Beneath the Black Throne
Morning.
Outside Shadow Consortium headquarters, Cynthia walked arm-in-arm with Kevin, her heels clicking like she was stepping on everyone's heads.
She dressed exceptionally "pure" today—white dress, pearls, delicate pins in her hair.
Kevin wore a tailored suit, smiling gently.
The receptionist didn't dare look directly at them, only bowed and led the way: "Honored guests, please wait in the VIP lounge. The Director will be with you shortly."
Metal doors closed, soundproofing instantly activated.
The next second, Cynthia's gentle facade dropped like a torn mask as she lunged into Kevin's arms, nails digging into his shoulders: "God, I'm exhausted. Had to put on a show for those old fools last night, now another performance for the Consortium."
Kevin gripped her chin, smile turning predatory: "Who told you to play the 'pure saint repaying kindness'? My condolences, Miss Cynthia."
"Don't mention purity." Cynthia rolled her eyes, straddling him directly, kissing hungrily. "That whole act makes me sick. But it's necessary—keeps that dog Ethan thinking he still has hope."
Kevin's hands roamed her waist, voice dropping to execution-low tones: "Once the blacklist drops, he'll crawl back like a starving mutt. Then you sit, I stand, and we watch him beg at our feet."
Cynthia gasped between laughs: "I want him to stare at my belly while I tell him—'You waited three years for nothing but Kevin's heir growing inside me.'"
Kevin grew more vicious: "I'll take you right in front of him. Let him understand he wasn't guarding faith—just a trash can."
They rutted shamelessly, the couch creaking beneath them.
They thought this VIP room was a throne.
They didn't realize it was merely a transparent cage.
Top floor, CEO's office.
An entire wall of monitoring screens, high-definition enough to catch lipstick stains on Cynthia's mouth.
I sat in the black-gold chair, fingertips lightly tapping the armrest, expression utterly unmoved.
The figurehead stood behind me, face green with disgust. Fighting back nausea, his voice trembled: "My King... should we have them dragged out now? What they're doing in this building—it's blasphemy against you, against Shadow Consortium."
I didn't look at him, only watched those two ugly faces on screen.
"Dragging them out would be too merciful." My tone was flat.
The figurehead's throat bobbed: "The most lethal strike you requested—I have everything prepared. One word from you—"
He gestured, another screen lighting up with dense financial webs—funding chains, shareholding structures, credit lines, underground channels, gray-market connections, all interconnected like a vast net.
"Carter family's core funding chains—drained in three seconds. Consortium-backed connections, channels, chamber seats—all withdrawn in ten minutes. Every commercial privilege instantly frozen. Even their North American Werewolf Council voting rights can be zeroed with one keystroke."
My fingers stilled.
"Execute everything." I said. "Strip them of it all."
The figurehead's eyes blazed with predatory excitement, like finally reaching hunting season: "As you command, my King."
His rapid-fire operations were like pressing a nuclear button.
While they played house downstairs, their family's arteries were already severed by my hand.
The air suddenly shifted.
Not oppressive—something purer, higher in authority, like moonlight descending while all things instinctively bowed.
The door opened.
She had arrived.
The Supreme Luna entered in magnificent robes, silver-white hair like moonbeams. Her presence made guards throughout the floor unconsciously hold their breath. Behind her followed two children—a boy and girl, golden wolf-eyes like tiny suns.
The boy rushed over first, hugging my leg, looking up with a grin: "Daddy."
The girl was more clingy, climbing onto my lap, small hands gripping my collar: "Daddy hold."
I lifted her securely while ruffling the boy's hair with my other hand. The gesture was gentle, yet made the figurehead freeze completely—he'd witnessed countless terrors, but never seen the "Black Throne's" master display such tenderness.
Luna approached, leaning down to kiss me.
No hesitation, no restraint.
Like a declaration.
She lifted her gaze toward the monitors showing those two dogs, a flash of noble contempt crossing her eyes before returning to me, voice low and soft yet blade-sharp: "My King, finally done hiding."
I wrapped my arm around her waist, tone calm: "They don't deserve me wasting emotions."
Luna leaned against my shoulder, laughing softly: "Then strip them of even the right to dream."
Downstairs was degeneracy.
Upstairs was King and Moon.
The gap was so vast that comparison itself seemed laughable.
