, and Livia stepped in, her kind eyes widening just a fraction at the sight of my new hair before she smoothed her expression.
I turned in the chair, meeting her gaze in the mirror. “Tell me honestly, Livia. What more should I change? I don’t want to step foot down there looking anything like the girl he left bleeding on the floor.”
She hesitated, eyes dropping to the floor—a habit drilled into every servant here.
“You’re perfect, my lady…”
“That’s a lie,” I cut in, sharper than I meant. My voice cracked on the last word. “Stop. Just… tell me. What more? I want him to look at me and know exactly what he threw away. I want him to feel it—like a knife in the gut—for everything he did. For my mother. My father. For selling me like I was nothing.”
Livia lifted her gaze slowly, something soft and sad flickering there. She stepped closer, resting a gentle hand on my shoulder.
“My lady… if you’ll forgive my boldness,” she said quietly, “a new hair color, new gowns, painted nails, jewels dripping from your throat—none of it will make him feel what you want him to feel.”
I swallowed hard, the fight leaking out of me like air from a punctured lung.
“Then what will?”
“The truth,” she said simply. “He never cared about you. Not the silver-haired girl he smiled at under full moons. Not the broken one he betrayed. And he won’t care about the fiery woman who walks back into his stolen house with the Alpha Devil at her side. It was never about you, child. It was about what you had—land, power, a name he could steal. You could paint yourself gold from head to toe, and he’d still only see the threat you pose now.”
Her words landed like stones in still water—ripples of pain spreading through my chest.
I stared at my reflection again: ginger hair wild and bright, silver eyes too sharp, the bite mark peeking above the neckline of my robe like a brand of ownership and survival.
“He never cared,” I whispered, tasting the truth of it—bitter, familiar.
“No,” Livia agreed softly. “But someone does. Fiercely. Dangerously. In ways that would burn the world down to keep you warm.”
Vuk.
I closed my eyes, feeling the bond thrum under my skin like a second heartbeat.
Livia squeezed my shoulder once more.
“If you want to change something for tomorrow,” she said, voice gentler now, “do it for you. Not for him. Get the pedicure if it makes you smile. Wear the red dress that makes you feel untouchable. But don’t give him the satisfaction of thinking he still lives in your head.”
I exhaled shakily, nodding.
She was right.
Silas didn’t deserve the space he was taking up.
I stood, rolling my shoulders back, and met my own eyes in the mirror—ginger fire framing silver steel.
“Let’s go with the red dress,” I said, voice steadier. “The one with the slit up to here.” I gestured high on my thigh. “And the black heels that could stab a man through the heart.”
Livia’s lips curved—just slightly. “Now that sounds like revenge worth wearing.”
A soft knock sounded at the door.
Vuk didn’t wait for permission—he never did. The doors opened, and there he was: black leathers molded to his massive frame, golden eyes scanning the room until they landed on me.
They flared bright, pupils blowing wide.
He stopped dead in the doorway, gaze raking over my new hair like he was seeing me for the first time.
“Little moon,” he rasped, voice rough with something primal. “What the fuck did you do?”
I lifted my chin, heart pounding. “Do you hate it?”
He crossed the room in three strides, hands cupping my face, thumbs stroking along my jaw as he tilted my head side to side, studying the fiery strands like they were a miracle.
“Hate it?” A low growl rumbled in his chest. “I want to bend you over that vanity right now and knot you until you can’t walk onto southern soil tomorrow.”
Heat flooded me—sharp, instant.
He leaned down, lips brushing my ear.
“You look like sin and salvation had a daughter,” he whispered. “And I’m the lucky bastard who gets to watch the world burn when she walks into a room.”
I laughed—breathless, real—and wrapped my arms around his neck.
“You’re such a sweet little devil…” I whispered, nipping at the hot skin of his throat. He growled low, hands sliding under my thighs, lifting me from the vanity chair like I weighed nothing.
“And you’re my pretty little moon,” he murmured, pressing a soft kiss to my forehead, then my lips—gentle at first, then deeper, slower, until the world narrowed to the heat of his mouth and the way his tongue coaxed mine. A helpless moan slipped out of me, swallowed by his kiss.
He carried me to the bed, laying me down among the black furs like I was something sacred and breakable all at once. I cupped his face, heart pounding too hard.
“I love you…” I whispered against his ear, cheeks burning.
He froze, golden eyes searching mine.
“Huh? You want mac and cheese?”
I blinked. “No—I love you…”
“You want to go out?” He said it deadpan, but the corner of his mouth twitched.
