Mikhail growled and stabbed the keys with his huge fingers. Three pieces broke into bits—the a, t, and the enter buttons. He gave in to his mounting frustration. His fists descended, shattering the keyboard.

On the monitor, the cursor danced unprompted as the text disintegrated. 

A smiley-face pacman appeared and 'ate' the operating code of Odin's Staff, the third generation of mirroring tech that hid their settlements from human surveillance. All five attempts to hack and clone the tech they spent millions hiring from the USCA had been unmitigated disasters.

Words formed on the wide Ultra HD 4K screen.

'Hear ye all! Pay heed to our words of wisdom. Nabu and Saraswati present their third tenet. Thou shall not infringe on proprietary tech.' Also, eat shit! 

The sound effect of cracking glass followed the monitor losing power. A puff of smoke indicated the worm had infected his hard drive and fried the circuits.

"Arseholes," he grunted and recalled the previous two warnings.

One: Thou shall not steal.

Two: Thou shall respect the craft of the creator.

A duo, the bane of his life, had created the software. They weren't just good but had a nerdy sense of humor. Nabu was the Mesopotamian god of literacy, who invented writing, a divine scribe. Saraswati, a four-armed Hindu goddess, represented the arts, knowledge, and abundance. Athena would have conveyed the same sentiment. His competitors were well-versed in obscure mythology, and why he'd learned a bit about the subject, too.

The Americas' scientific breakthroughs were leaps and bounds ahead of Europa. Vaccines. Medical equipment adapted to study their denser bones and muscles. Life-saving serums. The Greennet. Cloning tissue. An unhackable mobile network. The trackers. Their radical healthcare initiatives caused their population to explode.

The United Shifters Council of Americas, in a couple of centuries, had grown into the foremost therianthrope governing body.

A democratic experiment, it ruled nearly all the shifter colonies on two continents. And it had diplomatic relations with most communities—except Europa. Their high-born Oldens detested them and turned a blind eye to why their enemy thrived.

'It's coz' the New World order had no use for royals,'  Misha muttered.

"The Emperor won't see reason," he grumbled and got up.

'You haven't tried. Coward,'  Misha snarled.

He ignored his bear. They didn't talk anymore, but Misha took every opportunity to express his low opinion of Mikhail. He had to be one of the few fortunate shifters whose beast had turned on him but hadn't gone feral.

'For now!'  His bear threatened.

His claws poked out of his fingertips as he heard a familiar sound. He spun around, crouching to attack as the doors opened.

"Misha, it's me, bruv!" Acwulf raised his arms to surrender.

Mikhail sighed. He should have known. Only a couple of individuals could access this section. His stomach rumbled, which explained the flare of rage at the unexpected intrusion.

Acwulf sauntered in and leaned against a wall.

"I smell a hangry gurahl. Thankfully, Saya's rustled up lunch for you." Cognizant of the no food or liquids rule in the lab, he nocked his head at the exit.

Mikhail powered down the system. He also replaced the glove on the silicone cast of his hand and locked the drawer. He got up, stretched, and walked past Acwulf who followed him out into a massive barn.

Like a shell, it covered the temperature-controlled, metal-walled labs. And it still accommodated his workshop where he tinkered with machines and engines, and a greenhouse.

Acwulf wandered towards the trap and peered under it. "Ooh, nice. That's a L-300! Remember, I had one in Uni until that bow-legged arse Killian borrowed and totaled it."

Mikhail groaned. He hadn't finished restoring the earliest Soviet prototype. The German Lux-300 motorcycle from the First World War was meant to be a surprise for Acwulf. Not anymore.

The hellhound had again overstepped.

Mikhael detested Acwulf going through his belongings without permission. His mood soured further. He planned to send for Acwulf when he had news.

Except Acwulf never waited for an invitation. Since he had bought a company jet, he dropped in whenever he wished. Before that, it was a chopper.

