The Wicked Werewolf Prince

1. The Masked Truth

[MAGNUS]

I recline in the bathtub, the warmth of the water enveloping me as the palace servants go about their tasks. Steam swirls in the opulent chamber, the scent of chamomile lingering in the air and my mind wanders through the labyrinth of lies spun by my detested uncle, the king.

As the palace servants meticulously wash me, their eyes averted, I stare at my own half-naked reflection in the mirror. I'm not disabled; it's a fabrication concocted by my uncle's twisted mind, fueled by his hatred and fear. The king seeks to undermine me, to strip away any sense of power or influence I might possess. He's afraid of what I could do to him. But it's time to reclaim my power, turn the tables on my enemies, and catch them off guard.

Alistair, my loyal beta werewolf, stands guard outside the chamber, a silent guardian of my secrets.

As I rise from the bathtub, the servants hastily rush to cover my body with linen. Alistair makes his way toward me before his eyes follow a servant as she walks out of the chamber.

I know the look in his eyes. It screams trouble.

I gesture for him to walk with me. The servants meant to dress me up for court follow suit, however, they halt the moment I turn. "I wish to be alone," I tell them.

Once we're in my quarters, Alistair releases his breath, knowing that it's safe to talk now. "I've found the witch for you, Your Highness," he informs me, his lips set into a straight line.

"Excellent. When can I see her?" I inquire, reaching out to grab my clothes that the servants have set out as I let the linen fall to the polished floor.

Alistair averts his gaze. "Whenever Your Highness wishes."

"Now, Alistair."

There's not a hint of surprise in the beta's voice when he replies, "Certainly, Your Highness." He bows and that's when I notice the gash on his exposed neck once again—a bitter reminder of the time he saved me from one of the several assassination attempts.

"And my uncle?" I put forward the question before he leaves to acquire the witch.

"Still very much alive."

I frown at his response, a flicker of disappointment swirling in my chest.

Moments later, Alistair reenters my quarters as I'm sitting by my desk, shuffling through a heap of scrolls. The scarlet-eyed witch trails behind him, her scrutinous gaze hovering all over my quarters. When her unblinking eyes finally settle on me, she brings forward her braided hair. I give her a charming smile, a glimmer of mischief in my gaze as I rise from my seat.

"Prince Magnus... aren't you a delight? I expected something else... Oh, how silly of me!" She shakes her head as if she has committed some error, flashing me a wide grin. "I'm Morgana," she says, curtsying as she raises the back of her hand for me to kiss. I chuckle at the audacity. But the nature of witches is known. They like to be treated well; they expect to be pampered and peppered with compliments for their beauty—which is often nothing more than just an illusion.

"Welcome, Morgana," I say in a smooth, seductive tone, pressing a lingering kiss on the back of her hand.

Alistair withdraws to a corner, and while his eyes are directed on the tapestry in front of him, his ears are glued to all the words that will pass between me and the witch.

"I must admit, I have brought you here for a rather unconventional request."

Morgana's lips curl into a curious smile. Her voice is playful when she speaks. "Pray tell, Your Highness, what is it that you desire? Strength? Courage? Do you want me to end a life? Oh, perhaps... create one? Well, what about—no, I can't say it... You're already a work of art. But if you wish to become a beauty that men and women, both, tremble to behold, I can do it for you."