Dan's Point of View
The vase shattered against the door, fragments skittering across the floor like startled insects. I stared at the mess, my chest heaving.
Damn it.
I loved that vase. Grandfather gave me that when I was sixteen, told me it belonged to his own Alpha back in the old country. Now it lay in ruins because of her.
Victoria.
That spiteful, wicked, beautiful witch.
I ran a hand through my hair, pacing.
How could she tease a wolf like that, get me riled up, whisper promises in my ear, then waltz off . She always knows how to make a man beg, whether for blood, power… or her. But I like it. Keeps me sharp
And that's what made this delicious. Because she was right.
It had to be me. I was the one who had to strike Batista down.
We'd been brothers once.
Since we were pups chasing each other through the woods, wrestling in the mud, bleeding for each other.
But sentiment's a disease in men like me.
A fatal flaw.
What must be done, must be done.
"Lucas!" I bellowed.
My servant appeared at the door in seconds, eyes flickering to the mess at my feet.
"Clean this up. Now."
He nodded quickly.
"Yes, sir."
"And when you're done," I added, not even looking at him, "send word to the twins. Tell them I need them. Immediately."
"Right away, sir."
He scurried off, leaving me alone with my plans.
No time to waste now.
I made my way down the hall, my boots thudding against the old wood floors. The scent of candle wax and dust hung thick in the air. Every step toward the strategy room made my pulse steady, my mind clear.
This had been months in the making.
People would call me a traitor. A snake. A Judas.
Let them.
History's written by the victors.
Batista had run this pack into the ground, too soft, too sentimental, making treaties and handshakes when he should've been spilling blood.
I saw it years ago. Hell — even as kids, the fool would cry when a wolf got injured in a hunt. He didn't have the spine for this life. But his father was Alpha, and so the title was handed down like an old coat.
It should've been me.
I'm smarter.
More disciplined.
A better leader.
I don't flinch when there's blood in the snow.
But it was five years ago that truly cemented my resolve.
A petty issue, something about a hunting ground dispute with the Red River Pack.
I sat at that council table, watching Batista smile, nod, talk about treaties, peace, understanding.
I saw the eyes of our warriors — glazed with boredom, disgust hidden behind polite masks.
But none of them dared speak against their Alpha.
Cowards.
I knew then, if no one else would act — I would.
That's where I came in.
It started with whispers. A word here, a word there. Nothing direct. Nothing too loud. Just little things, dropped like crumbs for hungry rats.
"Isn't it strange," I told Trent one night while we shared a drink by the training grounds, "how much time Batista spends playing house with that Luna of his. Whole world out there, threats on every border… and our Alpha is more worried about his son's naming ceremony than our pack's future."
I said it like a joke. Smiled. Trent chuckled, but I saw it. That flicker in his eyes. He felt it too. Weak leaders get wolves killed.
Over the next few years, I kept it going. A quiet word after training. A drink shared in the dark. Little questions.
"Did you hear Batista wants to reduce patrols? Can you believe it? Rogues out there and he wants less eyes on the borders."
"You notice how the Alpha Council ignores us now? Like we're a joke? That's what happens when your leader acts like a weak pup."
No one argued. Not once.
I knew who to approach first. Gamma Trent. Head of border patrol. He's a wolf who respects strength and hates being overlooked. Batista passed him over for second-in-command years ago. That kind of insult doesn't fade.
One night, I asked him to meet me beyond the southern ridge. Out of earshot. Just us and the dark woods.
"You ever think about how things could be different, Trent?" I asked him.
He raised a brow. "Different how?"
I smiled slow. Let the words come easy, like we were just talking nonsense.
"A leader who puts warriors first. Who stops begging for peace and starts taking what belongs to us. Who rewards loyalty… and never forgets his true wolves."
Trent didn't answer right away. He didn't have to. The glint in his eyes said enough. That night, I promised him the title of Beta when this was done. His own land. And his pick of any warrior he wanted under his command.
