Unwanted Mate Of The Lycan Kings

~Zirah~

The sight that greets me is one I never expected. The billiard room, usually filled with laughter and the clinking of glasses, now looks like a battlefield. Tables and chairs are upturned, the remnants of shattered glassware litter the floor, and the room is filled with sharp tangs of blood and sweat. In the midst of the destruction, the men I’ve unfortunately come to know, now look more like warring barbarians than the kings they are supposed to be.

”Did a tornado hit this place?” I ask, my voice echoing in the silence that follows my entrance.

”Something like that,” Zeke grumbles, slouched in a chair, a bottle in his hand.

I raise an eyebrow at him. ”Looks more like you have been fighting.”

My gaze drifts to Malachi, who is leaning against the wall, his chest heaving and a bloody cut on his lip.

As I step further into the billiard room, cautiously, my heart pounds against my rib cage. The air is thick with tension and the smell of sweat. I take in the scene before me - King Theron and Malachi stand in the center, their clothes disheveled and torn. They both move away from each other, slowly, the force of their encounter still lingering in the air.

The two of them seem to sway in the aftermath of their battle, as if they can still feel the fury of the fight. Around them, Zeke and Lyon stand, their faces pale and their eyes wide as they watch me.

The entire room falls silent as I walk in, my feet silent against the hardwood floor. I flick my wrist, and magic spills out of me, a wave of energy washing over the room and clearing a path to the door at the end of the billiard room. That door leads to the kitchens.

I begin to walk forward, but my path is blocked by King Theron. He stands at the edge of the billiard table, his presence looming and powerful. His gaze pierces me, my mother’s face floating through my mind as if she were standing before me. I lock eyes with him, my gaze deadly.

“Zirah...” His voice is low but thick with emotion.

I stand there, my heart pounding as I stare into his eyes. I want to lash out, cast a spell, and make him pay for what he did to my mother. Watch him burn the way she did. ”You’re in my way,” I tell him.

He tilts his head to the side, his eyes flashing dangerously. ”This is my--”

”Was!... It was your kingdom; it’s not anymore. So again, Theron, you’re in my way,”

”You would dismiss me so easily, Zirah,” I ignore him and step past him, moving toward the kitchens.
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”Fine, but at least give my sons a chance,” Theron states.

I turn my head slightly, almost chuckling and his statement. He must truly be a mad man to think I would even still consider his sons as viable suitors.

”They had their chance,” I say, my voice cold and distant. ”And they chose their path. They chose to stand by you, Sloth.”

His eyes flicker with pain, a hint of regret perhaps, but I don’t have the luxury of sympathy, not for him. I continue my walk toward the kitchen, my heart pounding in my chest. I feel Theron’s gaze on my back, heavy and intense, but I refuse to turn around.

Instead, I move into the kitchen. The kitchens are in chaos when I finally reach them, a flurry of activity that pauses only when the kitchen staff notice my presence. I don’t have time to deal with their questions, or their fear.

The kitchen staff exchange glances, but no one speaks. They’re scared, I realize, scared of me and what I represent. They’re loyal to Theron, their King, and they probably think that helping me is akin to treason.

”You’re scared,” I say, not as an accusation but as a statement of fact. ”I understand. But I am not your enemy.”

I pause, looking at each one of them, when I notice their attention go behind me.

”Where is my brother?” Zeke asks, and I exhale, not wanting to deal with him.

”Asleep,” I answer, moving toward the coffee machine. I have hardly slept, tossing and turning and waking every hour. I need coffee and lots of it if I am to visit Kelly later today.

”So that’s it, you just made your choice and fuck the rest of us?” Lyon snarls.

I keep my back to them as I prepare my coffee, the machine’s low hum filling the tense silence. ”It was never about ’the rest of you’,” I say, my voice steady despite the turmoil inside me. ”It’s always been about justice. For my mother. For everyone, your father has hurt.”