Cane's Point of View
I sank into the leather chair, its well-worn creaks harmonizing with my fatigue. My eyes, weary and heavy, remained locked on the relentless glow of the computer screen, their determined blinking a battle against encroaching drowsiness. The rhythmic tap of keys provided a steady, almost hypnotic soundtrack as my fingers danced across the keyboard, crafting a report that seemed to stretch into eternity.Beyond the room's confines, the world lay in peaceful slumber, oblivious to the late hour. The timid morning sun ventured tentatively through a slender breach in the heavy, charcoal-gray curtains, casting weak tendrils of light that crept across the room. Within this fragile illumination, dust motes drifted lazily, suspended in the air like ethereal whispers.
An imposing stack of manila folders stood sentinel at my side, each concealing a white sheet hinting at the countless hours I'd dedicated to their scrutiny. They taunted me, each folder a puzzle piece that stubbornly resisted fitting into the larger picture.My eyes stung with exhaustion, and the tension in my shoulders had become a ceaseless ache. My bed beckoned, its siren call promising rest and respite, yet duty held me captive.A soft, tentative knock rapped at the door as I teetered on the brink of completing the interminable report.
I sighed, raking a hand through my messy hair, my voice gravelly as I muttered, "Come in." The door inched open.
I closed my eyes for a fleeting moment, seeking brief respite, before straightening in my chair, resolve unbroken.
With a deep breath, I turned my attention to the figure standing in the doorway.
"Good morning, Prince Cane. I've brought you some coffee," Myra's soothing voice enveloped the room as she entered, cradling a small tray with two cups, wisps of steam curling gracefully from their rims. I hummed in anticipation, managing a faint, grateful smile as she placed one cup on my cluttered desk. The aroma of freshly ground coffee filled the room, and I inhaled deeply, rousing my tired senses.
"Thank you, Myra."
"You're welcome, young prince," Myra's voice resonated with care as she paused, her eyes filled with empathy. "Your mate's belongings have all arrived, and I've meticulously organized her clothing in your closet," she informed me as she placed the second cup across from me. My wolf stirred within, eager for our mate's arrival.
"Shall I prepare a seat for you at breakfast?" she inquired.
I shook my head, exhaustion tugging at every fiber of my being. "No," I sighed, my fingers cracking softly as I stretched them.
"In that case, I'll bring your breakfast here," she offered."Thank you," I replied, my voice raspy from fatigue but laced with gratitude. I reached for the cup, feeling its warmth seeping into my tired fingers, and took a cautious sip. The rich, bittersweet elixir flowed down my throat, reviving my weary body.
Myra observed me with knowing eyes, a blend of concern and understanding in her gaze. She surveyed the dim room. "Young prince, it's a beautiful morning. May I open the curtains for you?" I nodded, mumbling an agreement as I savored the coffee.
With a press of a button behind me, the curtains slowly rose, allowing sunlight to filter through and illuminate the room. I switched off the lamp on my desk, watching as the space transformed into the gentle morning light.
Glancing at the clock in the corner of the computer screen, my eyes widened at the realization that I'd lost track of time during my work."Has my father arrived?" I inquired, a note of surprise coloring my voice.
"Yes, sir," Myra confirmed with a nod. "He'll be up shortly." I nodded, anxiety now gnawing at me. Even after an entire night's effort, I had no leads to present to him, no solutions.I heard my father's distinct, measured footsteps ascending the stairs in perfect timing. Each step resonated in my ears.
"Damn it," I muttered, pushing away from the desk and sinking back into the chair, anxiety churning within me like a relentless storm.
The door swung open again, and there he stood, an embodiment of unwavering authority. He held a cream-colored file in his hand, its physical and symbolic weight casting a heavy pall over the room as he placed it on the desk with a resonant thud.
"Your majesty, welcome home," Myra greeted him with a graceful bow.
"Ah, Myra," he acknowledged with a nod. "Thank you for having my coffee ready." Myra curtsied respectfully in response, and my father shifted his attention to me.
"Cane, I've just finished reading your latest report on the situation."
Myra excused quietly, leaving the room with a soft click of the door latch. My father and I were left alone to confront the weighty matters ahead."This," he began, pointing firmly at the manila folder now resting before him, "is exceptional work, son." His words washed over me like a soothing balm amidst the turmoil, and I released a breath I hadn't realized I'd been holding, my tense shoulders finally yielding.
