“I’ll Marry You When I Grow Up,” She Said — 18 Years Later, the Alpha King Comes Back

Blood stained the pristine snow, and the iron gates of Venderburg keep lay in splintered ruins. The Alpha King, a myth made of ruthless muscle and terror, stepped over the broken bodies of her oppressors. He tilted her chin, golden eyes burning with an intense, consuming fire. You promised me a wedding, little bird. The winter of 1428 was unforgiving, burying the northern Duchy of Venderburg under thick sheets of ice and misery.

For seven-year-old Rosalind Mercer, the daughter of a minor landholding family, the cold was merely an excuse to hide in the sprawling barns of her family estate. She was a child of bright disposition and unchecked curiosity, unaware of the brutal political machinations of the adults who ruled the lands. Her innocence, however, was destined to be shattered on the eve of the winter solstice.

It was near dusk when Rosalind heard the ragged, wet breathing coming from the abandoned root cellar. Armed with nothing but an iron fire poker and a stolen lantern, she descended the rotting wooden steps. In the flickering amber light, she found a boy. He appeared to be no older than fifteen, but his body was a canvas of horrific abuse.

His back was crisscrossed with fresh lash marks. His wrists were manacled in heavy rusted iron, and his left eye was swollen shut. He was shivering violently, clad in mere rags that did nothing to fend off the biting frost. This was Gideon. He was a runaway from the underground fighting pits of Lord Frederick, the tyrannical ruler of the Venderburg region.

Lord Frederick was known for his sick fascination with the occult and the monstrous, capturing those rumored to carry the cursed bloodline of the Lycan and forcing them to fight for the amusement of his drunken noblemen. Gideon was his prized captive, an anomaly born with the dormant, powerful blood of an alpha. Stay back, Gideon snarled, his voice cracking from dehydration.

His remaining golden eye fixed on her with the ferocity of a cornered predator. Rosalind did not scream. Instead, she lowered the fire poker. You are bleeding, she stated softly, her young voice a stark contrast to the grim reality of his wounds. For the next three days, Rosalind became his secret savior.

She smuggled stolen bread, salted meats, and woolen blankets from her mother chests down into the cellar. She brought warm water and carefully cleaned the infected wounds on his back, her small, gentle hands working with a tender precision that brought tears to the hardened boy eyes. Gideon, who had known nothing but cages, whips, and the scent of death since he was a toddler, was entirely disarmed by this fragile human child.

On the third night, as a blizzard raged outside, Gideon finally spoke of his origins. He told her of the cages. He told her what Lord Frederick men did to his kind. He told her, with deep shame, that he was cursed. I am a monster, little bird, Gideon whispered, staring at his bruised, calloused hands.

If they find me here, they will kill your family. I am poison. Rosalind frowned, her brow furrowing with absolute childish defiance. She reached out, placing her small, clean hand over his large, dirt-stained fingers. You do not look like a monster.

You look like a boy who needs a friend. She smiled, a bright, radiant thing that seemed to cut through the freezing darkness of the cellar. When I grow up, I will marry you. Then you will be a Mercer, and you will never have to be alone or scared again.

Gideon stared at her, the sheer purity of her vow piercing a heart he had thought turned to stone. For a fleeting second, he allowed himself to believe in the impossible. But fairy tales hold no weight in Venderburg. The heavy thud of iron boots marching through the snow shattered the silence.

The barking of hounds echoed through the timber. Lord Frederick militia had tracked the scent of Gideon blood to the Mercer estate. Panic erupted. Rosalind father, a gentle merchant, was dragged into the snowy courtyard and brutally beaten by the armored guards for harboring a fugitive.

From the cracks in the cellar doors, Gideon watched the violence unfold. He saw the militiaman raise a sword to the merchant throat, demanding the boy. He saw Rosalind break free from her weeping mother, running into the snow, screaming for them to stop, when a guard struck the seven-year-old girl, sending her tumbling into the blood-stained snow.

Something inside Gideon snapped. The dormant curse awoke with apocalyptic fury. The shift was agonizing, a cacophony of breaking bones, tearing flesh, and monstrous roaring that drowned out the howling blizzard. Gideon burst through the heavy oak doors of the cellar, not as a boy, but as an eight-foot-tall nightmare of midnight fur, razor-sharp claws, and glowing demonic golden eyes.

