Aurora knew. She had always known what would happen when her son turned eighteen. She had grown up in this world where boys became men not with tenderness, but with initiation. It was custom, after all. The unspoken rite every male was expected to pass. And while her heart ached for him, she said nothing.
She turned a blind eye. Just like her mother had done.
That night marked the end of Marcus's innocence.
She had watched him leave the house, tall and proud, wearing the ceremonial black shirt passed down from his father. His eyes had held a flicker of excitement, confusion, and something else, fear though he'd never admit it. He had asked no questions. None were needed. The elders would be waiting.
And she had watched him return, sometime after midnight, silent and changed. His shoulders straighter, his eyes harder, beaming with pride, his mouth set in a line she hadn't seen before. He didn't speak to her. He didn't need to. She had seen it in his walk, the way he avoided her gaze. Whatever boy she had kissed goodbye was gone.
He never spoke of that night. Not to her. Not to anyone.
But she noticed the difference in him. The way he lingered a little too long in the presence of women. The way he watched them, not out of innocence or admiration, but with a hunter's awareness. Like he'd learned something he wasn't quite ready for something that both empowered and corrupted him.
She mourned quietly. Alone. Because to speak of it would be to defy tradition, to question the very foundation their world was built upon. And what good would that do?
Still, there were nights when she would lie awake, staring at the ceiling, her hand over her heart, remembering the sound of the door creaking open as Marcus returned.
He had been initiated.
But she would never stop wondering
At what cost?
What began as an obligation became a revelation. The touch of soft hands, the whispered gasps, the way a woman's eyes darkened with want, it awakened something in him that had been quietly sleeping beneath the surface. Craving. Power. Control. Not in battle, but in the way a woman's body arched beneath him. It was primal. Addictive.
And Marcus learned quickly.
He began to notice things he hadn't before the lingering stares, the nervous giggles, the subtle sways of hips when he passed by. All the signals he used to miss? Now they glowed like beacons. And he didn't hesitate. Not anymore. He became bold, daring an outrageous flirt with a crooked smile and a gaze that left women breathless.
But it wasn't just lust that stirred in his veins it was dominance.
He discovered the thrill of command not through snarled orders on a battlefield, but in the way a woman trembled under his touch, whispered his name like a prayer, and surrendered. That submission, it did something to him. Fed something deep. Dark. A desire not just to be wanted, but to be needed, to be obeyed.
He knew how to play sweet. Knew when to tease with soft lips and honeyed promises. But behind closed doors, Marcus wasn't gentle. He didn't ask he took. And they let him. Some begged him to.
He became intoxicated with it, the way he could make them beg, cry, scream, and melt. The way they clawed at him, marking his back, pleading for more. He learned their weaknesses like a predator stalking prey: where to touch, how to whisper, and when to command. And in return, they gave him everything.
Some mistook it for love. He didn't correct them.
He wasn't heartless, he just didn't need love. Not then. What he craved was fire, surrender, the ache of control, and the silence after, when breath and heartbeat were the only sounds in the room.
And still, deep down, in the parts he didn't examine too closely, something was broken.
Because no matter how many bodies tangled in his sheets, no matter how many times he made someone scream his name
He never stayed.
Never slept beside them.
Never kissed them like it meant anything.
Because he had learned something else, too
Pleasure fades.
Power remains.
And Marcus Valen would always choose power.
The women called him charming. Dangerous. Irresistible. The perfect lover, mysterious, skilled, confident. Any woman who had him wanted him again and again, desperate to feel that high only he seemed to provide. But Marcus didn't care what they called him only that they kept coming back. That their eyes glazed when he entered a room. That their lips parted when he drew near. That their bodies yielded like they were meant to be beneath him.
It was never about affection but pure, unadulterated lust.
It was about control. The rush. The power in knowing he could make them fall apart with a single look, a single word, a single night and walk away without a second thought.
Of course, it wasn't all pleasure. There were complications.
Some women didn't know how to let go. They mistook lust for love and dominance for devotion. They grew obsessive. Clingy. Possessive.
They wrote him letters soaked in perfume, filled with declarations of forever. They lingered near the packhouse, hoping to catch his eye. Some sent him gifts, jewelry, poetry, and photographs. Some cried at his feet. Others screamed. Two women even fought in the training yard once, nails and teeth and blood, each claiming he had chosen her.
He hadn't chosen either.
Marcus remained untouched by it all detached and cold, the perfect Alpha in training, his heart locked behind the iron gates of duty and legacy. Emotion, to him, was a weakness. One he couldn't afford. One he had watched destroy men stronger than him.
He never promised them love. He never pretended.
He was careful with his words but merciless with his body. They knew what it was a night, maybe two, of fire and surrender. Nothing more. And still, they came, hoping they'd be the one to change him, to melt the ice beneath the steel.
None ever did.
Marcus didn't believe in fairy tales. He believed in strategy, in strength, in survival. And love , real love was a risk he wasn't willing to take, especially if she wasn't his mate. What mattered most to him was not disappointing his father."
Not when the world expected perfection from him.
Not when he knew that letting someone in meant giving them the power to destroy him.
So he smiled. He seduced. He conquered. And when the night ended, he walked away, leaving hearts behind like ashes in his wake.
And Marcus Valen never looked back.
Still, he drew lines, and he never crossed them.
He didn't touch virgins.
He didn't ruin the innocent.
Not because of some noble moral code but because he knew what it would mean to strip that last piece of innocence away from someone who still believed in love. And Marcus? Marcus hadn't believed in love since the night his father gave him away to womanhood like a ceremonial object.
So he took what was offered willing women, experienced women, broken women who wanted distraction just like he did. He used them to quiet the ache, the pressure, and the weight of becoming Alpha. And they used him to taste the fire of a man they could never truly have.
But with every encounter, something inside him faded.
The thrill dulled. The warmth vanished.
He became darker. More practiced. Less human.
And still, the women came.
Because Marcus Valen wasn't just the Alpha's son.
He was the fantasy every wolf girl grew up dreaming about.
And he?
He had learned how to become a beautiful nightmare.