While Acwulf ooh-ed and ahh-ed over the bike, Mikhael made a beeline for the wooden picnic table. Mouth-watering aromas wafted from the wicker baskets. He scented crispy maple bacon and warm, freshly baked sourdoughbreads. And the berries...

In three bites, he demolished the prosciutto baguette before he sank his teeth into the array of meaty sandwiches. Honey mustard dripped onto his beard and he wiped it, smearing it further.

"You're such a child." Acwulf snickered and shook open a napkin, laid it over Mikhael's chest, and tucked the corners under the neck of his shirt.

Mikhael swatted the hellhound's arm.

Acwulf flew across the sunroom and crashed on the cobbled floor, but leaped to his feet and straightened his ripped jacket. He pretended it was fine, but his broken ribs crackled as they healed. "My friend, you do not know your strength," he whined. "By now, I ought to know not to stand between a hungry bearoid and his meal."

Mikhael should've apologized, but he didn't. "My friend, you ought to know I'm a gurahl, not a bear," he responded in a guttural snarl.

"I say tomato, you say tomatoe. Same thing. I'm no lycan yet..."

"It's a compliment. Or would you prefer I call you a dog?"

"I am not a hellhound, but a direwolf. The precursor of lycans. One of the few remaining of its kind. No one but you would dare to insult Amoux—"

"Tomato, tomatoe," Mikhail said with a nasty smirk and proceeded to devour a Brandywine pink beefsteak.

Acwulf winced as he sat down. To provoke Mikhael, he picked up a strawberry punnet. "I come bearing gifts."

"This is enough for a lifetime—" he mumbled. The outhouse, deceptively simple in its design, was a gift, too. It housed a supercomputer and two state-of-the-art laboratories, on vast lands whose deed was in Mikhael's name.

As Acwulf unpacked a box, Mikhael's pupils widened.

Acwulf beamed. "I hazarded a guess that you'd appreciate Nobu's spread!"

Mikhael scowled and dug into the salmon pie with the large ladle. Then he munched on the fowl salad. The nuts, baby spinach, arugula, lettuce, and heirloom black tomatoes concocted a sublime combination. The enormous portions caused him to inquire, "Who tattled?"

"Dates from Saudi Arabia, wrapped in gold foil," Acwulf said, ignoring his question.

"The housekeeper," he pointed as he polished off the blueberry tarts and dusted the crumbs lodged in his facial hair.

"Hans is doing a decent job," Acwulf stated, nibbling on a walnut.

Mikhael huffed. "I do not—"

"You do require looking after. If Saya hadn't sent Vaes to build the cabin, you'd continue sleeping in caves. That will not do! And if she hadn't hired Hans, you'd starve unless Misha hunted and eschewed clothes. He is deaf, mute, grateful you employed him, and not a spy. Nor is he in my or the Emperor's pay. You're in laundered pants, and your sanctum's spotless, so he's doing his job. Still, you're moving in with me. He can maintain this estate, which is too massive for you... so is mine."

Mikhail preferred being alone. As is, he had to recruit a bevy of staff members to maintain his lands. He also studiously avoided the essential workforce and his colleagues who lived on-site.

"Okay now?" Acwulf sounded wary.

He knew better than to tease Mikhael when he hadn't eaten for days, yet he couldn't resist needling him.

"Time for a proper greeting." Acwulf climbed onto the bench and held his arms open. Leaner and shorter, he did so to bridge their height difference.

Grudgingly, Mikhael stepped closer and patted Acwulf's shoulder. At nine and a half feet, he towered over most shifters.

"I missed you, my big, burly, hairy gurahl." Acwulf pulled him into a hug.

"I wasn't—"

Acwulf parked his bony butt on the table and popped a cherry in his mouth.

"Give me that." Stillpeckish, he snatched the box.

Acwulf guffawed but complied. "I hadn't heard from you in weeks." He sniffed. "Hans hadn't exaggerated. You're wasting away, and prickly. There is a bee in your bonnet. What is it?"