"Thank you."
Sitting opposite me, he continued, "It's clear that this woman, Kat, is dangerous."I nodded in agreement. "I've been compiling a dossier to share with our top trackers. I hope it can help locate her or provide some leads. But..." I hesitated, frustration building, "I don't believe she's simply vanished. She had to have been working with someone, and I think they've been on the run for months, yet we haven't a single lead. I'm not certain..."
My father interjected, his voice steady and composed, slicing through the room's tension. "Step back from this, Cane," his words hung in the air, outwardly calm but harboring a profound message. His eyes locked with mine, issuing a silent challenge. At that moment, confusion and wounded pride wrestled within me. Did he doubt my abilities? A flicker of defiance crept into my posture, revealing my injured ego.
"Why?" I retorted, my voice unexpectedly sharp, a challenge even to myself. My words echoed, charged with defiance. It surprised me, but a surge of anger simmered beneath my skin, demanding acknowledgment.Unwavering, my father responded, his words deliberate, determined, and containing the storm within. "We have no leads, no sign of Kat," his words lingered, a stillness after a storm. "I can't bear to see you lose yourself, descending into madness," he continued his concern for my well-being palpable in his unwavering tone. "I'll take the reins for now. You, my son, must take on matters of greater urgency."
The weight of his words settled in the room like an unmovable anchor, and I took a moment, a pause, to absorb his decision, the implications unfolding in my mind. Yet the question, tinged with doubt, could not be contained, its force escaping my lips with a determination that matched the fire in my eyes."What," I began, my voice escalating in intensity and defiance, "could be more critical than this? She could be out there conspiring against another pack or worse-!"
His response was measured, his gaze unyielding, as though he had anticipated my resistance. "You," he declared a resolute decree, "will preside over the trial of the wolf who orchestrated the kidnapping and murder of those she-wolves."
The silence that followed felt like an expansive chasm, the enormity of the task looming large. A tapestry of emotions painted itself across my features – astonishment, anger, disbelief – each layer weaving into the other, a complex tapestry of conflicted thoughts.
"I—" I began, searching for the right words, but my thoughts tumbled into a dark abyss, leaving me momentarily speechless. My father's raised eyebrow, a subtle arch of his weathered brow, urged me to find my voice amidst the turbulent silence.
"Dad, I..." I attempted again, my voice carrying the weight of uncertainty and hesitation. "I can't." His expectant gaze drilled into me, demanding an explanation, a justification just out of reach.
"You can, and you will," his words cut through the air like an unyielding decree, leaving no room for argument or evasion. The finality in his tone echoed with unwavering authority, a stark reminder of the duty that loomed, whether I felt prepared or not."Dad, I've never—""Then consider this an opportunity to learn. You've witnessed me preside over trials since you were a child."I shifted uncomfortably in the ornate chair, my apprehension tangible. The room, adorned with regal tapestries and antique furnishings, suddenly felt suffocating.
"But..." I faltered over the word, "I can't. Whenever I even think about him-" I could feel anger clawing at me, its fiery grip tightening with every passing moment, "The urge to tear him apart, limb from limb, it's almost overwhelming."My father's gaze softened, understanding passing between us. "Cane," his voice gentled, a blend of sympathy and guidance, "that's precisely why this is an invaluable lesson for you. In your youth, you've observed me preside over trials and deliver justice even in the darkest moments. This is an opportunity for you to rise above your emotions, to master the power that comes with your lineage."
My father's unwavering gaze held mine, his eyes reflecting on the future I needed to embrace. "Remember," he continued, "you're the future king. A king must rule with a steady hand, tempering the flames of anger and retribution with the cool waters of reason and justice.""Well, old man, you're getting wiser," I quipped, breaking the tension and earning a chuckle from my father.
A warm chuckle escaped my father's lips, the room's tension dissipating like morning mist under the sun. "Well, wisdom does tend to come with age," he replied with a twinkle in his eye.
As he rose from his chair, his gray hair catching the sunlight streaming into the room, he added, "I'd love to meet your mate soon. Ryder showed me her file. She's quite the warrior." I was puzzled, unaware of any files on my mate.
"I wasn't aware there was a file on her?"
"We maintain files on all pack members, Cane."
"From every single pack?" I asked, shocked.