The massacre that followed was brief and absolute. The snow turned crimson as Gideon tore through Lord Frederick men with unrestrained savagery. He severed limbs, crushed armor like tin, and left Lord Frederick himself with three deep horizontal claw marks across his face, permanently disfiguring the nobleman before leaving him bleeding in the mud. When the carnage ceased, the werewolf stood panting in the center of the courtyard, surrounded by the dead.

The beast turned its massive blood-soaked muzzle toward Rosalind. She was sitting in the snow, her eyes big with unadulterated terror, trembling violently. Gideon golden eyes flickered with a profound, crushing sorrow. He had saved her, but he had terrified her. He had shown her the monster he truly was.

With a heartbreaking, guttural whine, the beast turned and bounded into the dark, frozen forest, disappearing into the shadows. He left behind a traumatized family, a promise hanging in the frozen air, and a debt of vengeance that would brew for nearly two decades. Eighteen years had turned Venderburg into a realm of ghosts and ash. The year was 1446, and twenty-five-year-old Rosalind Mercer stood by the frost-covered window of her chambers, looking out over a kingdom she had learned to despise.

The aftermath of that bloody night had ruined her family. Though Lord Frederick survived, his mind was poisoned by paranoia and his face marred by hideous scars. Blaming the Mercers for his disfigurement, he stripped them of their lands, seized their assets, and forced Rosalind father into hard labor in the iron mines, a sentence that killed him within five years. Rosalind and her younger sister, Gwendolyn, were left destitute, surviving as mere seamstresses in the very castle they once visited as esteemed guests.

Now, Lord Frederick had orchestrated his final, most cruel act of domination. He had decreed that Rosalind was to marry his son, Rowan. Rowan was a sadistic, cruel man who inherited his father vicious temper, but lacked his tactical mind. The marriage was not born of love or even political alliance. It was purely a mechanism of ownership.

Frederick wanted the Mercer bloodline utterly subjugated, and Rowan wanted a beautiful plaything to break. To refuse meant the immediate execution of Gwendolyn for fabricated charges of treason. Rosalind, bound by familial duty and stripped of all hope, had agreed. Tonight was the wedding feast. Rosalind wore a gown of heavy crimson velvet, feeling more like a prisoner marching to the gallows than a bride.

As she descended the stone staircase into the great hall, the raucous laughter of the Venderburg nobility echoed off the vaulted ceilings. Rowan stood at the head of the high table, a goblet of wine sloshing in his hand, a leering smirk on his face. Lord Frederick sat beside him, his scarred face a mask of bitter triumph. But the feast was interrupted.

It started as a faint rhythmic thumping that vibrated through the stone floor. Then the piercing scream of the watchtower horn blew, a frantic truncated sound that was suddenly cut short. The laughter in the great hall died. The heavy iron chandeliers swung slightly, casting dancing, ominous shadows across the tapestries. What is the meaning of this? Lord Frederick barked, rising from his heavy wooden throne.

Before the guards could answer, a deafening crash shook the foundations of the keep. The massive iron-reinforced oak doors of the great hall buckled inward. A second crash followed, splintering the ancient wood. On the third strike, the doors blew open completely, showering the guards in deadly shrapnel. The winter wind howled into the hall, blowing out half the torches.

Through the swirling snow and smoke stepped an army of nightmares. They were massive, brutal men clad in furs, blackened chainmail, and leather, wielding massive battleaxes and broadswords. They moved with a predatory grace that betrayed their human forms. They were the feral horde from the lawless north, rumors of which had terrified the southern kingdoms for a year. They were led by a warlord known only as the Alpha King.

And then he walked in. The Alpha King ducked slightly to clear the massive archway. He was a mountain of a man, standing well over six and a half feet tall. His shoulders were impossibly broad beneath his dark, heavy armor. A thick cloak of black wolf fur draped over one shoulder.

His hair was dark and unruly, framing a jaw covered in a harsh, dark stubble. But it was his eyes that stopped Rosalind heart dead in her chest. They were gold, piercing, predatory, and achingly familiar. It was Gideon. He was no longer the broken, bleeding boy she had hidden in a cellar.

He was a conqueror, radiating an oppressive, suffocating aura of absolute power and dominance. The air in the room grew heavy, making it difficult for the terrified nobility to draw breath. Kill them! Lord Frederick shrieked, drawing his sword, his scarred face twisting in terror as he recognized the golden eyes of the beast that had mutilated him eighteen years ago. Rowan guards rushed forward, but it was a slaughter.

