Chapter 149
Chapter 149
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The night had gone still, unnervingly still.
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Our footsteps echoed faintly over cobbled streets as the four French wolves led us away from the heart of the city.
The air smelled faintly of damp stone and old smoke, threaded with the stronger, more musky scent of wolves who had shifted not long ago. I held tighter to Francesco’s hand, his warmth grounding me even though my pulse kept skittering.
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Hours ago, we had been laughing–two souls pretending to be newlyweds, losing ourselves in the illusion of freedom. Now, the weight of responsibility pressed down again, dragging us back into the world that would never stop demanding pieces of him. Of us.
Beside me, Audrey walked in silence, her sharp eyes scanning alleys and rooftops as though danger could spill from every shadow. Marlow followed just behind, broad–shouldered and tense, his hands loose at his sides but ready for anything.
And ahead, the four strangers–French wolves whose golden eyes still burned faintly in the dark–moved with quick strides, glancing back every so often to make sure we followed.
I should have felt relief that we weren’t being led into a trap. But the silence, the eerie emptiness of the streets, unsettled me. It wasn’t just the late hour. Something was off.
We left the last stretch of lit roads behind and entered a more rural path, lined with trees whose branches arched overhead. Mist curled low over the ground, swallowing our feet. The further we went, the stronger the wolf scent became–thick, heavy, too concentrated for a pack this size.
And then, at last, we saw it.
A settlement tucked deep in the valley: low houses built of pale stone, clustered around what looked like an old church repurposed into a pack hall. Lanterns burned outside the doors, their dim glow catching on the
faces of those who came out to meet us.
I slowed without meaning to.
They were… old.
All of them.
Not a single young woman stepped forward, not even a child peeking from behind an elder’s skirts. Only men with silver hair and weathered faces, or women whose backs had already bent with age. Their eyes carried the weight of exhaustion, but when they saw Francesco, those same eyes lit with a fragile, desperate hope.
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The four who had brought us dropped to one knee in unison. “Alpha. We bring before you King Lycaon.”
Murmurs broke out. Some gasps. A few hands lifted as though in prayer. And then, like a wave, the entire gathering bent low, foreheads nearly to the ground.
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I froze. Even after years of being with Francesco, I hadn’t grown used to this–the awe, the reverence, the way the very mention of his true title changed the air around us. He stiffened slightly, his jaw tightening. He never liked this worship. He never wanted to be anyone’s god.
“Rise,” his voice rang out, low and commanding, rolling through the night air like thunder restrained.
They obeyed, but none dared meet his eyes.
A man stepped forward, tall but stooped, his dark coat patched at the elbows. His hair was iron–gray, and his face carved with lines that spoke of decades of hardship. I recognized the aura before he even introduced himself: Alpha. The weight of leadership clung to him, though it was a tired, fraying weight.
“Your Majesty,” he said, bowing his head deeply. His French accent wrapped around the words. “I am Alpha Henri Beaumont. This is my Beta, Luc Moreau.”
The second man–a shorter, sturdier wolf with cropped hair–bowed as well, his lips pressed tight as if holding back emotion.
Francesco gave a short nod. “Alpha Henri. Beta Luc. You honor me by receiving us, though it was not my intent to intrude upon your lands.”
At that, Henri shook his head with a fervor that startled me. “Intrude? No. No, my king. You cannot know what this means, that you have come here, with your Luna by your side. We feared our pleas would never be
heard.”
Pleas.
I glanced up at Francesco, catching the slight narrowing of his eyes. He hadn’t received any such plea. None
of us had.
“Tell me what is going on,” Francesco said, his voice a low command.
Henri faltered, glancing around as though afraid to speak the words in the open. “Perhaps… within the hall, my king. It is not safe here.”
Francesco gave one curt nod. “Very well.”
We followed them toward the church–like hall, its heavy wooden doors creaking as they were pushed open. Inside, the air was warmer, scented with herbs and smoke, but the atmosphere was no less bleak. The walls bore scratches as if claws had raked them in desperation. A long table stood at the center, but only a handful of chairs remained upright.
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And again, I noticed the absence. No young laughter. No curious children. No bright–eyed women. Only the shuffle of elders, their eyes hollow with hunger and fear.
My chest tightened. I drifted closer to Audrey, who had noticed the same. “Where are the women?” I
whispered.
Her lips pressed into a thin line. She shook her head once. “I don’t like this.”
Neither did I.
We were guided to seats at the head of the table. Francesco remained standing, his presence filling the room, though he spared me a glance, his hand brushing mine beneath the table as if to ground me.
At last, Alpha Henri exhaled heavily, his shoulders slumping. “My king… forgive us. We did not know if our messages ever reached you. For over half a year, we have sent word–letters, envoys, pleas for aid. None returned. Some… we suspect… never even left our borders.”
Marlow stiffened behind Francesco, his eyes flashing. Audrey leaned in slightly, muttering under her breath, “That’s impossible. We would have heard.”
Francesco’s jaw hardened. His voice cut through the tension like steel. “No word reached Florence. Not one. Whoever intercepted your messengers… did not wish me to know.”
A murmur ran through the elders, fear sparking anew.
I forced myself to speak, my voice softer, careful. “What happened here? Why are there no women?”
At that, the Beta, Luc, closed his eyes as though bracing himself against grief too heavy to voice. Henri’s
hands clenched on the table.
“It began,” Henri said slowly, “six months ago. At first, it was whispers of disappearances. Young women vanishing after going to the markets, or walking home after dusk. We searched. We sent patrols. We found nothing. Then… it escalated.”