I burst out laughing, shoving at his massive chest in mock offense. “Oh my gods, you did not—”
He pinned my wrists above my head in one smooth move, grin feral and boyish at the same time.
“Oh come on… I heard you. Just say it louder, little moon. Mmm?”
I narrowed my eyes, pretending to fight him, then threw my head back and screamed at the top of my lungs:
“I LOVE YOU!!! I LOVE VUK!!! I LOVE HIM!!!”
His whole face went crimson—actual red flooding those sharp cheekbones—and then he crashed his mouth to mine, kissing me breathless, laughing into it, hands everywhere like he couldn’t get close enough.
We didn’t leave the bed for hours.
The next morning came soft and slow—sunlight filtering through heavy curtains in pale southern hues we hadn’t seen in months. Vuk woke me with lazy kisses along my spine, murmuring filthy promises about the mile-high club until I was giggling and dragging him into the shower.
By midday we were on the private jet—sleek black, northern crest gleaming on the tail—cutting through clouds toward the Southern Territory.
It was my first time saying “I love you” out loud to anyone since my parents died.
I was still buzzing with it, nervous and giddy and terrified all at once. My fingers tangled tight with Vuk’s as the jet dipped through a pocket of turbulence. I gripped harder.
He glanced over, amusement sparking in those golden eyes.
“Scared of flying now, little moon? Or just can’t keep your hands off me?”
I rolled my eyes, but didn’t let go. “Both. Mostly the second.”
He lifted our joined hands, kissed my knuckles. “Good. Because I’m not letting go either.”
The rest of the flight passed in quiet touches—his thumb tracing circles on my wrist, my head on his shoulder, the steady thrum of the bond between us drowning out the engines.
When the wheels touched down on southern soil, everything changed.
The moment the door opened, humid air rolled in—thick with jasmine, pine, and something sharper. Power.
Southern power.
It hit me like a wall: layered alphas, old bloodlines, centuries of scheming and shifting alliances woven into the very breeze. My wolf stirred uneasily, hackles rising.
What the hell…
Vuk’s hand tightened around mine as we descended the steps. “Breathe,” he murmured. “It’s just posturing. They’re peacocks compared to us.”
A full honor guard waited on the tarmac—rows of southern werewolves in crisp gray uniforms, rifles at their sides, eyes lowered in forced respect. At the front stood a delegation in formal robes, the Southern Alpha’s crest prominent: a golden sunburst over green hills.
They bowed low as Vuk stepped onto the ground.
“Welcome, Alpha Devil,” their captain intoned. “The Southern Alpha sends his regards and these escorts to ensure your safe passage.”
Vuk inclined his head—just enough to acknowledge, not submit. “Lead on.”
We were ushered into a convoy of armored black SUVs flying both northern and southern banners. I slid in beside Vuk, his arm immediately curling around my waist, pulling me close.
The drive to the territorial pack house was quiet, tension building with every mile of familiar roads. My heart started its frantic bam-bam-bam the moment the sprawling estate came into view—white columns, manicured gardens, the same place where southern leaders gathered to pretend they weren’t terrified of the North.
We stepped out into warm sunlight.
Vuk’s hand was a steady anchor at the small of my back as we approached the grand entrance steps.
There they were.
The Southern Alpha—tall, silver-streaked hair, face carved from decades of politics—and his wife beside him, elegant and cool.
And then, descending the steps like they owned the world:
Silas Vane.
Golden hair gleaming. Blue eyes wide.
And clinging to his arm—Celeste, his sweetheart , in a pale green dress that screamed money and malice.
Both of them froze the second they saw me.
Celeste’s mouth actually fell open.
Silas went deathly pale.
“What!?” Celeste whispered, too stunned to hide it.
The Southern Alpha recovered first, stepping forward with practiced grace.
“Greetings, Alpha Devil, and his Lady,” he said smoothly, bowing.
Vuk’s voice was calm steel. “Greetings to you.”
I echoed it automatically, but my gaze had already locked on Silas.
He couldn’t hide the shock—eyes darting from my fiery ginger hair to the possessive way Vuk’s hand rested on my hip, then to the faint, deliberate glimpse of the mating bite above my collar.
His throat bobbed.
I let the silence stretch just long enough.
Then I smiled—slow, sharp, nothing like the girl he used to know.
“Hello, Silas,” I said, voice clear and steady. “It’s been a while.”
His hands clenched at his sides.
And for the first time since the night he betrayed me, I felt something stronger than fear.
Power.