Gideon did not even draw his sword. His men fell upon the Venderburg soldiers like wolves among sheep. The clash of steel, the screams of dying men, and the sickening crunch of bone filled the hall. Gideon walked through the chaos with casual, terrifying indifference. Any guard foolish enough to approach him was met with a brutal, bone-shattering strike that sent them flying across the stone floor.

Rowan, proving himself a coward, grabbed Rosalind by her hair, pulling her in front of him as a human shield, pressing a dagger to her throat. Stay back! Stay back, you northern savage! Rowan screamed, his voice cracking with panic. Gideon stopped. He was ten paces away.

The slaughter around them ceased as the northern army secured the hall, forcing Lord Frederick to his knees in the center of the room. The silence that fell over the blood-soaked room was deafening. Gideon golden eyes locked onto Rosalind. Eighteen years of absence melted away in a single intense heartbeat. He took in her crimson dress, the tear tracking down her pale cheek, and the blade pressed to her throat.

A low rumbling growl vibrated from deep within Gideon chest, a sound so resonant and terrifying that it caused the remaining torches to flicker. You. Lord Frederick gasped from the floor, blood leaking from a split lip. You are the mongrel from the pits. Gideon did not look at the lord.

He kept his eyes fixed entirely on Rosalind, his gaze burning with a possessive fire that made her tremble. Drop the knife, boy, Gideon said. His voice was a deep, gravelly baritone that commanded absolute obedience. Or I will tear your arms from their sockets and beat your father to death with them. Rowan hand shook violently.

The sheer terror radiating from the Alpha King was too much for his cowardly mind to process. With a pathetic whimper, Rowan dropped the dagger and fell to his knees, releasing Rosalind. She stumbled forward, catching her balance on a heavy wooden table. She could not breathe. She could not speak.

The little girl inside her who had made a vow in a dark cellar was screaming his name, but the woman standing in the hall was terrified of the warlord he had become. Gideon closed the distance between them with slow, deliberate steps. He towered over her, casting a massive shadow that swallowed her entirely. He reached out, his large, calloused hand covered in the leather of a dark gauntlet, and gently tilted her chin up. His thumb brushed away the tear on her cheek, a touch so shockingly tender it contrasted wildly with the massacre he had just orchestrated.

I heard a rumor, Gideon murmured, his voice softening just a fraction, for her ears alone. I heard that the Mercer family was holding a wedding today. Rosalind lips parted, but no sound came out. She stared into his golden eyes, seeing the ghosts of their shared past swirling within them. Gideon gaze darkened, shifting from tender to ruthlessly possessive.

He looked around the ruined hall at the cowering nobility, at the kneeling Lord Frederick, and finally back to the trembling woman before him. But they seem to have forgotten, Gideon announced, his voice booming across the silent, bloodied hall, that eighteen years ago this woman was promised to me. He pulled Rosalind flush against his heavy, armored chest, his arm wrapping around her waist like an iron band. I have come to collect my bride.

The journey to the northern bastion was a blur of freezing winds, relentless snow, and the terrifying, silent protection of the wolf army. Rosalind and her sister, Gwendolyn, were placed inside a heavily armored carriage, their meager belongings left behind in the ruins of Venderburg Keep. Beside the carriage rode Gideon, a monolithic figure atop a massive black destrier. He never once looked back at the burning castle where Lord Frederick remained chained in the dungeons, but his golden eyes frequently flicked toward the carriage windows, checking on his stolen bride. When they finally crossed the threshold into the ancient, sprawling stone fortress known as the Howling Bastion, Rosalind was struck by the stark contrast to her former life.

Unlike Venderburg, which was built on the suffering of its people, the Bastion was a place of fierce loyalty. The villagers, many of whom bore the same golden eyes as Gideon, bowed their heads in deep reverence as the Alpha King rode through the iron gates. They were a pack, a family forged in ice and isolation. That evening, Rosalind was escorted to the highest tower of the keep. The chambers were vast, warmed by a roaring hearth, and adorned with rich tapestries and thick furs.

