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Rhea
Twenty-six hours after accepting my position as the Lycan King’s mate, I jolted awake to splintering wood and shouting voices. After an emotional chat with my parents I had retreated to my room without dinner as the exhaustion took over.
My bedroom door hung off its hinges as guards poured through, their faces grim with purpose. Guards who’d smiled at me yesterday during the mate presentation, now wouldn’t meet my eyes. The fog cleared instantly when I recognized the metallic scent flooding my room. Blood, and something worse.
The familiar sanctuary of my childhood bedroom transformed into chaos. Guards in tactical gear swept through like a storm, checking corners and windows with practiced efficiency. Their boots tracked mud across the pale carpet my mother had chosen specifically to show any dirt. Now it would show so much worse.
“By order of the Crown, remain where you are.” Someone’s voice cut through chaos as more guards crowded the space. The senior guard, Konstantin stood at the foot of my bed, his scarred face unreadable. Yesterday he’d been part of my honor escort, walking two steps behind as befit the Lycan King’s new mate. Now his hand rested on his weapon.
I clutched sheets to my chest, trying to process the invasion. These men had bowed to me yesterday. Now they positioned themselves like I was a threat, hands hovering near weapons.
“What’s the meaning of this?” My voice came out steadier than expected, even as my heart hammered against my ribs. The spokesperson’s daughter knew how to project calm even in a crisis. My father had taught me that much.
Marcus shifted uncomfortably by the destroyed door, his younger face showing the conflict his senior officer had mastered hiding. His eyes kept darting toward my bathroom door, and that’s when I noticed. The blood scent grew stronger from that direction, seeping under the closed door like an accusation.
“You need to see for yourself,” the guard from earlier said quietly, the words dragged from him like broken glass.
The blood scent grows stronger near my bathroom. The thought formed with clinical detachment even as my body began to shake. Blood meant violence. Violence in my private space meant violation. And guards treating me like a criminal meant someone important was dead.
Konstantin gestured sharply, and two guards moved to flank me. “Get up. Slowly.”
I rose on unsteady legs, acutely aware of my vulnerability. The silk nightgown that had seemed modest enough for sleep now felt like nothing under their professional gazes. No one offered a robe. No one suggested I dress. The power dynamics had shifted while I slept, and I was no longer the protected mate of their king.
They formed up around me with military precision, a living cage that moved toward my bathroom. Each step brought the scent stronger. Blood, yes, but also bowel and bladder release. Death smells. Violent death smells. My stomach turned as Marcus reached for the door handle.
Nothing could have prepared me for what lay beyond that door.
They dragged me toward my ensuite bathroom, and the smell hit like a physical blow. Blood painted the white marble in arterial sprays, handprints smeared across mirrors in desperate patterns. But it was the body that stopped my heart. Laziel, or what remained of him, lay twisted on cold tile. Claw marks had opened his throat, chest, abdomen with vicious precision. His clothes hung in ribbons. Those laughing eyes that teased me two nights ago stared sightlessly at nothing.
The violence of it defied comprehension. This wasn’t just murder. This was savagery. Whoever had done this had wanted to destroy, not just kill. The alpha prince had been systematically torn apart, his body bearing wounds that spoke of rage beyond reason. Blood pooled in the marble depression meant for bath drainage, turning the elegant fixture into something obscene.
My knees buckled but Konstantin’s grip kept me upright. His fingers dug into my upper arm hard enough to bruise, but the pain helped ground me. The guards watched my reactionwith professional assessment, cataloguing every flinch and gasp. I recognized the political choreography even through horror. They were building a case with witnesses. Someone had to pay for a prince’s death, and an omega who’d just supplanted expectations made a convenient target. My bathroom. My chambers. My supposed victim arranged like an accusation.
“Prince Laziel entered sometime after midnight,” Konstantin stated, his tone making it fact rather than speculation. “The blood patterns suggest he was killed here, in this room.”
“That’s impossible. I would have heard,” I protested, even as my mind raced through the timeline. I’d returned home after ten, emotionally drained from the council meeting and conversation with my father. Mother had given me tea with a mild sedative, insisting I needed real rest. I’d fallen into bed by eleven and heard nothing until the guards’ arrival.
The blood pattern suggested a few long minutes of suffering. My eyes tracked the arterial sprays despite my revulsion. Whoever had done this had taken their time. Laziel hadn’t died quickly or quietly. He’d fought, based on the defensive wounds visible on his hands. He’d tried to escape, based on the bloody handprints leading toward the door. He’d suffered, based on the pattern of wounds that avoided immediately fatal areas until the end.
“Why was he in my room?” The question emerged without thought. “How did he even get in?”
The guards and Konstantin exchanged looks that said too much and nothing at all. Of course they wouldn’t answer. Of course they’d already drawn conclusions. The omega who’d mated above her station, who’d disrupted the natural order, who’ddared to claim the Lycan King. What better suspect for the spurned brother’s murder?
More guards arrived with a specialized unit for evidence collection. They photographed everything while I stood trapped in my nightgown, barefoot on bloody tile. The humiliation felt intentional, stripping away yesterday’s briefly held status. Through the windows, I saw activity in the courtyard. Riders dispatched, vehicles arriving, the machinery of crisis management grinding to life.
The evidence team worked with silent efficiency, documenting the horror while I stood as witness to my own downfall. They scraped under his nails where he’d clawed at his attacker. They photographed every spray pattern, every defensive wound, every sign that pointed to murder most foul in the omega’s chambers.
“Document everything,” the lead technician ordered. “The King will want a complete report.”
The King. My mate. Who remained silent through our bond while his brother’s blood cooled on my bathroom floor. Where was his protection now? Where was the possessive alpha who’d claimed me so thoroughly he’d missed his own coronation?
“You’ll come with us now.” It wasn’t a request. They formed a perimeter that pretended to be for protection but functioned as prison. The walk through Thornback halls felt like a funeral procession. Servants peered from doorways with expressions mixing pity and fear. News traveled faster than wildfire in pack territories. By dawn, everyone would know the omega who dared mate an Lycan King stood accused of murdering his own brother.
My mother’s prized photographs watched our procession from the walls. Twenty years of political advancement, documented in careful stages. My father’s appointment as spokesperson. My parents’ presentation at court. My own academic achievements that proved omegas could excel beyond sex and reproduction. All of it meaningless now, tainted by blood and suspicion.
“Am I under arrest?” I asked as we reached the main entrance.
