Four hundred and fifty years.
That's how long Malcolm Rodgers had waited—reigned, battled, conquered, and endured—without a mate. The world called him Alpha King of Blackridge, the strongest Lycan to ever walk the realm. But strength meant little when your soul was hollow.
He stood atop the balcony of his private estate, far removed from the packhouse, moonlight dancing across his dark hair and broad shoulders. His golden eyes glimmered with longing, his expression stony and unreadable.
Tonight was a full moon.
Again.
And with it came the burden his Lycan blood carried—an intense, primal heat that tore through him with every passing lunar cycle. Without his mate to balance him, the beast inside clawed for release.
He gritted his teeth.
"Malcolm."
The voice came from behind—Michael Berg, his Beta and best friend.
Malcolm didn't turn. "Is she here?"
Michael gave a small sigh. "She's waiting in the usual room. Blonde. Pretty. You won't remember her in the morning."
"I never do," Malcolm muttered. "Thank you."
Michael hesitated. "There's another way, you know."
"I told you—I'm not giving up on her." Malcolm turned now, eyes sharp. "She's out there. I can feel it. The bond… it calls."
Michael held his gaze, knowing better than to argue. He'd seen Malcolm travel across continents chasing dreams, only to return empty-handed. Four centuries of searching, and still no mate.
Still… his Alpha refused to give in.
"I'll make sure no one disturbs you," Michael said quietly.
Malcolm walked past him toward the stairs, each step heavy with suppressed emotion. What they did every full moon wasn't pleasure—it was survival. Temporary relief. His Lycan demanded release or risk going feral.
Tonight would be no different.
Except… someone was watching.
Katrina Roberts stood in the shadows of the eastern hall, her hands clenched at her sides. Her heart twisted as she watched Malcolm disappear down the corridor toward the chamber he used for his monthly escape.
She hated this. Hated that he wouldn't look at her the way she looked at him.
Childhood friends. Warriors side by side. She was now commander of one of Blackridge's elite army troops. Respected. Feared. But not loved.
Not by him.
Not the way she wanted.
She wanted to be his Luna.
But Malcolm held onto his belief too tightly—that his mate, his destined one, was out there. Katrina knew better. Fate wasn't kind. It was cruel and selective. Some got mates. Some got broken hearts.
Still, she smiled when he looked at her. Laughed when he made jokes. And every full moon, she burned with jealousy when another nameless, faceless woman left his chamber in the early dawn.
One day, she thought. One day he'll see me.
But tonight, fate had other plans.
Later that evening, the great hall roared with the sound of celebration. Malcolm joined his top-ranking officers for drinks—mostly to drown his own torment. The Werewolf Bane alcohol burned as it slid down his throat, the only liquor strong enough to actually affect a werewolf.
He drank. And drank. Until his eyes glazed and his shoulders relaxed.
He greeted his commanders with a nod and staggered out, barely able to keep his steps straight. The path to his private quarters felt longer than usual.
And Katrina followed.
She waited until he was inside. Waited until the guards turned the corner.
Then she slipped in.
The scent of musk and alcohol hung heavy in the air. Malcolm sat on the bed, shoulders hunched, eyes dull.
"Malcolm?" Her voice was soft, gentle.
He blinked up at her. "Katrina? What're you… doing…"
"I didn't want you to be alone."
His brows drew together, but he didn't stop her when she approached.
"You've been hurting," she whispered. "All this time, searching. Needing. Let me help. Just this once."
His lips parted—maybe in protest—but no words came out. He was too drunk. Too numb. Too tired of fighting.
When she kissed him, he kissed her back.
The night passed in a blur of heat and motion, a tangled mix of desperate touches and silent pleas. But when morning came, it wasn't Katrina beside him. It was regret.
Malcolm stood over the bed, his jaw clenched so tight it ached.
Katrina stirred, reaching for him. "Last night…"
"Was a mistake."
The words stung like a slap.
"You were drunk," she said quietly. "But you needed comfort."
"You should've stopped me."
"I tried."
"You're a commander, Katrina! You could've called Michael. Fought me off. Anything but… this." His voice cracked with restrained fury.
She sat up, the sheet clutched to her chest, tears gathering. "I just wanted to matter to you."
"You do," he whispered. "But not like this."
He turned away, fists trembling.
From that moment, Malcolm kept her at a respectful distance. Not out of cruelty—but because he feared what more regret would do to him. His kingdom needed clarity, not complication. And his heart still belonged to a dream—a hope of a mate he had yet to find.
So, he returned to his solitary estate, where even his aura was enough to keep the world away. The walls of his home were thick. Quiet. Peaceful.
Unlike the packhouse, where servants buzzed and rumors swirled.
And in one corner of that house, Mara Evans scrubbed the marble floors until her knuckles bled.
She was invisible. A maid with no scent. No wolf. No power.
But her story was far from ordinary.
Born to a loving pair of true mates, Mara once lived a life of warmth and laughter. But love often draws envy, and in their case, it was Thea Mark—a dark witch who had long desired Mara's father. When she realized he had chosen another, Thea snapped.
She killed them both.
Mara had been just a baby, hidden by one of the household staff during the massacre. But Thea wasn't done. With blood on her hands and rage in her heart, she cursed the child who had stolen the life she wanted.
Mara would be scentless.
Her mate would never find her. And her wolf—her birthright—would never awaken until she experienced true love. A love deep and pure enough to break the spell.
The staff raised Mara in secret. When she came of age, she was sent to work in the packhouse, unseen and unheard. She learned to survive. To clean. To obey.
But destiny does not forget.
One night, while searching for his Beta, Malcolm entered the packhouse. Michael had ignored his mindlink again—probably tangled in some woman's sheets.
As Malcolm stormed down the hallway, he paused. Something was… wrong.
Or rather, something was missing.
He smelled nothing.
But his Lycan stirred.
At the end of the hall stood a maid, carrying linens. Her head was bowed, eyes fixed to the floor.
No scent. No aura.
And yet… his Lycan roared.
He moved fast—faster than he should have. She looked up, eyes wide with fear.
Malcolm stopped short. Something inside him snapped. Or clicked.
He didn't know what it was—but his beast did.
It pushed forward, taking control. He reached for her, not with violence, but urgency. He needed her close. Needed to understand.
She trembled under his touch. But when he held her, he felt peace.
Real peace.
He carried her to an empty room.
And what happened next would change everything.