"Anyone else?"
No one spoke. Marco's had fought before. He had bled before. But he had never killed. Not until tonight.
"You really think you belong here, don't you?"
Dante, the heir of Black Fang Pack, spoke with amusement earlier that night, filled with the same mocking tone Marco had grown used to. They were gathered around the fire after training, licking their wounds, letting the night air cool their bruises.
Marco ignored him, staring into the flames.
"Spoiled prince," Dante continued, nudging Marco's shoulder roughly. "Daddy's boy. You're weak, and we all know it. When you take over Alpha Sirus throne, the other packs will easily rip you apart."
Marco exhaled slowly.
He had learned to let the taunts roll off his back. It didn't matter what they thought. It didn't matter what they said.
"Nothing to say?" Dante smirked. "Guess that slave girl you left behind must've been the one with the real fight in her."
Marco's blood turned to ice.
Slowly, he turned his head, his gray eyes locking onto Dante's.
The other wolves went silent.
Dante grinned, sensing the shift. "Yeah, we all heard about her. The little pet you couldn't save. Think she's still waiting for you? Or maybe someone else has already broken her in."
The fire cracked loudly and Marco snapped. The fight wasn't like the others. It wasn't controlled. It wasn't for dominance. It was rage. Pure, blinding rage.
Marco didn't remember lunging. He didn't remember tackling Dante to the ground. All he remembered was the sound of bones breaking under his fists, the feeling of warm blood coating his skin.
Dante fought back—he was strong, a trained Alpha heir—but Marco didn't stop.
A punch to the ribs. A knee to the gut. A sharp twist of his opponent's wrist until there was a sickening snap. Dante screamed. It should have ended there, but Marco wasn't done.
He grabbed Dante by the throat, forcing him onto his back. The moonlight glowed against his silver eyes, wild and untamed.
"Mock me again," Marco growled. "I dare you."
Dante's face was bloody, his lips curling into a smirk even as he struggled for breath. "You can't even protect a—"
Marco struck.
His teeth sank into Dante's throat, tearing through flesh and muscle. The taste of blood filled his mouth, hot and metallic.
Dante choked, his body jerking violently beneath him—then went still.
Silence fell over the training grounds. Marco slowly lifted his head, blood dripping from his lips. The other trainees stared at him, eyes wide, bodies tense. No one moved. No one spoke.
They had mocked him for weeks. Laughed at him. Called him weak. But now, they looked at him differently. Not as a boy. Not as a spoiled heir, but something else entirely--something to fear.
Marco rose to his feet, wiping the back of his hand across his mouth. He braced himself for the consequences. The punishment.
Instead, the head trainer stepped forward, studied the body at Marco's feet, then nodded.
"That," he said, his voice filled with approval, "was an Alpha's kill."
Marco exhaled.
He had expected to feel guilt. Regret.
But all he felt was certainty.
Because Dante had been right about one thing. If Marco wanted to survive—if he wanted to go back and take his pack, if he wanted to be an Alpha and save her—then he couldn't be soft. He had to be ruthless.