She stood by the fire, trembling, when the heavy oak door creaked open. Gideon stepped inside, having stripped away his blackened chainmail. He wore only a loose linen shirt and dark trousers, making him look less like a warlord and more like the vulnerable boy she had once saved. Yet the brutal expanse of his shoulders and the dangerous grace of his movements reminded her that the beast still lurked just beneath his skin. You have not eaten, Gideon observed, his deep baritone breaking the heavy silence.

He gestured toward the untouched feast laid out on a silver platter. Rosalind turned to face him, her hands clasped tightly together. I am a prisoner, my lord. Prisoners rarely have an appetite. A flash of genuine pain crossed Gideon harsh features. He crossed the room slowly, as if approaching a frightened doe, stopping just a few feet from her.

You are not a prisoner, Rosalind. You are the queen of this keep. Gwendolyn has been given her own chambers, surrounded by guards who would gladly die before letting harm befall her. You slaughtered dozens of men in my home, Rosalind whispered, her voice wavering with unshed tears. You ripped Lord Frederick court apart.

How can you expect me to simply accept this? To accept you when you are wrapped in so much death? Gideon reached up, slowly unbuttoning the collar of his linen shirt. He pulled the fabric down, exposing his collarbone and chest. There, burned into his flesh, was an intricate ancient crest that made Rosalind gasp. It was the royal insignia of the House of Plantagenet, an aristocratic bloodline thought to have been eradicated a century prior.

I am not just a feral beast born in the mud, Rosalind, Gideon said, his voice laced with a bitter sorrow. I am the last living descendant of the Plantagenet line. Lord Frederick knew this. He knew that by birthright the northern territories belonged to me. That is why he had my family assassinated when I was a toddler.

That is why he threw me into the fighting pits, masking my royal blood by branding me a cursed abomination. I did not attack Venderburg for mere revenge. I reclaimed what was stolen from my ancestors. The men I killed were the very butchers who slaughtered my mother. Rosalind stared at the royal brand, the horrifying pieces of the puzzle snapping into place.

The cruelty of Lord Frederick, the paranoia, the obsession with keeping Gideon hidden, it was never just about a werewolf. It was about a stolen throne. And what of me? She asked softly, looking up into his golden eyes. Am I just another piece of stolen property you have come to reclaim? Gideon closed the final distance between them.

He lifted his massive hands, gently cradling her face. His thumbs mapped the curve of her cheekbones, his touch carrying eighteen years of suppressed longing. You are the only light I have ever known in the dark, he murmured, leaning down until his forehead rested against hers. When I was beaten, starving, and ready to die in that cellar, you reached into hell and pulled me out. You promised you would marry me.

You promised I would never be alone again. I survived the pits, the wars, and the agonizing curse in my veins solely to come back and make you my wife. You are not my property, Rosalind. You are my salvation. The raw, desperate honesty in his voice shattered the last of her fears.

The monster faded, leaving only the boy she had promised to protect. Rosalind closed her eyes, leaning into his warmth, a single tear slipping down her cheek. Gideon, she whispered. Before their lips could meet, the heavy wooden door was thrown open. A bloodied scout stumbled into the room, gasping for breath.

My king, forgive the intrusion, but we are under attack. Rowan has escaped the dungeons. He has rallied Lord Hastings mercenary army from the southern borders. They are marching on the bastion, and my lord, they are armed with silver. The howling of wolves shattered the midnight calm.

The Howling Bastion was thrust into a frenzy of steel and blood as Lord Hastings mercenaries, thousands strong, breached the outer courtyard. Rowan had sold his soul to the southern lords, trading the vast wealth of Venderburg for an army equipped specifically to eradicate the lycan threat. From the high battlements, Rosalind watched in horror as the snow turned black with the bodies of the fallen. Flaming pitch rained down from the catapults, illuminating the carnage in sickening flashes of orange and red. Gideon was a god of war on the battlefield.

He had fully shifted into his lycan form, a colossal, terrifying beast of midnight fur and razor-sharp claws. He tore through the mercenary ranks, his roars shaking the very foundations of the castle. For every man that fell, three more seemed to take his place. But Gideon sheer, monstrous power kept the southern army at bay. However, Rowan was a coward, and cowards never fight fair.

