❝ɪ ᴋɴᴏᴡ ᴛʜᴇꜱᴇ ᴡᴇʀᴇᴡᴏʟꜰ ʟᴏᴠᴇ ꜱᴛᴏʀɪᴇꜱ ᴀʀᴇ ᴜꜱᴜᴀʟʟʏ ᴀʙᴏᴜᴛ ᴀɴ ᴀʟᴘʜᴀ ᴀɴᴅ ᴏᴍᴇɢᴀ, ʙᴜᴛ ᴡʜᴀᴛ ɪꜰ ᴛʜɪꜱ ᴏɴᴇ ᴡᴀꜱɴ'ᴛ?❞
For generations, the Blood Moon Pack and Grave Shadow Pack have been at war, the werewolves from each side bearing high tensions and malicious in...
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The last thing to check off his to-do list, and the thing he's been dreading most, is deciding which one of his Grave Shadow alphas are worthy enough to accompany him to Blood Moon. Today, they're gathered here in the dining hall for recruitment.
Iron gray walls stretch out as far as they can reach, the vast space floating in between occupied with a variety of metal contraptions—cogwheels, bolts, and wrenches welded together into one big, fat, ugly ass cluster. Once upon a time, the previous leader of Grave Shadow, Elijah Grimshaw, had proudly claimed it to be 'abstract art'.
Clearly a fatal design flaw, but surprisingly, not enough of a priority for Jax to fix. Besides, leaving one relic of the past alive won't change anything, not when he's thoroughly erased everything else that reminds the people of Elijah's rule.
The only reason he likes to keep this hideous thing up there is to symbolize who he used to be and how far he's come. Three years ago, he'd been nothing. Three years later, he's everything.
Such were the benefits of The Trials.
Thankfully, Elijah Grimshaw—ever the melodramatic bastard—was already six feet under by the time Jax took over, with a big, fat, ugly ass headstone to boot. Even in death, he needed to make a big deal out of things; he had his own special section carved out within their sacred graveyard and all, draped in black silks and red roses brought by elderly pack members.
What a fucking honor.
Overhead, a dome-shaped roof spans out from the cursed decor that Jax had been glaring at earlier. Shiny steel tiles spiral out from the center, gleaming alongside beams of fluorescent lights so sharp that they hurt to stare at. Matching steel chairs and tables, chilling to the touch and rigid in structure, line up across a row of gigantic glass panes.
Just like how Cyrus has Grace and his two other alphas—Matt and Bryan, Jax vaguely recalls—he has to choose too. This is hard because outside of Zeke, who's already packing for the trip in his room, he doesn't trust any of his team. They may be his comrades, but they are far from familiar.
They're beneath him, not with him. This is what happens when he's left with ex-Elijah Grimshaw lackeys to rule over: they become hard to break. Hard to control.
But break them he has. Control them? He sure fucking does. They had been reluctant with the changes at first, especially when said changes came in the form of, as they used to describe Jax, 'a subpar alpha born from a beta bitch'.
Now, nothing stops Jax. Nothing except for Luna herself.
While Cyrus chatters with Matt and Bryan, wasting his time away with pointless small talk and friendly antics, Jax hits his vape one last time before ordering for all of his alphas to rise for the occasion.
Let's get this over with.
"Stand," he commands roughly, smoke drifting from his frown.
