The Throne in the Rain
Selena tossed her phone onto the nightstand. The screen kept lighting up, then going dark again—every call to Arthur unanswered.
She frowned. Not out of worry.
Out of irritation.
“Still not picking up?” Lucas lounged against the headboard, a glass of wine in his hand, his tone dripping with amusement. “Looks like your husband finally learned how to throw a tantrum.”
“A tantrum?” Selena let out a cold laugh and brushed her hair back from her face. Her eyes were full of smug certainty. “Arthur’s always been good at one thing—putting on a pathetic little act. Playing hurt. Playing proud.”
She slid out of bed barefoot and crossed the plush carpet to the floor-to-ceiling window. Outside, rain hammered the city, turning the neon skyline into blurred streaks of color.
“He’s ignoring my calls because he wants me to chase him,” she said lightly. “But he forgot something.”
She turned, a faint, superior smile curling her lips.
“I’m his whole world. Without me, he’s nothing.”
Lucas gave a low chuckle. “Then why even call him?”
Selena walked back to the bed and leaned down, one hand fisting the collar of his shirt. Her voice turned sweet, dangerous.
“I was reminding him not to forget tomorrow night’s family banquet. As my husband, he should know how to behave.”
Then her gaze darkened, settling on Lucas.
“And you,” she whispered, “are the one I actually want.”
Lucas caught her chin between two fingers. “You’re not afraid he’ll find out?”
“Find out?” Selena smiled like he’d just told a joke. “Arthur can’t live without me. Even if he does find out, all he’ll do is try harder. He’ll do everything he can to prove he’s still useful.”
She flipped the phone facedown and stopped looking at it altogether.
In her mind, Arthur’s silence meant only one thing.
Jealousy.
A cheap little game to make her look back.
And she was absolutely certain that, sooner or later, he would come crawling right back.
Across the city, on another block, the rain came down like blades.
I stood beneath a dead streetlight, my coat soaked through, water dripping from my jaw. The street was too empty. No patrol cars. No late-night traffic. Only thunder rolling somewhere beyond the black clouds.
I lifted my eyes to the sky.
Then the night split open.
The roar came first.
Black Hawk helicopters tore through the storm, searchlights sweeping over the street like the eyes of judgment. Right behind them came an endless convoy of armored Maybachs, their tires crushing through pooled rainwater, throwing up clouds of white mist.
They looked like moving coffins.
Black. Silent. Unstoppable.
The convoy fanned out in front of me and sealed off the entire block in seconds. Steel barriers dropped. Street cameras went dark. The only sounds left were the heavy thrum of rotors and the deep growl of engines.
Then the crests lit up.
On the doors. On the helicopter bodies.
A dark crimson insignia bloomed through the rain like a flower from hell—ancient, bloody, absolute.
To mortals, it would look like a black-ops military force.
To the supernatural world, it meant something else.
Fear.
The kind that made monsters lower their heads and step back without being told.
I didn’t move.
The first car door opened.
A line of black-clad elites stepped out in perfect formation. The instant their boots hit the flooded pavement, they dropped to one knee as one.
“Welcome—”
Their voices were nearly drowned by the storm, but it still sounded like the ground itself was speaking.
Then I heard the second door open.
And she stepped out.
Platinum hair, rain-soaked and clinging to her shoulders, still gleaming like a blade in the dark. A black trench coat wrapped around her tall, flawless frame, snapping in the wind as she crossed the street in heels, each step deliberate, predatory, unquestionable.
Isabella Cross.
First Princess of the Cross family.
Her eyes passed over the kneeling crowd and locked onto me instantly, like a predator reclaiming what had always belonged to her.
In that single look, I saw everything she had buried for three long years.
Obsession.
Possession.
A hunger so intense it bordered on madness.
She stopped in front of me and lifted one pale hand to my face. Her fingertips were cold from the rain, but the force behind them burned.
“Arthur,” she said softly.
She didn’t say my name.
She bit it out.
Before I could answer, she rose onto her toes, caught the back of my neck, and kissed me hard.
