The King's Gamma (#Wattys2024)

Three - Claws, Cousins, and Courtly Schemes

The grand dining hall fell into an uneasy silence as I licked the last traces of barbecue sauce from my fingers. My tail twitched beneath my chair, the only outward sign of my growing irritation at the dozens of eyes fixed on me—some curious, most hostile. The long banquet table stretched before us, littered with the remains of what had been an impressive feast. The scent of roasted meat and spices still hung heavy in the air, mixing with the underlying musk of werewolf and something distinctly royal—polished silver and aged parchment.

Prince Lucian leaned back in his ornate chair, the carved wood groaning under his weight. His golden eyes, so like his father's but without their warmth, raked over me with open disdain. "So the mongrel thinks she can simply claim a Gamma title?" His voice dripped with condescension, each word carefully chosen to needle.

I smiled sweetly, tapping my claws against the table in a rhythm only I could hear. The sound echoed slightly in the sudden quiet. "Well, when the King personally invites you and you can bench press a small truck, it tends to qualify you." My grin widened as several guards shifted uncomfortably at the reminder of my strength. Their discomfort sent a thrill through me—the dragon part of me preened at the obvious fear, while the wolf bristled at the challenge. "Though I suppose that last part's just hearsay here, isn't it? Pity you couldn't have seen it for yourselves."

Gerald, seated to my left, exhaled sharply through his nose. His grey eyes—so different from the royal family's signature gold—tracked my every movement with unsettling intensity. I could feel the weight of his gaze like a physical touch, assessing, calculating. There was something hungry in that look, something that set my teeth on edge.

The King cleared his throat before tensions could escalate further, the sound reverberating through the hall. "The trials will begin at dawn tomorrow." His voice carried effortlessly, the voice of someone used to being obeyed without question. "Three tests: strength, strategy, and loyalty." His gaze swept the room, lingering pointedly on his sons. The unspoken warning was clear—this would be a fair competition, or there would be consequences. "Let the best candidate win."

As the assembly dispersed, the scrape of chairs and murmur of voices filling the hall, Gerald remained seated. His fingers tightened around his untouched goblet, the knuckles whitening. "You're playing a dangerous game," he murmured, his voice barely above a whisper but carrying perfectly to my enhanced hearing.

I turned to face him fully, noting the way his shoulders tensed beneath his formal jacket. "Oh cousin," I purred, letting just a hint of my dragon's fire into my voice, "you have no idea how much I enjoy dangerous games." The challenge hung between us, thick and heady as the scent of the feast.

The next morning found me on the training grounds before dawn, my muscles protesting the early hour as I stretched. The mist clung to the empty field, swirling around my legs as I moved through a series of warm-up exercises. The air was crisp and clean, carrying the scent of damp earth and the faint metallic tang of the weapons rack nearby. Frost crunched beneath my boots with each movement, the sound loud in the pre-dawn stillness.

"You actually showed up."

Gerald's voice came from the shadows near the armory, startling in the quiet. He emerged wrapped in a threadbare cloak that did little to conceal his gaunt frame. The first light of dawn caught the sharp angles of his face, highlighting the dark circles beneath his eyes. He looked like he hadn't slept—or like sleep was a luxury he couldn't often afford.

I tossed him a practice dagger hilt-first, watching as he caught it effortlessly. His long fingers curled around the worn leather grip with practiced ease. "Figured you could use the help," I said, shifting into a ready stance.

His lips twisted into something that wasn't quite a smile. "Why bother?"

"Because anger makes you sloppy." My tail lashed behind me for balance as I moved. "And I want a real challenge when I beat you in the trials."

For the briefest moment, something like genuine amusement flickered across his face before we fell into the dance of combat. The clash of our practice blades echoed across the empty field, the rhythm of our sparring as familiar as if we'd trained together for years rather than hours. Gerald moved with a lethal grace that belied his gaunt appearance, each strike calculated, each defense impenetrable. There was a story in the way he fought—one of desperation and survival rather than the polished training of the royal guards.

After what felt like both an eternity and no time at all, we called a halt, both of us breathing heavily in the now-bright morning light. Sweat dripped down my back beneath my training leathers, and Gerald's cloak had long since been discarded, revealing arms corded with lean muscle.

As we made our way back toward the main keep, the castle slowly coming to life around us, a scent stopped me dead in my tracks near the east wing corridor. Rain. Fresh earth. Something deep and primal in my chest tightened, my dragon stirring restlessly beneath my skin. I turned toward a heavy oak door marked Beta N. Connor, my nostrils flaring. The scent was faint—at least two weeks old—but unmistakable. My mate had been here, and recently.

Gerald paused several steps ahead, his grey eyes sharp with curiosity. "Problem?" he asked, his voice carefully neutral.

I forced myself to keep walking, though every instinct screamed to break down the door and investigate. "Nothing that concerns you," I said, but my voice came out rougher than I intended.

As I glanced back, I caught Gerald's fingers brushing against the same doorframe, his expression unreadable in the dim corridor light. The moment stretched, heavy with unspoken questions, before he turned away and continued down the hall.

Later, in the war room's private antechamber, the King poured two glasses of amber liquor, the rich scent of aged whiskey filling the small space. Sunlight streamed through the narrow windows, catching the dust motes in the air. "Gerald is... complicated," he began, handing me a crystal tumbler that felt absurdly delicate in my clawed hands.

I swirled the drink absently, watching the way the light played through the liquid. "You mean unstable," I corrected, taking a measured sip. The alcohol burned its way down my throat, a welcome distraction from the thoughts swirling in my head.

The King sighed, the sound heavy with the weight of years. "His mother was a Beta from the northern territories. When she fell pregnant, the court..." He trailed off, his golden eyes darkening with some old memory. "Let's just say he has reason for his resentment."

I set my glass down with more force than necessary, the sharp click echoing in the quiet room. "And you're letting him compete?" My tail lashed behind me, the only outward sign of my growing frustration.

"Bloodline rights cannot be denied." The King's grip tightened around his glass, his claws leaving faint marks in the crystal. "But you can stop him."

The unspoken challenge hung between us as heavy as the afternoon heat. Outside, the sounds of the castle preparing for tomorrow's trials filtered through the thick stone walls—the clang of steel from the training yards, the distant shouts of guards changing shifts, the ever-present murmur of court politics. And beneath it all, the memory of that scent—rain and earth and something that called to the deepest parts of me.