Deviant Kings: Claimed by The Four Lycan Kings

Adeline’s pov~

"Why waste time questioning trash, Raven?" Blake purred, his voice dropping into that dangerous, rhythmic cadence I hated. He casually reached down, gripping the leader’s collar and forcing the man to look up at him. "They’re just lowlife parasites looking for a payout. Let’s just throw them to the wolves outside the perimeter and be done with it. They aren’t worth the council’s breath."

"They won’t speak, Lord Protector," Keiran rasped, stepping out of the mist like a shadow. His massive, scarred hand gripped the silver chains, jerking the three omegas to their feet with effortless, brutal force. "Let the enforcers take them to the lower cells. I will extract the names of their handlers by nightfall."

"Do it," Raven commanded, his face a flawless mask of stone. "Discard them."

The crowd erupted into furious whispers as the disciplinary guards dragged the three groaning omegas away, their silver chains clanking heavily against the stone.

Raven had already turned on his heel, disappearing down the private Student Council corridor to oversee the transport of the prisoners. The moment the Lord Protector was out of sight, the devil took the stage. Before I could escape, before anyone could disperse, Zyran stopped them all.

"Before everyone dismisses," Zyran purred, his voice carrying effortlessly over the stone square. He took a slow, deliberate step forward, the signature, mocking charm returning to his flawless features as he addressed the entire gathered academy. "Let’s address the real garbage in the courtyard."

My entire body went completely rigid beneath my black hoodie. Every muscle locked up, and a sharp, blinding wave of pain shot through my bruised ribs.

Zyran’s dark eyes swept lazily across the crowd, a cruel, knowing smile stretching across his lips as he zeroed in directly on the shadow of my hood. He didn’t just point me out; he put a giant, bloody target on my back in front of every highborn pack line in the institution.

"Everyone knows about the scentless transfer," Zyran stated, his voice laced with an aristocratic disdain that made my blood run boiling. "A nameless anomaly walking our halls under royal decree. It seems our boundaries aren’t the only things attracting garbage from the outer territories lately."

A collective, suffocating wave of whispers exploded around us.

"He’s talking about her."

"The defect."

"Lord Zyran is publicly calling her out."

The circle of students widened instantly, everyone backing away from me as if I carried a plague. Sierra was trembling beside me, her eyes darting around in absolute terror, but she didn’t leave my side.

I stood completely still, the soft fabric of my hood brushing against my swollen, purple cheek. Zyran stood at the centre of the courtyard, looking like a god in his pristine uniform, completely untouched by the fact that his hired thugs were currently being dragged to a dungeon. He had failed to break me physically last night, so now he was going to destroy me socially. He was going to make sure every Alpha on this campus hunted me.

"A wolf with no scent is either a dangerous spy or a useless defect," Zyran continued, taking a slow, predatory step toward my direction, his voice echoing off the stone walls. "And this academy has no room for either. If the House of Dravenmoor won’t clear out the trash, perhaps the rest of the student body should remind the transfer where she truly belongs."

The threat hung heavy in the freezing morning air. The surrounding Alphas glared at me, their dominant scents flaring in aggressive agreement with their King.

My split lip throbbed, the metallic taste of last night’s blood faint on my tongue. I wanted to turn and run. I wanted to hide from the hundreds of judging eyes. But the memory of the Crestwood pack, the memory of Lucas, Logan, and Chloe’s mocking laughter flashed in my mind.

I had already survived the worst rejection a wolf could face. I had survived being beaten, stomped on, and left for dead. A spoiled, cowardly Lycan prince who hid behind others to do his dirty work couldn’t break me.

"It seems our standards are slipping faster than the southern mud," Zyran continued. He lazily paced the centre of the courtyard, holding the attention of every elite student. His voice dripped with absolute condescension. "Allowing defects to roam freely, interacting with highborns as if they belong. It’s pathetic, really. A charity case trying to play pretend in a castle built for kings."

He paused, tilting his head to look directly at the shadow cast by my hood. A cruel, smug smile touched his lips. "Perhaps she thinks if she stays close enough to the Lord Protector, some of his glory will rub off on her stench-free skin. As if a crow could ever become an eagle just by sitting in the same nest."

The crowd chuckled nervously, but the sound was quickly drowned out by the roaring blood in my ears.

I was not that girl anymore. I was not the helpless kitchen maid to be beaten into the mud by arrogant Alphas.

Before my mind could process the risk, before logic could remind me that I was a nameless nobody attacking a King in front of the entire academy, my legs moved.

I stepped out from the crowd, pushing past a stunned highborn alpha.

I didn’t run; I walked. Slow, deliberate, unyielding. My posture was perfectly straight, my black hoodie casting my eyes in absolute shadow, my hands hidden in my pockets.

A heavy, suffocating silence slammed across the courtyard, instantly strangling Zyran’s words. Hundreds of students held their breath, their eyes wide as they watched the scentless defect advance on the Prince of the Third Throne.

Zyran stopped pacing. He turned fully toward me, his eyes glinting with a sheer, arrogant amusement as a mocking grin spread across his face. He actually believed I was coming to beg.

Fuck him.

"Ah, the anomaly speaks," Zyran purred, spreading his arms wide in mock welcome. "Are you finally going to confess who sent you, sweetheart? Or did you just come to thank me for point—"

The crack of my palm meeting his face echoed across the stone courtyard like a gunshot. I hit him hard across his face.

The brutal force of the impact snapped Zyran’s head violently to the right.

A collective, sharp gasp ripped through the crowd. Instantly, the courtyard erupted into panicked, disbelieving whispers.

"How dare she?!"

"She has a death wish..."

"She slapped him! She actually slapped him!"

"She just struck the Lycan King Zyran..."

The whole academy froze. Time itself seemed to stop. Blake, who had been leaning casually against a pillar, pushed off it, his smirk vanishing into a rare look of total shock. Keiran, standing in the shadows, uncrossed his arms, his lethal eyes locking onto me with intense, calculating interest. Students from every faction stood paralysed. No one, in the entire history of the Royal Lycan Academy, had ever laid a hand on a sitting King.

So what? I did!

I slapped Zyran.

My heart hammered against my cracked ribs, every breath a sharp stab of physical agony. But I stood my ground. I forced my hands back into my hoodie pockets, my posture completely unyielding. Despite my anger, I couldn’t stop a single, hot tear from escaping the shadow of my hood, tracking down my bruised cheek as I stared at the monster who had ordered my violation.

Zyran turned his head back.

His expression was terrifying. His dark eyes were wide, the pupils blown, burning with a volcanic, lethal fury that seemed to make the air itself vibrate. A dark red handprint was already blooming brightly across his jawline. He was a predator who had just been publicly humiliated by a defect.

He took a violent step toward me, his aura flaring like an explosion, meant to crush me into the dirt.

"You—" Zyran began, his voice dropping into a guttural, terrifying snarl.

But he stopped mid-step.

Because I refused to cower, because I refused to back down, the harsh morning light hit my face just right, cutting straight through the shadow of my hood.

Zyran’s lethal, furious gaze snagged.

He wasn’t looking at my eyes anymore. He was staring at the dark, swollen purple bruise that disfigured my left cheekbone. Then, his eyes dropped to my mouth, focusing entirely on the split skin and the dried trace of copper that still stained my lip from the attack he had ordered.

The volcanic fury in his eyes suddenly froze, replaced by a sudden, jarring shock.

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