My father nodded. "Yes. When werewolves are born into registered packs, we receive copies of their birth certificates and keep files on all pack members through the alphas. Typically, we receive updates from the alphas every month or so. Last year, the deceased alpha of the WestMoon pack mentioned in his monthly report that he planned to offer her the position of head warrior in the pack.
"I had no idea," I admitted.
"If you had started your apprenticeship as you were supposed to, you would have known. A mountain of paperwork awaits you, Cane. Brace yourself; paper cuts are a real annoyance," my father laughed as he exited the office.
I leaned back in the chair, the exhaustion of the sleepless night settling into my bones. I couldn't escape the relentless grip of fatigue any longer. The world blurred as I closed my eyes, and the room swayed gently. My mind drifted into an uneasy slumber, the boundaries between wakefulness and dreams becoming thin and tenuous. In those fleeting moments of rest, I stood in the courtroom, my every move scrutinized by a sea of expectant eyes. The trial had begun, and I stood at the center, the weight of responsibility bearing on me like a heavy cloak. I could hear the crowd's whispers, their voices a dissonant symphony of doubt and accusation. My heart raced as I looked down at the accused wolf responsible for the atrocities against the she-wolves. The wolf's eyes bore into me, a mix of defiance and spite. My mouth went dry, and I struggled to find my voice, my words faltering as I tried to maintain control of the proceedings. But chaos descended upon the courtroom, my commands unheard, my judgments ignored. The accused wolf transformed into a nightmarish creature, wreaking havoc within the sacred space of justice. Panic and desperation consumed me as I watched the courtroom dissolve into chaos.
Suddenly, a nightmarish symphony of horror unfolded before me. The deafening crescendo was a blood-curdling scream that pierced the very fabric of my soul, causing my heart to race and my breath to catch in my throat. My gaze plummeted downward, and a grotesque tableau of dread materialized at my very feet.
A pool of crimson liquid oozed, slowly encircling my shoes. The once pristine floor had become a gruesome canvas for this macabre masterpiece. My eyes widened, and my stomach churned with a visceral mix of terror and helplessness.
My beloved mate, Bianca, stood only a few harrowing steps away from me, her form shrouded in a haze of blood-slicked torment. Her ashen skin was pallid. Every painful, rasping breath she took seemed to draw forth another gout of life's essence, splattering the floor in grotesque patterns of red.
Her once-vibrant eyes, pools of warmth, had lost their luster, replaced by a hollow, distant stare that seemed to beg for release from this harrowing nightmare. The life within her was slipping away.
Every fiber of my being screamed in despair as I desperately reached out, trembling hands shaking with the weight of helplessness. But an invisible force, a cruel specter of the malevolent dreamscape, held me back, rendering me a powerless observer in this grotesque tragedy.
Sweat dripped from my brow, my heart pounding like a drum. I jolted awake in the leather chair, my breathing heavy and labored. The remnants of the dream clung to me, a haunting reminder of my fears and doubts. I rubbed my temples, trying to dispel the lingering unease. I wiped away the wet tear stains on my cheeks.
With a deep sigh, I glanced at the clock, realizing that time was slipping away. There was much to prepare for, and I couldn't afford to let my fatigue get the best of me. I pushed myself up from the chair.
The door opened again, and I saw Myra at the doorway, gracefully pushing a waiter's cart into the room. Its wheels moved with a soft, almost hypnotic hum, and the aroma of breakfast grew more robust as she approached.
Oatmeal, a warm, inviting mound, dominated one side of the tray, its steam gently curling upwards. On the other side, ruby-red strawberries nestled beside slices of ripe, golden pineapple, blueberries, and plump blackberries added a burst of dark and rich hues.
Myra navigated it to a halt beside me and, with a gentle finesse, wheels locked in place with a soft, reassuring click. "Your breakfast, Prince Cane," she said, her voice a soothing melody in the tranquil morning. "Thank you, Myra," I replied.
Myra's eyes lingered on me momentarily, a silent understanding passing between us. She knew the significance of this meal, how it was more than just sustenance. I picked up the spoon, its handle cool against my fingers, and dipped it into the oatmeal. The steam wafted up, carrying the familiar scent of warm oats. As I took the first bite, memories flooded in.
My mother stood by the stove with her tousled hair and sleep-softened smile as she prepared the same oatmeal. Her laughter filled the room as we spilled milk or sugar, making a playful kitchen mess.
