Norman Bailey was afraid. He was also jealous and angry. He may be the bodyguard to Princess Adelardi, but that was how he felt. Worse, the more time he spent with the princess, the more Norman hated her.
In front of him, the princess continued to carefully clean off the blood from her mask. It looked like it was made of human skin. Just looking at the mask made Norman want to throw up. Of course, he knew the princess hadn't killed anyone for it. The truth was, he had been with her when the princess knocked on one of their farmers' door and was given a dead goat.
Norman shuddered, remembering the glassy look in the goat's eyes as the princess laid it on the ground and knelt next to it. After praying over the carcass, the princess had calmly taken its skin to sew herself a mask. She had even used thread that was the color of blood.
When she was done, the princess had looked at him over her shoulder. In a cheerful voice, the princess had asked, "Do you want to try it out?"
Norman had fainted dead away in response.
That night was all Norman needed to know the truth. Calys Adelardi was truly The Human Monster. Like everyone, he had heard the rumors about her. They said she was so crazy and strong she could kill panthers thrice her size. And with her bare hands, too!
Norman used to laugh at the stories. But then he became the princess' bodyguard, and he learned the truth. The stories didn't even come close. It just didn't.
If only he had been the one adopted by Venetto Adelardi, Norman thought jealously. He would not cause his bodyguards trouble. He would act the way royalty should act. And he would definitely not pretend to be a male shifter in order to fight at The Den.
And here they were, six days now and counting, Norman thought sadly. If the pack found out about the princess' secret activities at night, they would surely kill him and it would be all her fault!
He had pleaded and cried for her to stop this madness. He had even threatened to kill himself. But the princess had only looked at him with her scary, all—knowing blue eyes. And then she said in her sweet voice, "You must understand, Norman. We will all be dead if I do not do this. I have to do this for the good of the pack."
And that was that. Princess Calys might be a tiny thing, but she was also a tiny stubborn thing.
"Norman?"
The princess' delicate—sounding voice made Norman jump in his seat. Making sure none of his real feelings showed on his face, he said, "Yes, princess?"
She was standing in front of the mirror now, a small girl with a very shapely body. Her boyishly cut hair only made the princess look more feminine. Her big blue eyes were terrifyingly innocent. Norman always did his best not to look into those eyes when talking to the princess. It was very hard to lie to those eyes.
The princess was no beauty, but he had seen how she kept turning heads wherever they went. Norman couldn't really understand her appeal. Maybe it was because she was unique. She looked so delicate and yet she was also ridiculously strong. Like a Hulk Barbie.
"I have good news to share," the princess was telling Norman as she laid her mask, now clean, on the table. Her costume, freshly washed and ironed, was next to it.
The smile on the princess' face made Norman uneasy. "What is it, princess?"
The princess clapped her hands in childish delight. "I've just learned something wonderful. My request to fight in the heavyweight class has been approved."
Norman whitened. Heavyweight? Wasn't that the strongest fighting class here? Wasn't it made up of the deadliest shifters in The Den? And she, at barely five feet, was thrilled to go against them?
The princess was gushing, "Isn't that wonderful? I thought I'd be stuck with choosing my future consort from a group of baby—faced shifters who think capoeira is a kind of pasta." The thought had the princess rolling her eyes. "But now! Oh, I'll get to see the real warriors! I get to fight with them, and———oh my God! Norman? Norman? Are you all right?"
But Norman had already fainted dead away in response.
In another part of The Den, a tall masked figure in black was leaning against the wall, his foot tapping impatiently. His name was Alejandro Moretti, one of the most famous princes of the Lyccan race. Shifters of every kind knew him to be the more amiable of the Moretti twins, a charming werewolf who used to be known for his strength and bravery in combat.
Nowadays, however, he was better known for two things. First was that he was brother to Domenico Moretti, the disgraced heir of the Moretti pack. Second was his recent preference for sex…in public.
In The Den, however, Alejandro was simply known as The Masked Wolf, a persona he donned only when he couldn't fuck his way out of a bad mood. And right now, he was in an extremely bad mood.
He needed to fight. He should have been fighting now, should have been inside the damn steel cage and covered in blood by now. But he wasn't. Alejandro cracked his knuckles, trying to control the urge to go berserk.
Fighting was the only way to forget. But because he wasn't fighting, memories hounded his every step.
Earlier tonight, Domenico had warned him and his twin not to attend the ball at Lyccan Hall. "It's going to be more vicious than usual tonight," their eldest brother had said. "They will be laughing behind my back all the time, and I do not want either of you to see it."
Domenico Moretti used to be the most powerful and feared warrior in the entire Lyccan race. But then his human wife left him. Domenico had not bothered to hide his heartbreak, and he had become a laughingstock after that. Nowadays, other Lyccans had taken to calling him a dog, a pet to humans. Nowadays, everyone liked to sneer at Domenico about his wife taking a gay—looking Faerie for a lover.
He and his twin Alessandro had, of course, ignored Domenico's warning. They had gone to the ball because Morettis always stuck together. In minutes, Alessandro's hot—headedness had gotten him involved in a brawl. His way of avenging Domenico's name was direct: to punch whoever had a bad thing to say about their brother.
Alejandro's form of revenge was more subtle. He found a woman to fuck in one of the balconies. Her name was Monica. She was beautiful and voluptuous, just the way he liked it. She was also the wife of one of Domenico's enemies, also the way he liked it.
In minutes, he had her screaming. In fact, Monica had screamed so loud it was obvious she had forgotten she was married. By the time they came in from the balcony, all the guests were staring, including her husband. It would have been the sweetest revenge if only Domenico hadn't stared at Alejandro with a tight—lipped look of disappointment on his face.
And then…
Alejandro swore. He wished he could throw the memory out of his mind for good, but it was impossible. He remembered it so fucking clearly.
Domenico, humbly delivering an apology on his behalf———
Domenico, being slapped like a goddamn slave by Monica's husband, a fat old man who would never have stood a chance against his brother if Domenico had been in the mind to fight him.
Domenico, not bothering to retaliate because he was taking the blame for Alejandro's dishonor———
It had been too much.
And so here he was.
Only in The Den could he fight. Only in The Den could he pretend. Only in The Den could he forget that Domenico, once the most powerful wolf of their race, was now called The Prince of Dogs, and there was not a damn thing Alejandro could do to make things right for his brother.
