1

He stood tall, broad-shouldered, radiating a commanding presence that seemed to demand unwavering submission.

“You won’t escape tonight,” he murmured, voice low and gravelly. He leaned back just slightly, only to let his gaze travel down her body with a dark, assessing gleam in his eyes.

“I said, I don’t want this,” she shot back icily, summoning all the courage she had left. She moved to pass him, but he instantly closed the distance, forcing her to retreat just far enough to avoid their bodies touching.

“It’s your duty to satisfy me. What kind of queen do you think you’d make?” he taunted. Her glare cut through him, her eyes burning with defiance as they locked in a volatile stare.

“No means no, Marcello Donati,” she snapped coldly. “What sort of king are you, if you can’t understand a simple yes or no?”

His eyes narrowed in warning, but the way his name sounded from her lips stirred something primal in him. She stood there in nothing but a bathrobe that brushed her knees fragile, trembling, yet still trying to hold herself tall. He may have despised her, but he wasn’t blind.

Her wet honey-blonde hair clung to her shoulders, the tip of her nose reddened from the cold. His gaze drifted downward deliberately.

“My eyes are up here,” she said sharply, grabbing his chin and tilting his face back up to meet hers.

That touch... it was a dangerous move.

“If you say so,” he growled, then suddenly swept her up onto his shoulder. She shrieked and struck his back with her fists, but within moments he was at the edge of the bed, where he unceremoniously dropped her.

She scrambled upright, bracing herself on her palms, wide-eyed with fear. Marcello hovered, his stare fixed. Her robe had slipped off one shoulder, revealing pale, delicate skin and a striking pink birthmark. He crept toward her, and she attempted to scoot away but his hand caught her waist and pulled her beneath him.

“No!” she cried, pushing at his chest. But he was unyielding. Gripping her left wrist, he pinned it beside her head. His other hand pressed into her shoulder, his thumb brushing against the mole. She flinched at the contact.

“Get off me!” she screamed, fury and panic in her eyes. And still, they burned with fire even as tears gathered in her green irises.

“Mind your tongue, Azzurra,” he said, voice cold as steel. He squeezed her wrist in warning.

He leaned in until their noses nearly touched. “Unless you want to be chained to my bed and made to submit whether you like it or not, I suggest you shut that wild little mouth of yours.”

His pupils expanded, leaving only a thin amber rim around the black predatory, hungry. Azzurra froze.

Her chin trembled. She turned her head away just as he lowered his mouth and pressed a deliberate kiss to her neck, following it with a slow drag of his tongue. When he pulled back, her body was shaking beneath him.

So utterly tempting.

Years Ago…

The monsters revealed themselves without warning.

And then, chaos. War. Humanity torn apart by beasts.

They came like a merciless storm. Werewolves. Ravagers. Killers. The predators rose and the prey fell.

Now, only a few thousand humans remained. Their survival came at a cruel cost.

Humans were allowed to live for three reasons only: for entertainment, for servitude, and for breeding because at thirty, all humans were executed.

Azzurra was eighteen.

She had been born free, a child of sunlight and laughter. But when the war erupted, she was just eight and she lost everything to the blood-soaked hands of monsters. Since then, she had belonged to them. A slave.

Now that she was of age, her fate would be sealed just like so many before her.

Either she would be auctioned off like livestock to the highest bidder men twisted enough to seek pets for pleasure or she would be thrown into the breeding camps, a living hell she would never escape.

What she never expected what no one did was that the Lycan King himself would purchase her. Not for himself, but for his sons. Both of whom despised humans with a venomous hate.

What Azzurra didn’t know was that she had been chosen for a test. A brutal game.

Whichever prince killed her first would prove himself unfit to rule. The survivor the one who could resist would become king.

But fate, as always, had other plans.