In the VIP lounge, Cynthia had just straightened her dress and touched up her lipstick, resuming that "noble" facade.
Kevin adjusted his cufflinks, whispering: "When the Director arrives, don't rush. Sign the agreement first, then watch Ethan die."
Cynthia nodded, smiling benevolently: "I'll leave him a dog collar. As long as he kneels, I might let him guard our front door."
The words barely left her mouth—
BANG!
The door exploded inward.
The intruders weren't the Director, but fully armed Consortium enforcers in black tactical gear, batons ready, looking at them like garbage.
Cynthia's face changed: "What are you doing? We're VIP guests!"
Kevin frowned, trying to maintain authority: "Get your Director! We're here to sign an agreement—do you understand protocol?"
The lead enforcer didn't bother responding, simply raised his hand.
Both were immediately seized.
Cynthia shrieked: "Let me go! Do you know who I am? I'm Carter Pack—"
"Shut up." The enforcer's baton pressed precisely into her abdomen, calculated force doubling her over instantly.
Kevin struggled: "You dare touch me? Does Shadow Consortium want Carter family cooperation or—"
"Cooperation?" The enforcer sneered. "You're worthy of that word?"
They dragged the pair like prisoners—out of the lounge, through corridors, into elevators, toward the ground floor lobby.
Throughout the journey, every employee stopped and bowed their heads, clearing the path. None dared speak, yet all watched—witnessing these two suddenly yanked from their pedestals.
Ground floor lobby, cold white lighting.
The executive elevator chimed open.
Cynthia was still struggling when she looked up—her entire body seized like someone had grabbed her throat.
The person stepping out of the elevator was me.
I held Luna with one arm, our two children flanking me on either side, golden wolf-eyes surveying the lobby like born royalty.
And that figurehead—rumored to be ruthlessly decisive, whom they'd desperately sought audience with—now hunched like an old dog behind me, even his footsteps muffled, afraid of stepping on my shadow.
Cynthia's pupils constricted, lips trembling: "No... impossible..."
Kevin went paper-white, like seeing a ghost: "Ethan? How could you—"
I didn't look at them, only said to my son: "Hold tight."
The boy nodded, small hands gripping my clothes.
Luna's gaze fell on Cynthia like moonlight on sewage—cleanness so pure it cut.
Cynthia finally snapped, shrieking and pointing at me: "You worthless trash! What underhanded methods did you use to climb up to power? Did you grovel and lick boots to earn today?!"
Kevin also broke, voice manic: "You're just lowblood scum! You think you deserve to stand there? You think you—"
Before he could finish.
CRACK—!
A baton swept across.
The sharp sound of breaking bones exploded through the lobby.
Kevin's scream choked off mid-breath, blood and teeth spraying as his face caved inward. He collapsed, tears and snot flowing while curses became only whimpers.
Cynthia lunged forward screaming, only to receive a backhand strike to her temple. Swelling rose immediately, her mouth split, carefully maintained "saint" makeup smearing into a mess.
I finally lifted my eyes, gaze calm as if observing broken equipment.
"Throw them out." I said.
The figurehead immediately responded, tone utterly reverent: "Yes, my King."
They were dragged through the revolving doors.
Outside, post-rain pavement remained wet, muddy water mixed with tire tracks.
THUD—
They were dumped like garbage outside the building.
Cynthia sprawled in the muck, face burning with pain, eyes filled with pure venom. She looked up through the glass doors at me, at Luna in my arms and those golden-eyed children, hatred nearly overflowing.
"Ethan..." she ground through clenched teeth, "I'll see you dead. I swear it. The Carter family will mobilize every resource, connection, armed force—to the death!"
Kevin covered his bloody mouth, roaring incoherently: "Kill him... kill him! He stole what was ours—"
They kept screaming.
Still using "family influence" to comfort themselves.
But they didn't know—
The moment they were thrown out, every Carter family account, channel, and privilege they could mobilize had been zeroed by my keystroke.
The assassination they wanted to launch was bankrupt from step one.
I watched them through glass, expression tranquil as a windless night.
The next second, urgent reports crackled through the figurehead's earpiece. His face shifted as he bowed: "My King, the Carter side... Alpha Carter is convening the Elder Council, preparing to confront you personally."
I gently patted my son's head, tone utterly level: "Let him come."