A soft smile tugged at my lips as I savored the familiar taste, the texture of the oatmeal smooth and comforting. Myra watched, her gaze filled with a quiet satisfaction, as I dug into the bowl with a mixture of nostalgia and hunger.
"Myra," I began, gentle and sincere, "Go take care of yourself and be with your grandchildren. I assure you, everything will be handled here." Myra's eyes held mine briefly, and a soft smile curved her lips.
"Thank you, Prince Cane," she said, her words carrying a weight of gratitude. Myra turned to leave the room, the cart wheels rolling silently as she guided it toward the exit. As the door closed behind her, I returned to the breakfast before me, the memories of Sunday mornings and the taste of my childhood swirling together.
My mom was never much of a cook. She couldn't even make a batch of pancakes without them turning into blackened, sticky disasters. But on Sundays, our staff was granted a well-deserved break to spend time with their families, and my mother took charge of the kitchen.
In her capable but humble hands, she created a breakfast that would forever be etched in my memory – oatmeal. It was the only dish she felt confident in making, a dish she could prepare with unwavering love and care.
My mother would use fresh milk and sprinkle just the right amount of sugar to sweeten the oatmeal; then, she'd add a single tablespoon of chocolate powder. She had a different recipe for this. No, it was her way.
As I savored the last spoonful of oatmeal, a voice broke through the morning's tranquility. But it wasn't an ordinary voice; it was a familiar one that resonated not through my ears but directly into my mind. It was Ashton."Cane," his voice echoed in my thoughts, urgent and filled with concern. "Please, come to the kitchen. I'm here with Bianca. She's... she's...I don't know what to do."
In an instant, the world around me faded into insignificance. My heart, racing from the haunting fragments from the dream and lack of sleep, quickened its pace. Panic surged through my veins.I pushed my chair back with a jolt, the legs scraping against the floor, and I was on my feet, my body moving with a speed born of desperation. The long halls of the castle stretched before me, their opulent grandeur reduced to a blur. My thoughts were a tumultuous storm of fear and urgency, a whirlwind that threatened to consume me.The dream I had just experienced mingled with reality in that frantic moment, blurring the lines between past and present.
I could hardly distinguish one thought from another as I reached the massive doors leading to the kitchen. With a force that bordered on recklessness, I practically threw them open, the heavy wood groaning in protest against my urgency. The sound of my rapid footsteps echoed through the cavernous room.And there, in the heart of the kitchen, I found her. Bianca. Her eyes were wide with terror. Her chest heaved with rapid breaths, and her hands trembled uncontrollably. My panic threatened to overtake me as I rushed to her side. I took her trembling hands in mine, "Bianca!"
Bianca's grip on my wrist tightened as she pulled me closer to her, her eyes filled with terror. Her voice, trembling and filled with anguish, repeated the exact haunting words, "He's going to get me. He's going to find me." Confusion gripped me, unsure of who this mysterious 'he' was that haunted her nightmares.
Ashton reluctantly revealed the truth, his voice heavy with regret. "Cane, she's talking about the man who held her captive. I told her that he's in the prison downstairs." He looked scared, eyes bulging and body shaking. "I'm so sorry. I didn't know she didn't know; I thought you would have told her that we got him."I felt a surge of anger, a visceral reaction to the thought of that man anywhere near Bianca.
My immediate instinct was to confront Ashton, to express my anger at his thoughtlessness. But as I looked into Bianca's terrified eyes, her trembling form pressed against me, I knew now was not the time for anger.
I had to comfort and protect my mate."It's alright, Bianca," I whispered, my voice a soothing balm. "He can't hurt you now. I won't let anything happen to you, I promise."Her grip began to loosen, and she seemed to emerge slowly from her fear-induced trance.
Her first words were filled with guilt and apology, her voice quivering as she said, "I'm sorry."I gently cupped her face with my hand, my thumb brushing away a stray tear.
"Don't be sorry, love. It's normal to feel this way after what you've been through."I realized I needed to reassure her further. "He is under constant watch by well-trained guards and high-ranking Warriors. That man won't even get close to you."
"I know." She whimpered.
"I'm going to make sure he can never hurt you or anyone else again."
She looked at me, her eyes searching mine for truth and solace. "What do you mean?" she asked, her voice filled with curiosity."I'm going to kill him."