Page 34 of King of Moon and Claws

Elora was aghast by the concept but also a little turned on. Her emotions were spinning around inside her body like an isolated tornado.

They made their plan and set it in motion to capture the true puppet master in the act.

TWENTY

BASTIAN

The troops were nearly assembled. Bastian had made his speech, one of his most triumphant and striking according to Tavish with a grand applause following. The king was razor-focused, switching seamlessly into the mode of fearless leader. His commander uniform was pristine, a shade of green as deep as the sacred forest he roamed as a solitary wanderer. Golden lace weaved through the threading near the collar and through the arms, bending along the elbow, with a rose-tailored finish near the cufflinks.

He used a blade on his face before the announcement, carefully gliding the sharp tool along the curved ridges of his cheekbones, then upward. It was a ritual that many kings before him had committed to not only before a crucial battle but also before presenting themselves to their people. He had to look neat and composed. He couldn’t show them the true wild beast lamenting for his dear, sweet Elora.

The people had gathered under the hideously bleak skies and remained once the scatterings of rain had begun to cascade over them. It cast a thin, haunting mist over them, their faces peering out from the damp like hovering masks.

They were grumbling, but he sliced through the chatter the moment he raised both hands in the air. The silence of nearly a thousand wolf shifters was eerie to observe.

“My people,” the king boomed, “hear now! We are on the precipice of a war with our paranormal brothers and sisters. A vampire lord named Vasilis has ignited our fury! We meet at sundown to fight in the name of the wolves!”

The crowd came alive for a common cause. The king was inspired by their loyalty and confidence in him, but he felt outside of himself. He felt like a doll, dissociated, controlled by invisible strings.

Once night came, the burning sun swallowed by the black, Bastian looked distinguished, standing at attention with the horde of wolves positioned behind him. The sky had gone a silvery gray with patches of moonless black blooming like ink stains over the heavens. King Bastian Threwold, the Wolf King of the Wildwoods stood calm and exquisite at the front line of the castle. Rain fell in pellets, crashing against his uniform, but he remained numb to their impact.

Every precious thought of Elora was excised from his mind with surgical precision. She was like a gem lodged into his soul, requiring excavation before her essence spread to infect the rest of him.

His wolf knew the concept was hysterical. Once a shifter found their mate, there was no going back. It was like having a leg amputated and burned to a cinder. There was no rifling through the ashes left for him.

And he had no interest in scraping the pieces back together, anyway.

“Are we ready, My King?”

Tavish stood with Bastian at the castle gates, swarms of military shifters standing behind him, waiting for instruction. They, too, wore the uniform of the state which had been carefully constructed by a tailor who mastered the transformation of their clothing from human to wolf. The uniforms were only used in the most dire of situations, like a suit of armor, and concealed in a secret room below the castle.

“Yes,” Bastian said, rain sliding over his lips. “You may return inside, Tavish. Trust me, you don’t want to see this.”

Tavish was soaked from the rain and paused, his face having gone pale. Bastian could feel his concern crawling all over him.

“What is it?” Bastian grunted.

“Are you sure this is… right?”

The mousey voice was unlike Tavish. He knew his place, but he also knew when to shake the king out of his delusions.

Bastian let his claws grow out from his cuticles, entire knives pushing through his human skin, and responded to his most trusted advisor with a guttural growl.

Tavish eyes went wide with terror and then took a step back.

“You question the king?” His voice was gravelly with rage. “Try that again, and you find yourself first to be mutilated."

“I’m sorry, deeply sorry, My King,” he bowed his head, groveling. “I misspoke."

Tavish scurried past the waiting soldiers like a pathetic pest.

The rain continued its mighty pummeling as the soldiers, led by a half-morphed, snarling king, began to march into battle. There was an unspoken agreement to meet with the vampires halfway across the Wolf Kingdom at nightfall. That was where the true hero would show his face, either pale or furry.

He walked silently through the fields with his men behind him, quietly stalking their prey. He spotted Vasilis first, leading a sea of black-capped, chalky faces. His grin was vile, rainfall curving around his abhorrent face like a jeweled halo.

Bastian seethed. He had never felt such hatred in his entire life. He had dealt with some of the foulest creatures that walked the face of the planet—of his kind, too—and none of them had summoned such a palpable, visceral response that the vampire lord had. His thoughts were gruesome. His hunger for killing pierced holes through his inhibitions.

A whisper in him was convinced that it was all because of Elora. When a shifter found his or her mate, everything changed. The colors were more vivid. Sex transcended the physical condition. And because he hadn’t marked her, all his emotions sat on the brink of havoc.

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