Mikhail contemplated hibernating to escape Acwulf's all-pervasive meddling. Except Misha didn't slumber for longer than a fortnight, that too, in winter.

"Why?" The bench, built out of a ten-foot-wide tree trunk, creaked as Mikhael installed himself on it. He finger-combed his beard; he kept forgetting to trim it. The length now trailed down to his navel.

"Because you deserve the best." Acwulf waved an unopened envelope lying on the sideboard. "You skipped my anointment and your scheduled audience with the Emperor. Your absence tarnished my moment of glory. I'm hurt, and Amoux won't stop reminding me that you are why our star's risen to such heights."

"I am not and why should I have been there? It was your day." In his opinion, the blue-bloods were a dying breed. But they clung to power in Europa, strangling any idea that jeopardized their way of life. The pomp and show of court sickened him.

"Dude! Ursa Lycos is you and me. The Emperor extended our contract for another decade. That's another impetus to celebrate. Then there's the mating ball, a fitting excuse to show off our newfound status. Orders have come; I am to attend and bend a knee, signaling I have returned to the fold." A gleeful Acwulf rubbed his palms together, which meant he was thinking of ways to stir up trouble.

As always, he seemed determined to drag Mikhael along.

"Congratulations?" Unsure of what was going on, Mikhael wondered if Acwulf had mentioned any of this. He often tuned Acwulf out, which was how he became an unwilling second in his shenanigans.

In the last four decades, Acwulf expressed no desire to mate after his betrothal rejected him, and he played the field. A notorious rake, he pursued sexual gratification, not commitment, indiscriminately. Aristocrats, elites, and commoners were all fair game.

"I need my brother by my side." Acwulf gave him the puppy eyes and pouted.

Mikhail hated social gatherings. "You have two, one older, the other, younger."

Acwulf barked, "They aren't you! You're irreplaceable."

"Yet you're determined to irk me..."

There was no denying their kinship, despite grating on the other's nerves. Thanks to Acwulf, he was a free agent if he overlooked his self-appointed keeper.

Undeterred, Acwulf said, "We are also—"

Mikhael clicked his tongue. "You demand too heavy a price for our collaboration."

"Mik, we're family. You wound me."

Mikhael scoffed. He had no clue what that entailed, but if Acwulf's familial dramas were any indication, not having anyone was a blessing in disguise.

Whalers drove his ancestors from the Kikhtak Isles when they began hunting the largest bears they'd ever seen. A few shifter sleuths fled to Kamchatka, a mountainous peninsula in eastern Russia. Others merged with the American grizzly sleuths on the mainland. But only five hundred non-shifter Kodiaks survived the human onslaught and roamed in the wild.

Then the Civil War claimed his parents. The Romanov Ursoids slaughtered the Kodiak immigrants who didn't choose a side in the conflict. He had no memory of them and grew up in a poor house funded by the Emperor for displaced younglings or orphans. He applied himself to his studies. Education helped him escape the mandatory induction to the Saxe-Coburg Administration. They would've placed him into the military based on his size.

His performance at school earned him a scholarship to Fernand University, where he met Acwulf.

The lesser royals and nouveau riche commoners treated 'charity cases' such as him, like servants. They didn't matter, even if they gained admission on their merit. Many of the students poked, prodded, challenged, and insulted him. He'd been so close to sicing Misha at their tormentors. It wouldn't take any effort to snap a spine or sever a head...

Worse, everyone refused to share quarters with him. He slept on the floor as he didn't fit on the bed and he snored. His presence filled up the cramped twin-share private chambers. For a few months, the bursar's office had him move due to the complaints until he found himself in Acwulf's room.

Unprompted, Acwulf removed all the furniture and hung up a hammock for himself, so Mikheal had more legroom. From passing nods and questions about his classes, this hellhound invited him for dinner. Those casual acts of consideration mattered to Mikhael and forged their friendship, even if Acwulf prattled incessantly.