He shook my hand.
After Trent, it was Eron. That little worm's good with records, logs, maps. Knows every patrol schedule, every food storage location, every secret passage in and out of the territory. Useless in a fight, but perfect for covering tracks.
I caught him outside the library one evening, pretending to fix the ledgers.
"Eron," I said, leaning against the doorway, "You ever wonder what it's like to be noticed? To have real power, instead of cleaning up after it?"
He stammered, gave me that stupid nervous laugh of his.
"I could use a wolf like you," I told him, lowering my voice. "Once Batista's gone, there'll be places for smart wolves. Important places. If you help me… you won't just keep records. You'll control them."
His eyes lit up like a starving pup offered a bone. He agreed before I'd even finished talking.
Victoria… now, Victoria's a different breed of wolf altogether. Dangerous. Ruthless. She was supposed to marry Batista. A good match on paper. But her heart's darker than mine, and it's always beat for power. For me.
It wasn't hard getting her on my side. She hated Batista as much as I did. Said he made her feel like a begger, not a concubine. That he was weak, soft, undeserving of the title Alpha.
We'd meet in secret, in the old cabin past the west ridge. Just the two of us, planning, plotting. She was the one who suggested seducing some of the stronger warriors — the ones Batista trusted most.
"Let them think it's harmless fun," she'd purr. "But when the time comes, they'll be ours."
And it worked. Warriors like Jace and Kain, those twin bastards, never could resist a pretty face and a promise of blood. Victoria had them wrapped around her finger within days.
I met them both in the clearing one foggy night. No one else around but the trees and the mist.
"You two have always been the sharpest claws in this pack," I told them. "But you'll never rise while Batista's in charge. He fears wolves stronger than him. That's why he keeps you down. You want more? You fight with me."
They grinned like devils. Bloodthirsty. Eager. I promised them command positions, first picks of loot and territory. Told them they could finally unleash the fury Batista kept chained. They agreed without a second thought.
Every night, I gathered more. Ambitious young warriors. Bitter old guards. Wolves Batista ignored, scolded, or passed over. I knew their hurts. Their hungers. I fed them hope and poison in equal measure.
"A new Alpha's coming," I'd tell them. "And you'll have a place at his side. Or… you can stay loyal to Batista and die forgotten."
No one chose loyalty.
Within weeks, I had nearly a third of the pack under my thumb. The rest wouldn't matter. Once we struck, they'd either fall in line or fall under a blade.
The best part? Batista had no idea. He still smiled at me in council. Called me 'brother.'
Fool.
He would never see me coming.
By the end of last month, we were almost ready. Every patrol shift, every border watch, every hidden passage marked and noted. Eron would erase records. Trent would pull loyal guards. The twins would lead the first wave.
Victoria would keep seducing, poisoning hearts, making sure no one questioned the strange disappearances, the rumors.
And tonight, as I sat alone in my chambers, I couldn't stop replaying what she said before she walked out.
She's right.
We can't waste time. Batista leaving in a week? That's a problem. A big one. If he gets past those borders with his family, our window slams shut. And I'll be damned if I let that fool slip through my fingers now.
The assassination needs to happen this week.
No more delays. No more second-guessing. No more soft words or waiting for the perfect storm.
And you know what? I have the perfect day for it. The farewell feast. Oh, how poetic. A night meant for goodbyes… will turn into a bloodbath. They'll toast his family one minute, and the next, they'll be choking on their own blood.
I could already see it. The packhouse lit up with lanterns, the air thick with roasted meat and spiced wine. Laughter. Dancing. And under it all, my men waiting in the dark, blades sharpened, orders clear. Kill them all.
Soon, I thought. Soon, this pack will be mine.
And Batista… poor, soft-hearted Batista. He'd finally understand what happens to wolves like him in a world built for monsters like me.
The old ways are dead. And I'm the bastard that buried them.