7

Azzurra drew in a slow, steady breath as she watched the two figures approach the King. The way he subtly straightened in his seat didn’t escape her notice.

She wasn’t supposed to look at them. But how could she not? She wanted no, needed to see the faces of the men who might end her life.

“Father,” one of them greeted coldly, a sneer tugging at the corner of his lips. His eyes were tinged red, bloodshot, and the sluggish way he moved made him appear either drunk or freshly risen from some indulgent slumber.

“You called for us?” he asked again, his tone laced with boredom, as if even the presence of the King couldn’t stir his interest.

His features were striking blond hair, pale skin, ice-blue eyes but nothing about him screamed royalty. If he hadn’t addressed the King as “Father,” she would never have guessed he was a prince.

But it was the man beside him who truly stole her breath.

She felt his stare before her eyes even found his, drawn to it like a moth to a flame. And when they met his swirling amber irises locked onto her her breath caught in her throat. He looked remarkably like the King, but taller, darker, and infinitely more dangerous.

A cold, paralyzing fear crawled through her chest as she tried to hold his gaze. His eyes radiated something ancient and wicked like there was a predator coiled inside him, just waiting to pounce.

Her instinct begged her to look away, and eventually, she did. But her curiosity betrayed her. Once his gaze shifted to the King, she allowed herself to study him—tall, broad, dressed in black slacks and a crisp white shirt left casually unbuttoned at the top. A sliver of ink peeked out from beneath the fabric, hinting at a tattoo etched into his chest. The shirt hugged every defined muscle of his body like it had been tailored to worship him.

His skin was a warm bronze, a stark contrast to the pale prince beside him. Jet-black hair cut in a sharp undercut framed his chiseled features. That light stubble, that razor-sharp jawline, the subtle movement of his Adam’s apple... her heart was thundering.

Why did monsters have to look like fallen gods?

But no matter how dangerously handsome he was, his gaze alone was enough to twist her insides with dread.

“Father?” he spoke at last, and the sound of his voice struck her harder than any blow. Deep, slow, and rich with an unfamiliar accent it rippled through her like a dark melody. She didn’t want to admit it, but she wanted to hear him speak again.

Which terrified her even more.

“I didn’t mean to disturb you both at this hour,” the King began, his tone suddenly commanding so unlike the calm, almost fatherly way he’d spoken to her in the car. “But the matter is of importance.”

He paused, then added, “I brought you both something.”

The princes followed his gaze downward to the leash in his hand, then to the girl standing silently at his side.

“A pet,” the King announced.

The word hung in the air.

Both sons stared at him, visibly unimpressed.

“I don’t need a pet, Father,” the dark-haired prince replied, his velvety voice making her stomach twist in ways she couldn’t comprehend.

And yet, oddly… she wanted to hear more of it. What was wrong with her?

No voice had ever stirred her like his before.

“It’s not just a pet,” the King said, lips curling slightly.

“What is it then?” the blond prince snapped, the venom in his tone unmistakable. “You know how much we hate humans.”

“This girl is a test,” the King declared.

“A trial for you both.”

“Enough riddles, Father,” the dark-haired one Marcello murmured, the low edge in his voice sharp enough to be a threat. His amber eyes gleamed with something savage, though his demeanor remained disturbingly composed.

The King beamed with pride. “Marcello, my son,” he said warmly, “If you kill this woman, you forfeit your claim to the throne.”

A muscle clenched in Marcello’s jaw. For a moment, she thought his eyes blazed with fury, but just as quickly, his expression neutralized. He understood instantly.

The blond one, however, erupted.

“What?” he growled. “What the fuck are you saying, Father?”

“Mattia,” the King said firmly, addressing him by name. “This girl is now your pet. She belongs to both of you. She will serve you. But if either of you kills her… you lose the throne.”

The leash slipped from the King’s grasp. Azzurra felt the moment it happened. Three sets of eyes predatory and powerful fixed on her like she were prey.

“Go to them,” the King commanded.

She didn’t move.

Her body refused. Standing in the presence of three Lycans was already soul-draining. Walking toward two of them knowing they were expected to test her was near impossible.

She froze.

“What the fuck are you waiting for, bitch? Come here!” Mattia snarled, voice venomous.

Azzurra swallowed down her fear and took a step forward, then another, stopping at a cautious distance. But Mattia advanced on her, closing the gap, towering over her. His eyes roamed over her with disdain, and he scoffed, flipping her hair dismissively.

That same burning stare was still on her.

She turned her head and found Marcello watching her again, sharp and unreadable.

Suddenly, Mattia seized a fistful of her hair and yanked her close.

Panic exploded inside her. Her survival instincts screamed, and without thinking, she tried to knee him—but he caught her leg mid-motion, stunned.

“You bitch!” he roared.

Her heart plummeted.

“Oh, I forgot to mention,” the King said casually. “She’s a bit... feisty.”

The moment the words left his mouth, she felt a sharp sting explode across her cheek. Her head snapped violently to the side, and she collapsed to the floor. Pain bloomed in her skull, and for a moment, her hearing vanished beneath a sharp ringing.

She blinked, trying to center herself. The pain throbbed through her face, but she endured it.

Her chin quivered despite her efforts.

She looked up just in time to see Mattia raise his hand again but before the blow landed, the King's voice rang out, stopping him cold.

“Enough,” he ordered, voice laced with warning. “At this rate, you’ll hand the throne to your brother.”

Mattia froze, glaring at his father, then at Marcello, before finally turning his fury on her. With a scowl etched across his face, he stormed out of the hall.

Azzurra tasted blood in her mouth.

Giacinto had hit her countless times. But nothing nothing came close to the force of that Lycan’s slap. If he had truly wanted to, he could have ended her with just a few more blows.

As her vision steadied, she saw Marcello approaching.

Her breath caught.

She stiffened.

Their eyes met again hers wide with silent pain, his unreadable. Those dark amber pools bore into her, and her soul braced for what came next.