But then, Acwulf was also an outsider too. The second-born male of a Lord, he had forsaken serving his elder brother, the heir. Disowned by the Ducal, he worked three jobs to pay the hefty fee to earn his degree in economics and business management.

Everyone expected them to fail, but they hadn't, but they wouldn't have succeeded to this extent if they hadn't banded together.

'Then he betrayed us,' Misha prompted.

Mikhael had two non-negotiables. He would work with Acwulf, not for him. And he would select the projects. After being told what to do and when, and how much to eat, he craved independence. The constant lectures of how they were at the mercy of the Emperor's benevolence throughout his childhood had left a mark. Unfortunately, he'd hitched his career to this canine who didn't understand the concept of personal space.

"You're still famished." Acwulf searched the bags for a glass jar and uncorked it.

Mikhael shuddered as the faint aroma teased him. The hair on his nape rose. He knotted his beard and slurped the amber manna from the so-called gods. Nothing compared to his addiction to honey. He emptied the bottle and scraped the sticky dregs.

With a toothy grin, Acwulf tapped the tip of his nose. "You missed a spot."

Mikhael checked but there was nothing. As usual, the hellhound was pulling his leg. He stormed off to wash his hands and dried them. "So you're engaged?" He couldn't imagine Acwulf settling for an arranged match.

"So my father believes. As if anyone can decide for me. I'm shopping for a date to bring to the ball and might put a ring on her finger for the heck of it."

The Acwulf games didn't interest him, but he empathized with the motivations behind Acwulf's insatiable greed. He was on a warpath against his father and an institution that defined who he could be and what he could do. They had that in common.

"Let it go. You've proved them all wrong," Mikhael suggested for the umpteenth occasion.

"Ha! Never." Acwulf hadn't been this excited about becoming a duke. For him, wealth, prestige, and titles were a means to an end—to spite his family. He was still fighting, though he'd won years ago.

"You aren't shackled by traditions or small minds. Haven't you forsaken the Ducal legacy, and built your own. Hold off on fake engagements until you're ready for all fidelity entails. You'll find someone who shares your rebellious spirit and satisfies your eclectic appetites."

"See, this is why I have you." Acwulf's canines extended, lending him a vindictive visage. "You are my secret weapon. Before you point out we're business partners, not pals; or, as a hermit, you tolerate me, consider this—I like you. You can't lie, so you speak your mind. So will I. It's unhealthy for you to wallow in the laboratory."

Mikhael refrained from rehashing the same old argument. He stood up and pushed the bench back. It tethered and tumbled onto the stone floor. He lifted the four-ton wooden plank on solid iron legs and set it upright. "I have to check on the hives."

"Not so soon. Sit. We have to talk shop." Acwulf's claw emerged; he used it to peel the skin off a pomegranate. Whistling, he collected the seeds in a bowl and slid it toward Mikhael.

He accepted the peace offering and swallowed the juicy red pips. He loved this fruit but could never get enough of it as ended up crushing the sweet flesh. So, he ate them, rind and all, despite the bitterness tainting the taste.

Acwulf nibbled on a grape he skewered on a fork. His table manners were impeccable under the worst of conditions. "It behooves me topesteryou. I'm also here for a progress report and moan that the expense of your little experiments is killing me."

The Emperor and Acwulf assumed Mikhael was a magician or capable of miracles.

Neither understood if he let the genie out of the lamp, it wouldn't back in. There was no undoing the damage it wrecked. He'd learned that lesson the hard way.

'Come clean. Tell him you're aware of his duplicity,' Misha urged. 'Tell him why he isn't your brother anymore, why you will never forgive him or yourself. It is high time you clear the air.'

But he couldn't, not yet. If Mikhael acted on that impulse, things would never be the same.

So what do you make of Mikheal? 

And who figured out how his and our Sena's worlds have already intersected? 

Or did I mess up that sub plot? Bet finally all the players are on the board. Multiple POVs are HARD! 

Also, If you're interested... check out Alpha X the darkest story I've written.