He swallowed hard. His eyes, when they lifted to us, brimmed with anguish.
“Packs from neighboring regions reported the same. Entire villages left without their daughters, their mates. And when we tried to fight–when our warriors went to protect them–they never returned either. As though the darkness itself swallowed them whole.”
My stomach twisted. I looked around the hall, at the weary faces, the trembling hands, the eyes that dared
not hope.
“Now,” Henri whispered, his voice trembling as though the weight of his confession pressed against his very bones, “only the elders remain. Our women are gone. Our children too. Stolen. Taken. And we have no strength left to find them. We prayed to the Goddess, we prayed to the wind, we prayed to the King of
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Wolves himself. And now-” His throat caught, and the final words came out as a broken rasp. “Now you are
here.”
The silence that followed was suffocating.
The kind of silence that held not peace, but despair.
Francesco’s hand found mine beneath the table, closing firmly over my fingers, grounding me in that storm of grief. His palm was warm, his grip steady, but I felt the tension that coiled through him. His eyes burned- gold and fierce, lit with the power of his Lycan blood, the weight of kingship heavy on his broad shoulders.
And yet beneath the fire, I saw it.
The same grief I felt.
The same fury at injustice.
The same ache for those who had no one left to fight for them.
Beside me, Audrey shifted, her jaw tight, her usually sharp eyes softer now. “Ellaine…” she murmured, almost a whisper, her voice laced with unease. “This… this is bigger than I feared.”
I nodded faintly, unable to force sound past the lump in my throat. The sight of this pack–broken, diminished, stripped of its youth and joy–was like staring at a nightmare.
Francesco’s voice, when it finally cut through the silence, was quiet but unyielding. Each word landed like
the strike of a blade.
“Then we will uncover who has done this. And we will end it.”
The Alpha–Henri–bowed his graying head.
Tears shimmered in his eyes, though he blinked them back with the dignity of a man who had carried far
too much sorrow.
“Thank you, my king,” he whispered, reverence and gratitude trembling in his voice.
The Beta, a lean man with dark hair threaded with silver stepped forward then, his voice smoother but no less heavy with exhaustion. “Now… let us take you to your chambers. You must be weary from travel, and there is little to gain from weary hearts tonight.”
We rose. Francesco inclined his head in respect, and together we bid our goodnights to the Alpha before following Lucien deeper into the Alpha Manor.
The walk through the pack’s home was unsettling in its stillness.
No sound of children’s laughter. No giggles of young women bustling about. No footsteps light with
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curiosity or mischief. Only silence. Only the soft creak of old wood and the shuffle of tired warriors watching
from shadowed corners.
I kept close to Francesco, my fingers brushing against the back of his hand, and yet I couldn’t stop my eyes from scanning every hall, every doorway. The emptiness echoed.
When we reached a broad corridor, Lucien stopped before a carved wooden door. “This will be your room, my king. And Luna,” he added respectfully, bowing his head toward me. “Your guards will be taken to adjoining chambers.”
Before I could thank him, Marlow stepped forward like a wall of unshakable resolve. “No,” he said firmly, his arms crossing. “We will remain outside their door.”
Audrey gave a sharp nod, her expression daring anyone to argue. “Where our king and Luna sleep, we stand
guard.”
I blinked at them, startled. “What?! No, absolutely not. You’ve both been on edge since we arrived. You need
rest too.”
Marlow’s lips twitched, but the ghost of a smile didn’t quite reach his eyes. “We rest better knowing no
threat touches you.”
Audrey smirked softly, though her tone was iron. “Don’t waste your breath, Ellaine. We’ve made our
decision.” And with that, she all but nudged Francesco and me into the chamber before shutting the heavy
door behind us.
The echo of the latch falling into place lingered.
I sighed, pressing a palm to my forehead before turning toward Francesco, who hadn’t moved from the center of the room. His gaze was fixed on me, unwavering, golden flames burning like a storm he kept caged
inside his chest.
“What?” Tasked warily, raising an eyebrow.
“I am sorry,” he said quietly.
I tilted my head. “Sorry? For what?”
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He looked around the room–lavish in its French décor, yet hollow without warmth–before shrugging with a heaviness that didn’t match the casual gesture. “This.”
Ah.
I understood immediately.
When we thought this trip would be ours alone–just the two of us, stolen time like any other couple–we had been thrown into something much greater. A broken pack. A hidden war. Another burden upon his
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shoulders, upon mine.
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I crossed the room and slid my arms around him from behind, pressing my cheek against his back. His body was solid beneath me, strong, radiating warmth like a hearth fire I would never tire of.
“This is who we are,” I whispered, holding him tighter. “Yes, we hoped for a normal trip. A simple–one. Just Francesco and Ellaine. But in the end–you are the King. And I am your Luna. If being who we are means helping those who have no one else… then I’m glad.”
Francesco turned in my arms, his hands cupping my face with a tenderness that contrasted his lethal strength. His lips curved into a faint smile. “This could be dangerous,” he murmured, his voice low, rich,
vibrating through me.
I lifted a shoulder in a mock shrug, trying to lighten the weight pressing on us both. “Our challenges have always been dangerous, haven’t they?”
That earned a chuckle from him, deep and warm, rumbling through his chest. His forehead leaned against mine, and for a fleeting moment, the world shrank to just us–the King, the Luna, and the promise of facing
every storm together.
But outside our door, the shadows of grief still lingered. And in the silence of the French pack’s manor, I couldn’t shake the haunting thought:
What had stolen their women and children?
And why had no word reached Francesco’s ears before tonight?
AD
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