After My Fiancé Rejected Me, His Uncle Claimed Me

The Great Hall was in utter chaos, but I didn't care about Callen waving his arms for a mating blade. I didn't care about the pack elders scrambling or the murmur of hundreds of confused wolves.

I turned my back on him.

Deliberately. Slowly.

Every eye in the room followed me as I looked straight down the center aisle, past the rows of stunned faces, locking eyes with my father. Alpha Hank stood tall, his jaw set like iron, his fists clenched tight at his sides.

"The alliance will still hold," I said.

My voice was quiet, almost conversational. But in the sudden hush of the hall, it carried like a shot. Everyone strained to catch my words.

"Contact the Lycan King."

A harsh bark of laughter broke the silence.

Callen leaned over the dais railing, sneering down at me. "Are you out of your mind, Lola? You think Demetrius would ever look at you? The Monk King hasn’t touched a woman in a century. He turned down high-born Lycan princesses, and you think he’ll take a discarded she-wolf?"

He shook his head, looking around the room for approval. "You’re desperate. It’s pathetic."

The room erupted into loud whispers. Elders muttered to one another in disbelief, and warriors shifted uneasily on their feet. Demetrius Hamilton was a legend, an untouchable sovereign who ruled all territories from the shadows. Nobody simply *summoned* him.

Inside my chest, the cold, hollow ache from the broken bond still stung. But my wolf didn't whimper. She didn't mourn the boy who had just thrown us away.

Instead, she rose onto all fours, her silver coat bristling. She let out a single, low, vibrating snarl right beneath my ribs.

It wasn't grief. It was a decision.

Without another word, I picked up the hem of my ruined white dress and walked toward the heavy double doors.

Ashlyn was waiting near the exit corridor. She had stepped out of the hall, probably eager to play the blushing, triumphant bride for the passing crowd. Her lavender dress fluttered as she crossed her arms, a sly, mocking smirk playing on her lips. She smelled sickeningly of Callen's cedar and her own cheap lilac.

She opened her mouth, ready to drop some sweet, poisonous sympathy.

I didn't give her the chance.

I didn't break my stride. I stepped into her personal space, grabbed the collar of her dress with one hand, and shoved her backward.

*Crack.*

Her back hit the stone wall with enough force to knock the air straight out of her lungs. Several nearby pack warriors froze, their eyes widening in shock. Nobody expected an Alpha's daughter to strike like a street fighter.

Ashlyn gasped, her eyes going huge with genuine terror as my fingers tightened against her throat. Her hands scrambled against my wrist, but my grip was iron.

I leaned in close, until my mouth was inches from her ear.

"Enjoy the title while you have it," I whispered.

I let go.

Ashlyn slid down a few inches, coughing and clutching her chest, her face pale as milk.

I smoothed the front of my silk skirt, turned, and walked toward my father.

Alpha Hank was waiting by the archway. The granite mask he always wore as an Alpha had cracked. For a second, his eyes burned with fierce, protective pride. He didn't ask if I was okay. He didn't tell me I was reckless.

He just pulled his smartphone from his coat pocket and unlocked the encrypted line to the Lycan Court.

"Get your things packed into the main suite," he said quietly. "I'll handle the rest."

***

The formal message was dispatched to the Lycan capital within the hour.

My father laid out the proposal with brutal honesty. The Ironveil heir had broken the treaty. But Thornfield's borders still required an ironclad bond, and the alliance between our bloodlines could still be sealed—if the Lycan King himself took Callen's place.

It was a gamble that borderlines on madness. Everyone knew Demetrius's reputation. For a hundred years, the Monk King had lived in absolute solitude, refusing every prospective mate presented by the Royal Council.

Yet before the afternoon sun dipped behind the western pines, the response arrived.

Soren Veil, the King’s personal Beta, delivered the official transmission himself via secure satellite feed. Soren had served Demetrius for decades. He had watched his king coldly dismiss the most beautiful, powerful she-wolves on the continent without blinking an eye.

According to pack gossip that leaked from the communications room, Soren had stared at the King’s signed reply for five whole minutes before hitting send, completely stunned.

The Lycan King accepted.

No negotiations. No political demands. No delay.

He was already en route.

By seven that evening, the Great Hall was being frantically scrubbed clean. The Ironveil banners were hastily pushed aside to make room for the royal Lycan crests—black velvet stitched with silver wolves. Servants ran through the corridors with fresh candles, and the kitchen staff worked in a panicked sweat.

Callen sat in the common room, slamming back glasses of bourbon, his smug confidence rapidly crumbling into nervous agitation.

The air across the entire estate was thick with tension. A restless, heavy silence hung over the pack lands like the calm before a hurricane.

The rumors had spread to every corner of the territory within minutes.

The Monk King was coming. And he was coming for me.