Beside the corner were two maids, two female maids as their tunics dress was loosened and half-untied. They were locked in a passionate kiss, their hands roaming freely over each other’s naked curves, attracted to any man who wants to have them. They didn’t notice me. One maid tilted her head back, giggling some soft words to the other as the other’s lips trailed down to her cleavage as she sucks on her peaches, massaging the other with her free arms. Her second could only let out loud moans as her eyes were shut, enjoying every touch and feelings.
Beside them were empty bottles of alcoholic wines, obviously they had gone drunk.
Warborn, my father’s pack, had become a place where such scenes were no longer shocking. Under Alpha Trent’s rule, discipline had eroded and doesn’t exist. The pack had always been a chaotic sprawl of indulgence and neglect. The servants pleasured themselves openly. Guards gambled away their wages in the barracks, and rumors of black-market trades, stolen goods and even pilfered pack relics circulated freely. I’d seen it all. And even high-ranking pack members turned a blind eye to the debauchery. Not like some of them were comfortable with what’s happening but they dared not question my father. They knew his personality and never tried to mess around him.
My father, Alpha Trent, knew of these indiscretions, particularly the open displays of affection among both genders. But yet, he did nothing. In fact, he enjoyed every bit of it and I do not think there would be improvement any time soon.
Years ago, I’d confronted him about it. I’d caught a group of traders smuggling wolfsbane through the market. My blood had boiled as I dragged one of them before my father, expecting swift justice. Instead, he’d lounged in his carved chair and waved me a dismissive hand. "Boys will be boys, Lucas," he’d said, as if I’d brought him a trivial complaint. "Let them have their fun. It keeps the pack... lively." I’d stood there, fists clenched in disbelief. "This is illegal, Father. It weakens us," I’d argued, but he’d only chuckled, his eyes drifting to the goblet of wine in his hand. "Go train, son. Leave the ruling to me." Dismissed, I’d stormed out truly disappointed. Most pack members poisoned themselves with wolfbane on little misunderstanding and my father never punished or tagged them as murderer. He always believed that the victim deserved it.
Warborn wasn’t always this way. The pack had a proud history, or so the elders told me. Founded centuries ago by my great-grandfather, it was a fortress of loyalty and strength, its warriors feared across the region. Now, it was a shadow of that legacy, crumbling under my father’s lax hand.
While I am against his rule, the pack’s whispers about me didn’t help. Some called me the illegitimate son, claiming my mother. a woman my father had loved before his true mate, wasn’t his rightful partner. Others called me cursed, blaming me for her death during my birth. The rumors followed me. Calling me all the hurtful names.
Those whispers had shaped my life. I remembered the first time I’d overheard them, barely ten years old, hiding behind a stable door as two guards muttered about my "tainted" blood. I’d run to the forest, tears burning my eyes, and try to shift and fight them. But my wolf had been silent without a voice, no ability to smell a scent, no heightened senses like the others. Over the years, I’d faced other moments that made me question my existence, the pitying looks from elders, the way pack children avoided me during training, the pain of my father’s distracted gaze on my life when I needed his guidance. The memories only made me not interfere in my father’s rule.
I shook my head, pushing the memories away as I turned down to the corridor. Let them be. Interfering in my father’s rule was a battle I’d long since abandoned. I made my way to my room as I pushed it open. And made my way to the wardrobe and reached for the small wooden box tucked behind a stack of my clothes. Inside was a faded photograph. The woman in it had dark hair that fell in waves with a smile on her face. That’s my mother. I traced the surface of her face, my chest tightening. I’d been told she was kind, fierce, a warrior in her own right. But the pain that I’d never heard her voice gnarled at me, never felt her arms around me. The trauma caused by her death has affected me badly as it’s one of the reasons my wolf had gone numb and dulled my senses, I never got the opportunity to feed on breast milk like other kids.
Every child deserves their breast milk. If not their mother’s then another. And love too. A child deserves love but I never got that. Not from my late mother, not from my father or any pack member. I was more like a loner and I’d gotten use to it. free\we,bnovel.c o(m)
Snapping back to reality, I placed the photo back into the box before I shut it. As I pulled on my training leather dress and boots. My sword, its hilt wrapped in a worn leather, rested against the wall. I grabbed it.
Suddenly, outside, the sky roared with thunder, the sound rolling through the pack house as lightning flashed, causing light in my room for a fleeting two seconds. Then without warning, the rain came, heavy and relentless. Splattering against the roof.
I didn’t care. Rain or not, I will train. It was the one thing I enjoyed doing to distract myself from those traumas. I grabbed my sword, and headed to the area where I’d always trained, in front of the library. The rain that came heavy, already drove everyone indoors.
Just then, I heard a masculine voice in my head for the first time.