Chapter 43 43
Thunder Wolfgang. The future alpha of Wolfgang Pack. Margaux’s ex-fiancé. The arrogant pup who’d paraded his claim until Leon tore it out from under him. I remembered the stench of liquor on him, the bitterness in his eyes the last time I’d seen him at council. His pride had been gutted clean.
And now Margaux—no, Marigold—was living as Leon’s bride-to-be. Guarded by me. Out of Thunder’s reach.
Unless he’d found a way back in.
I stilled in the shadow of the hedges, fists curling, chest heaving. My wolf clawed at me, begging for release, demanding I shift and rip this impostor to shreds before he could so much as breathe near her again.
Not yet. Not until I was certain.
But if it was Thunder—if that coward thought he could creep through my territory, watch her, leave his twisted little trophies—
I would end him.
No council. No king. No princely diplomacy. Just me. My claws. My teeth. And the very ground of the villa drinking him in.
For now, I turned back inside, back toward the scent of her—warm, alive, sassy enough to drive me insane—but safe, because I would make damn sure of it.
Because if Thunder Wolfgang really was hiding in my villa, then his obsession was about to become his grave.
The rain hadn’t let up all night. It hammered the villa roof in hard, frantic beats, turning the gardens into a smear of dark glass and making every shadow feel like it might move. I’ve always hated storms. They sharpen everything—the scent of blood, the sound of whispers, the twitch of my wolf under my skin. But tonight? Tonight, the storm felt like an ally.
I’d been pacing the outer paths again, checking shutters, snapping at lazy sentries, when a guard came breathless at my shoulder.
“Alpha — someone was seen near Lady Margaux’s wing. The suspected gardener left early.”
That was all it took. A name would’ve been better, but my wolf didn’t need one.
The corridor outside her room reeked of jasmine and cold milk. My boots made no sound against the carpets. And then I heard it—faint, careful breathing. Not sleep. Controlled. Measured.
I pushed the door open.
There he was, bent low over the nightstand: a gardener’s coat, hands shaking with a spoon over a glass of milk. The hall light caught his cheek, and I saw it—that scar. Jagged. Familiar. Thunder Whiteland.
He was whispering, like a lunatic lover, and the pill in his hand caught the light. A sleeping draught, poison to someone her size. He tipped the glass, lips already hovering, ready to kiss what wasn’t his.
My wolf didn’t think.
I shifted so fast the world blurred. My snarl ripped the room apart. Thunder’s eyes went wide—just wide enough for me to see the recognition, the fear—before instinct did the rest.
It was over in seconds. A rush. A strike. The snap of something fragile pretending to be strong. His body slid to the tiles like meat.
Thunder blood had sprayed across Margaux’s sheets, across her pale arm where his filthy hand had been reaching. The scent of wolfsbane milk and crushed pills still lingered in the room, mixing with iron, with fear, with rage.
When I came back into myself, naked, bloodstained, lungs burning, I didn’t look at him. I went to her. Shook her shoulders.
“Margaux. Wake up. Wake up, damn it.”
Her lashes fluttered. Her lips parted. But she didn’t wake. Outside, I heard noises. Panic.
Behind me, Sugar’s scream split the night. She collapsed in a heap, clipboard flying, skirts bunched, fainting in a ridiculous, shrill tangle. Guards and maids piled in, chaos spilling like fire through dry grass. Shouts. Bells. Doors slamming. Someone already talking about the king, about council, about treason.
And me—covered in blood, holding the one thing that mattered, checking her pulse like a man clinging to sanity.
By the time Prince Leon arrived, my hands were shaking. His voice cut through it: calm, clipped, all iron. “You did what had to be done. Now breathe. Now stand.” He steadied me with one hand, pulled the words into order like only he could.
And Margaux—no, Marigold—still lay there unconscious. Her chest rose and fell shallow, her lips parted as if she wanted to speak but couldn’t. I had carried her through the hall with my own two hands, her head against my chest while the villa staff trembled in corners. My wolf was near the surface, claws itching to shred anyone who dared look at her the wrong way.
Guards flooded the villa, swords drawn, some trying to restrain me until Leon shouted them down. He stood there in the storm-soaked corridor, his jaw set, eyes sharper than I’d ever seen. He didn’t scold me, didn’t ask questions—he put his hand on my shoulder and said, low, “You did what had to be done. Now we play it smart.”
The smart part came hours later.
But words weren’t enough.
By dawn, I was in the council chamber—mud on my boots, blood on my cuffs. The king’s gaze was a weight. The queen’s frost could’ve carved me open. Nobles screamed treason, scandal, execution.
I stood. Spoke only once.
“He was in her bed. Poisoning her drink. About to touch her. I took his head before he could.”
Silence fell like a blade.
Prince Leon backed me with proof: the pill, the forged credentials. The doctor confirmed the dose in her blood. And the king… the king smiled like a wolf.
“You protected the future princess,” he said. “For that, you are praised. Investigate Wolfgang Pack. If they conspired, burn them root and branch.”
The queen gasped. A few of the council members shifted uncomfortably. Prince Leon leaned forward and added coolly, “I confirm Gregor’s words. I found the pills myself. The girl still hasn’t woken.”
It should have ended there—but of course, it didn’t.
The king stood. His crown glinted in the stormlight. For a long, terrible moment, I thought he would condemn me. That he would strip me of my Alpha name and cast my pack into ruin.
Instead, he smiled.
“Alpha Gregor,” he said, voice like iron, “you have proven your loyalty once again. You protected my future daughter in law when even her own kin failed. Let the record show you are to be praised, not punished.”
The council erupted—half in protest, half in forced agreement. I barely heard them. My eyes were locked on the king, on the way he gestured to one of his advisors.
Then…
The chamber hissed and cracked with whispers. Half of them saw me as a hero. The other half—an executioner too quick to kill. I didn’t care.
The council blurred. The storm blurred. All I could see was Marigold’s face pale against the pillows, her wolf fighting to breathe through the haze. I had saved her from Thunder’s hands, yes—but I hadn’t saved her from his poison.
And that thought burned hotter than any accusation in that chamber.