Chapter 5

One year ago...

Derion opened his eyes and stared blankly at the ceiling. For a long, unblinking eternity, he remained frozen before his long eyelashes fluttered closed, ever so slowly.

He lay motionless, his spine pressed flat against the soft mattress, his face a chilling mask of absolute apathy. To anyone else, he would have looked completely at peace, but beneath that deceptive stillness, a volcanic, suffocating rage was boiling in his veins.

A familiar scent pierced the air of the room a moment before the muffled sound of footsteps approached. Derion let out a long, controlled breath. He already knew exactly who it was.

"Derion?" Ross's voice called out from the other side of the oak barrier, soft and cautious.

"Enter."

Derion fired the command directly through their telepathic mind-link, granting permission without moving a muscle.

The door groaned on its hinges, a slight creak echoing through the silent room as Ross stepped inside.

Ross’s expression remained deliberately blank, but his eyes instantly darted around the space, taking in the sheer devastation. 

The carpet and walls were heavily splattered with fresh blood. Three dead bodies rested in the room.

A male assassin lay lifeless on the floor in a pool of his own fluids. Two females lay in the exact same state, sprawled carelessly across the mattress. The only difference was the mechanics of their deaths. The women were bleeding out from two puncture wounds in their necks, while the man’s throat had been savagely ripped open, his bare chest and face mapping a labyrinth of deep, brutal claw marks.

The bedsheets, pristine white just hours before, were ruined by massive, spreading blossoms of maroon.

When Ross’s gaze finally settled on Derion, a soft sigh escaped his lips. The guy was lying comfortably between the two female corpses on the massive bed. He looked like a man without a single care in the world, but Ross knew the monster better than anyone.

"What's my day like?" Derion's voice sliced through the silence, cutting Ross off before he could even part his lips.

"You have three meetings," Ross responded, shifting instantly into his role as assistant. "And you are almost late for the first one."

Under normal circumstances, Ross wouldn't dare disturb Derion on a day like this. He would have postponed the empire's business, leaving Derion to remain in his isolation until the bloodlust burned out and he emerged on his own terms.

But today was different. These specific meetings were vital to Derion’s long-term plans, and Derion would not want to miss them.

The reminder snapped Derion’s eyes open. He sat upright, his gaze dropping to the butchered male on the floor, his brow furrowing with cold disgust.

"Feed that one to the dogs. He's worthless." Derion threw his legs over the edge of the bed. "As for these two, wrap them up nicely and send them straight back to their master. Maybe a couple of corpses will register better in his half-dead brain."

Without waiting for a reply, Derion climbed off the blood-soaked mattress and sauntered out of the room.

Ross stared at the carnage left in his Alpha's wake, a dark wish crossing his mind that he could wake the dead pack-hounds just to kill them all over again. He felt no pity. They had crossed a lethal line, and they got exactly what they deserved.

The trio were pureblood werewolves from Silveria, the ancient city of wolves—their former homeland. They had been dispatched by the current crown prince, Derion's older brother, with explicit orders to assassinate Derion. It happened every single year, right after the annual mating ceremony.

Ross could never truly comprehend the prince's psychotic obsession. First, it was systematic persecution, followed by total banishment from the territory. Yet, despite Derion proving repeatedly that he had zero interest in the throne or ever returning to the land, the assassins kept coming.

Last night had been the mating ceremony. Like every year before it, they had been forced to return to Silveria because the ruling council made Derion’s attendance mandatory. Why they enforced that specific rule, neither he nor Derion knew.

But Derion couldn't defy them, not with the binding blood-oath they had forced him to swear before exiling him into the human world.

The moment the ceremony concluded, they had left Silveria, only to be ambushed on the dark borders. It wasn't an unexpected strike, but the sheer volume of attackers this time had caught them off guard. The numbers were double what they usually faced.

The skirmish dragged on far too long, and one of the bastards managed to inject a massive dose of poison into Derion's system, crippling his strength. It was the only reason Derion had dragged these three survivors back to his house, using them as living vials of blood to neutralize the poison and violently replenish his failing energy.

"Tsk... I wish he gave you a more painful death. You don't deserve to die so easily." Ross clicked his tongue in pure irritation, staring down at the twin holes in the female werewolf's throat. "Piece of work."

He muttered the words to the empty room, moving deeper into the bloodbath to execute his Alpha's grim cleaning orders.

Meanwhile, Derion stepped into his personal quarters and slammed the door shut behind him.

Stripping off his ruined clothes, he marched into the bathroom to scrub the stench of death from his skin. The poison was still fighting dirty, leaving his muscles heavy and weak.

But the physical agony was nothing compared to the fury burning in his chest. Beside the ambush, his rage stemmed from a much deeper, recurring wound. Every single time he was dragged back to that pathetic mating ceremony, a microscopic shred of hope convinced him that he might finally find his mate.

But the ceremony had ended, the fires had burned out, and he was left with absolutely nothing. He was angry, disappointed, and entirely alone... again.

Emerging from the bath, he threw himself onto the bed, his chest heaving with heavy, labored breaths. He needed at least a few hours of total stasis to stabilize himself.

"Ross."

The telepathic link snapped open, Derion's voice echoing sharply in Ross's skull.

"Yes?" Ross paused, adjusting his grip on the heavy plastic wrapping as he secured the second corpse.

"What time is the first meeting?" Derion rolled over on the mattress, burying his face in the pillows.

"10."

"Which company?"

"Regal Tee group."

"What time is it now?"

"9:40."

"Reschedule it."

Ross's brow furrowed at the command, but he held his tongue. He knew better than to argue with a poisoned Derion who had just drained three people dry.

"Which one's next?" Derion’s voice echoed in his mind again.

"Rivershed College. 11 am."

"Reschedule."

This time, Ross couldn't stay silent. He reacted instantly.

"We've rescheduled this one three times already, Derion. We can't do it again."

Ross held his breath, hoping Derion wouldn't push the issue.

When Derion offered no retort and completely vanished from his mind, Ross finally let out a long, relieved breath, returning to his grim work.