Rain mixed with her breath as she forced her way in, fierce and shameless. It wasn’t a kiss.
It was a claim.
A declaration.
As if she meant to swallow every empty year between us in a single breath, as if she wanted the whole world to understand that I had never truly belonged anywhere else.
Around us, every head bowed lower.
Even looking felt like blasphemy.
At last she pulled back, forehead resting against mine, her voice trembling with emotion and iron certainty at once.
“Welcome back to your throne.”
The words hit like a command.
And the entire street answered in unison.
“Welcome back to your throne!”
“Welcome back, King of Hunters!”
I looked at Isabella, expression flat. “Enough.”
For a fraction of a second, something dangerous flashed in her eyes—the look of a beast denied its kill.
Then she smiled.
Slow. Beautiful. Obedient.
“If you say enough,” she murmured, “then it’s enough. One word from you, and I’ll lay the whole night at your feet.”
I pushed her away.
Not hard.
Just final.
She gave ground by half a step and stayed there, straight-backed, waiting like royalty in chains for her next command.
Then the communicator against my chest vibrated.
Sharp. Urgent.
Like someone knocking on death’s door.
I pressed the line open.
Silence.
Then a voice came through—carefully controlled, deeply respectful, and still unable to hide the fear underneath.
The Supreme Executor of the High Tribunal.
“My King... we have confirmed your return.” Each word sounded weighed, chosen with terror. “There is one matter that requires your instruction.”
I said nothing.
He rushed on at once.
“Regarding the three-year pardon and protection order granted to the werewolf clan of Selena’s bloodline... shall it remain in effect?”
The rain seemed to grow louder.
Isabella’s eyes sharpened. Somewhere behind her, I heard restrained breaths catch in black-clad throats. Not surprise.
Fear.
Because they understood exactly what that order meant.
For three years, Selena had walked through the supernatural world untouched. Untouchable. She had offended people she should never have offended, crossed lines no one else could cross, and still lived in comfort and arrogance.
Not because her werewolf clan was strong.
Because of me.
Because I had kept the blade sheathed.
Because I had stood in the dark where she couldn’t see me and made sure everyone else looked away.
I stared into the rain and answered without emotion.
“Do whatever you want.”
The line went dead silent.
As if the man on the other end couldn’t believe what he had just heard.
Then I gave him the truth, cold and clean.
“She has nothing to do with me anymore.”
The Supreme Executor’s breathing turned ragged. When he spoke again, his voice was almost shaking.
“Understood. The Tribunal will revoke the protection order immediately and notify all factions.”
The call ended.
Isabella tilted her head, a slow smile rising on her lips, cruel satisfaction gleaming beneath it.
“So you’re really done protecting her.”
I ignored the comment and slipped the communicator back inside my coat.
Something invisible shifted in that storm-dark night.
The moment the protection order was revoked, the last shield over the werewolf clan shattered.
Every grudge that had been buried for three years.
Every hunter denied blood.
Every enemy forced to wait.
All of it would come flooding back at once, like sharks catching the scent of blood in open water.
And it would happen fast.
Isabella raised one hand.
The kneeling elites rose instantly, moving as one, sharp as a drawn blade.
She stepped closer to me, her voice dropping to a soft murmur that still cut like steel.
“Where to now? Back to your throne?” Her smile deepened. “Or do you want to watch her fall first?”
I looked out at the city lights in the rain, my gaze unreadable.
Right now, Selena was probably still in bed, wrapped in lust, vanity, and fantasies of the man she truly wanted—certain that I would turn back like I always had before.
She had no idea.
The thing she had destroyed tonight wasn’t me.
It was the sky over her entire clan.
I turned and walked toward the convoy. Water exploded under my steps. Isabella fell in beside me instantly, close enough to feel like a shadow.
The moment I reached the car door, the communicator vibrated again.
This time, it wasn’t the Tribunal.
It was the throne’s private red alert channel.
A single line flashed across the screen.
[The first wave of hunters has crossed the border. Target: the werewolf clan’s central stronghold.]
My eyes narrowed.
The countdown had begun.