Hidden in the shadows of a collapsed siege tower, Rowan raised a heavy crossbow. The bolt was forged of pure silver and heavily coated in concentrated wolfsbane, a lethal combination designed to instantly paralyze and kill an alpha. He aimed carefully, waiting for Gideon to expose his flank as he threw a mercenary over the parapets. With a sharp twang, the crossbow fired. The silver bolt struck Gideon perfectly in the shoulder, burying itself deep into his flesh.

The Alpha King let out a deafening, agonizing roar that echoed across the valley. The wolfsbane entered his bloodstream like liquid fire. Gideon massive form shuddered violently, and mid-stride he collapsed into the blood-soaked snow, his transformation reversing until he was a man once more, gasping and defenseless. Gideon! Rosalind screamed from the battlements, her heart stopping in her chest. Rowan emerged from the shadows, drawing his longsword.

He kicked Gideon weakened body, laughing maniacally as the mercenaries formed a protective circle around them, keeping the frantic wolves at bay. Look at the great Alpha King now, Rowan sneered, pressing the tip of his sword to Gideon throat. Nothing but a dying dustbin in the snow. I will mount your head on a pike, beast, and I will take your precious Rosalind back to my bedchamber. Up in the tower, a profound, chilling calmness washed over Rosalind.

She remembered the little girl in the cellar who had wielded an iron fire poker to protect a bleeding boy. She had promised to protect him then. She would not fail him now. Grabbing a heavy steel broadsword from a fallen guard, Rosalind ran down the spiraling stone steps. She burst through the courtyard doors, her crimson velvet gown trailing through the mud and gore.

Stop! she screamed, her voice ringing out with such fierce, commanding authority that even the mercenaries hesitated. Rowan turned, a cruel smile twisting his lips. Ah, my runaway bride. Have you come to watch the mutt die? Rosalind did not stop running.

She charged straight through the circle of bewildered mercenaries. Rowan laughed, raising his sword to bat her away, expecting a fragile, weeping woman. He severely underestimated the fierce spirit of a Venderburg survivor. Rosalind swung the heavy broadsword with both hands, using her momentum to clash fiercely against Rowan blade. The impact sent a painful shockwave up her arms, but she held firm.

I promised to marry him, Rowan, Rosalind hissed, her eyes blazing with a feral, protective fury that mirrored the wolf. And I do not break my promises. Before Rowan could recover from his shock, Rosalind threw herself to the ground beside Gideon. Ignoring the burning of the silver against her bare skin, she grasped the shaft of the cursed crossbow bolt lodged in his shoulder. With a guttural cry, she ripped the bolt out.

Dark, toxic blood sprayed across the snow, but the source of the poison was gone. Rowan lunged forward, screaming in rage, driving his sword down toward Rosalind unprotected back. He never made it. With the silver removed, Gideon supernatural healing surged. In a blur of motion too fast for the human eye to track, Gideon hand shot up, catching the blade of Rowan sword with his bare, shifting claws.

The steel snapped like a dry twig. Gideon rose, his golden eyes glowing with a terrifying apocalyptic rage. He grabbed Rowan by the throat, lifting the struggling, terrified lord entirely off the ground. You touched my queen, Gideon growled, a terrifying duality of man and beast layered in his voice. With a sickening crunch, he snapped Rowan neck, tossing the lifeless body into the snow.

Seeing their commander fall so brutally and facing the resurrected, furious Alpha King, Lord Hastings mercenaries dropped their weapons. The siege was broken. The battle was won. Gideon dropped to his knees, ignoring the surrendered army, and pulled Rosalind into a crushing embrace. He buried his face in her neck, inhaling her scent, shaking with the adrenaline of near death and the overwhelming realization of what she had done.

She had saved him. Again. You foolish, brave little bird, he whispered, pressing fervent kisses to her forehead, her cheeks, her lips. You could have been killed. Rosalind dropped the heavy sword, wrapping her arms around his thick neck, crying tears of profound relief. I told you when I was seven years old, Gideon.

You will never have to be alone or scared again. Three days later, beneath the ancient towering pines of the northern bastion, they were married. There were no terrified nobility, no cruel lords, and no forced vows. Only the loyal pack, the surviving villagers, and Gwendolyn weeping tears of joy. Gideon, the true heir of the Plantagenet line and the Alpha King of the north, placed a crown of woven silver and winter roses upon Rosalind head.

She was no longer a destitute seamstress, nor a captive bride. She was the Luna. The little girl who made a promise in the ash had finally become the queen of the wolves.