Lovel mumbled, "Mother—"

"—has weaponized her tears once and is aware that ploy won't work again," Acwulf said.

Lovel exchanged a scared glance with Lovelle.

He pitied them and even entertained this low blow to curry his favors. But he didn't help those too lazy to help themselves.

"Aron's gambling arrears—"

"—will get racked up even after I bail him out again. Why don't you all try living within your means?"

Lovel flushed; the ugly shade of pink accentuating his pallor.

The Aristocrats harbored an innate sense of entitlement. They had no qualms about appropriating their heart's desires from their 'lessers'. His family sure didn't. After all, Acwulf's sole purpose, as a spare, was to be a loyal servant of the heir.

He put his foot down, so Lovel sulked. He, too, hankered for a chunk of Acwulf's empire. They'd reduced him to a relative with deep pockets.

Unbidden, he recalled his heated conversation on his sixteenth birthing's eve—the best and worst day of his life.

"We won't allow this!" Lord Ducal the Ninth had torn the acceptance letter from the Azrael College of Business Management. For a Luxembourgian to attend the modern shifter university was disgraceful. Worse, studying how to earn their keep was blasphemous.

"What would you have me do, father?" his younger self had begged, almost in tears.

"Exactly what's expected of you—nothing. You're the second born. How dare you embarrass us and question my judgment? Step aside, bite your errant tongue, and enjoy the fruits of trees planted by your elders and betters."

Instead, he'd been instructed to join the Gittenburge Institute, a relic where royals graduated but learned nothing.

At that moment, an epiphany struck Acwulf—everything he believed was a lie. The arcane ways of his ancestors and rules of honorable conduct reeked of hypocrisy. They would've decided his fate if he'd allowed it. But he couldn't sit on the sidelines, existing to step up only if anything untoward happened to Aron, the firstborn.

That night, he'd walked out of his decrepit palace. If he hadn't, he wouldn't have met Saya and Mikhael.

But seven years later, his mother's pleas sucked him back.

Even then, his sire and frater maior sneered at his ideas to improve their standing. He curbed their overspending. After many fights, he ended his family's mismanagement of their vast acreages. His shrewd investments recompensed their creditors, but his actions were interpreted as disrespect. The final straw was Aron stealing Acwulf's former fiancée.

Instead of overlooking multifold betrayals and affronts, he severed ties with them all. His father's grudging approval demanded a price he wasn't willing to pay.

Since he rebuilt himself after wiping the slate clean.

"Why are you so selfish? It's unbecoming. We are blood," Lovelle whined, mimicking Aron.

"Because I didn't take a bent penny from the family coffers. All I have is mine and mine alone. Haven't you heard? I am an Oakenmedow... and a duke to boot."

"What about loyalty and honor?"

"I am loyal to myself and I have no honor."

His family, the foremost pack, banished him; and branded him a pariah until they were in dire straits. Now that he could subsidize their illusions of grandeur, they commanded he paid homage to them.

"You're one of us, always will be." Lovel extended a cream envelope embossed with the Ducal crest, a silver rose, in Acwulf's direction. "The autumn ball proves Father is still looking out for you. He has negotiated with the Gothe for you, Lovelle, and me. They might not hail from the grandest of lines, but they have modest purses. We could use—"

Acwulf raised a hand to silence Lovel. His irises spilled into the whites. Amoux's red eyes glittered with disgust. Fur pushed out from his pores, but he stamped out his beast's outrage. He was the prodigal son, except he hadn't returned to the fold. So they dared to act on his behalf?

"Acwulf, you are a hair's breadth from disowning you. Redeem yourself before—" Lovelle whimpered, as if in pain.

He laughed. The ton gossiped about their estrangement, but his father hadn't disowned him yet. Why? To usurp all that was Acwulf's by invoking the law of succession in case he met an untimely demise.

He'd legally changed his surname and denied all affiliations with the Ducals. But the judicature would entertain their attempt to wrestle ownership of his assets. Except they'd lose. His last will and testament, drawn by the Royal Esquire, was watertight. All his effects were bequeathed to his silent partners. He'd appointed a successor the Emperor couldn't offend, hence he'd dismiss the claims.

"Am I to be grateful for the scraps thrown my way? Do I seem in want of a meager dower purse?" he asked, amused.

"You don't, but we do," Lovelle sobbed.

His bid to assert his freedom embarrassed them until he had something to offer.

It baffled him that his father presumed Acwulf would tuck his tail, crawl to him, and bare his neck. He'd have to wait until the end of his days and the rest of his afterlife.

His mother's grief, sister's bleak future, brothers' tantrums, and their elderly relatives' slander didn't affect him.

"So I am deemed worthy of inbred snow wolves. Don't the Gothe have a history of cleft lips? Aren't they about quantity, not quality of their stock?" He paused to smirk. "Anyhow, tell Lord Ducal I'll be there."

Lovel beamed. Lovelle, a tad bit more sensible, seemed confused by his decision.

When his phone rang, Saya's name flashed on the screen. He excused himself while the butler ushered the twins out.

Acwulf lingered on the grounds to mull over Lovel's unexpected revelations. Despite the so-called urgency to secure his line, he experienced no urge to commit; monogamy didn't suit him.

Duty or fear of social stigma cemented most alliances; the desperation to produce a litter or economic stability formed them. Most couples were resigned or unhappy. A few went their separate ways once scions entered the picture. The heritor stayed at the lodgings, under the staff's vigilant gaze, cloistered and safe, where private tutors educated them. Their rank dictated every single choice—their friends, hobbies, and mates. Younger children, such as him, were shipped off to boarding schools.

He knew little of sharing his room with another and felt unprepared for fatherhood. Or balancing the needs of two individuals? Or building a genuine family. He didn't even know what a normal relationship entailed.

'But that is what we wish for...'

A healthy relationship, someone he cared for, and vice versa. Could any female accept him with his flaws, and he tolerated hers? Where was he to find such a diamond who'd choose him because of what he was, not who he was? Someone with no ulterior motives, indifferent to his stature or net worth. Someone he trusted and admired, with a career or passion. A purpose other than being his spouse or a mater. A mate in its idealized form, to whom he avowed loyalty, and who stood by him until the winter days.

'I doubt such a paragon of virtue exists,' Amoux barked.

Acwulf remembered the summer cahier of Eros and grinned. For the time being, he'd settle for a paramour who would show the disapproving ton couldn't dictate terms to him. He was his own wolf, now and forever.

'Hear, hear!' his beast howled in amusement. 'Now let's visit Mik and Misha.'

***

Now that you know a little more about Acwulf, what do you make of him?

Any predictions what happens now and how he'll fit into the story?

Ps. I tend to write  slightly OTT male characters (Charles, Gavin,  now Drach, and you haven't even met Bat Boy yet) but I have been thinking of writing a nice guy.... or are they too boring? 

Can the 'hero/ knight' archetype be intense and interesting too? What's your opinion?