Out in the Manor’s woodworking shed, Kaelen was desperately trying to channel his overwhelming frustration into manual labor.

He was attempting to construct a replacement drawer for the heavy mahogany desk he had violently splintered the day before. The King of the North raised the heavy iron hammer, his icy blue eyes fixed on the iron nail.

But as he brought the hammer down, his mind completely, involuntarily flashed back to the breathtaking, flawless curve of Roxy’s pale cleavage completely exposed beneath the emerald silk.

The heavy iron head missed the nail entirely, slamming with bone-crushing force directly onto Kaelen’s left thumb.

The King of the North simply dropped the hammer onto the workbench with a heavy clatter. He stared down at his rapidly bruising, bleeding flesh, his broad chest heaving with ragged, uneven breaths.

The physical agony of the crushed digit was absolutely nothing compared to the violent, clawing ache in his chest. He squeezed his eyes shut, leaning his forehead against the cold wood of the shed, entirely consumed by the phantom scent of her skin.

Inside the Manor’s war room, Zarek was faring no better.

The colossal Dragon King was sitting at the head of the long strategy table, a beautifully forged Vanguard broadsword resting in his hands, a whetstone gripped in his fingers. He had been staring at the exact same spot on the blade for forty-five minutes. His golden eyes were completely glazed over, entirely lost in the dark, spiraling depths of his own thoughts.

He couldn’t stop feeling the ghostly friction of her soft hip sliding against his thigh in the corridor. He couldn’t stop smelling the intoxicating, blooming fragrance of her vanilla.

A thick plume of dark, heated smoke continuously curled from his nostrils, his internal furnace burning so hot the metal of the broadsword was physically beginning to warp in his bare hands. He was entirely paralyzed by his own obsessive hunger.

Upstairs in the private Warlord quarters, Torian had completely surrendered to the physical agony of his biology.

The colossal White Tiger Alpha had violently locked the heavy oak doors to his bedchamber. He was sprawled flat on his back across the massive dire-wolf pelts, his dark tunic completely discarded. The heavy, musky scent of feral feline arousal entirely saturated the room.

Torian’s massive chest heaved with desperate, jagged pants, his head thrown back against the pillows. His large hand worked aggressively over his own thick, aching length, chasing a desperate, pathetic fraction of release. But it wasn’t enough. It would never be enough. He squeezed his bright blue eyes tightly shut, his mind playing the memory of her small, soft hand lingering on his bicep on a torturous, repeating loop.

"Roxy..." Torian groaned, the sound tearing from his throat as a raw, feral, and incredibly frustrated rumble. His massive back arched off the furs, his muscles pulling taut as a wave of solitary release crashed over him, leaving him entirely hollowed out, panting, and overwhelmingly miserable.

He needed his Matriarch.

Syris and Caspian, possessing slightly more refined Warlord self-control, had completely fled the adult wing of the Manor.

The King of the Swamps and the King of the Seas had barricaded themselves in the nursery. They were parenting aggressively and frantically in a desperate bid to keep their minds occupied.

Caspian was sitting on the woven rugs, his hands glowing with deep blue magic as he created complex, floating water-dragons for little Zale to chase. Syris was sitting beside him, his elegant fingers meticulously helping Iris and Tanith weave intricate flower crowns from winter-blooms.

They looked like perfect, devoted fathers. But beneath the surface, Caspian’s jaw was clenched so tightly his teeth ached, and Syris’s golden-green eyes were dilated with a dark, predatory shadow. They were using the children as a desperate shield against their own primal urges, terrified that if they stopped moving for a single second, they would sprint down the hall and beg for her forgiveness on their knees.

From the shadows of her doorway, Roxy surveyed the completely fractured state of her empire.

She could feel the heavy, oppressive weight of their unspent tension vibrating through the very floorboards of the Manor. They were drowning in their Warlord pride, fighting a losing battle against the absolute, biological supremacy of their mating bonds.

They were at their absolute breaking point.

Roxy’s brilliant green eyes flashed with a final, lethal determination. It was time to completely obliterate the last remaining fragment of their resistance.

She turned back into her room, shedding the heavy, restrictive fabrics of the day. She wrapped a sheer, delicate silk robe over her bare skin, grabbing a single, thick towel.

She didn’t try to mask her scent. She didn’t try to move quietly. She intentionally flared her transmigrated core, pushing the heavy, intoxicating, and fiercely sweet scent of a blooming, pregnant Matriarch out into the freezing winter air like a massive, undeniable Vanguard flare.

Roxy pushed the heavy glass doors of the Manor open and stepped out into the snow. She bypassed the enclosed thermal courtyard, heading deeper into the treeline, moving toward the secluded, crystal-clear outdoor thermal stream that flowed just behind the estate’s borders.

The absolute second the cold winter wind caught her scent and carried it back through the drafty stone corridors of the Iron-Wood Manor, the entire Warlord parliament violently snapped.

In the shed, Kaelen’s head jerked up, his icy blue eyes dilating. In the war room, the warped broadsword clattered to the floor as Zarek shot to his feet. In the private quarters, Torian rolled violently off the furs, his tiger instincts entirely overriding his exhaustion. In the nursery, Syris and Caspian froze, completely abandoning the water-dragons and the flower crowns.

They couldn’t fight it for another agonizing second. The pride was dead. The anger was gone. There was only the hunt.

They converged silently in the snowy courtyard, five towering, utterly enslaved apex predators. They did not speak a single word to each other. They simply turned their faces toward the treeline, their chests heaving, their eyes dark with an absolute, world-ending hunger.

They tracked her sweet scent through the deep snow, their massive boots making absolutely no sound as they moved with the terrifying, synchronized stealth of a hunting pack.

They reached the edge of the ancient pines.

The thermal stream was a breathtaking oasis in the freezing winter landscape, surrounded by snow-draped rocks and thick, twisting roots. The water was crystal clear, steaming heavily as the geothermal heat violently clashed with the freezing air.

Standing exactly at the water’s edge, bathed in the ethereal, pale moonlight, was Roxy.

The five Vanguard Warlords stood perfectly still, hidden entirely within the deep, dark shadows of the pines. Their breath violently caught in their throats.

Roxy stood with her back to them. Slowly, agonizingly, she reached up and untied the silken knot at her waist. She let the sheer robe slip from her pale, soft shoulders. The fabric pooled completely to the snowy ground, leaving her entirely, breathtakingly bare in the winter air.

The Kings stopped breathing. Their combat auras flared, a heavy, suffocating mix of draconic heat and feline ozone bleeding into the shadows.

They expected her to simply wade into the water. They expected a quick, freezing dash into the thermal stream to bathe.

But Roxy did not step into the water right away.

She knew exactly where they were. She could feel their massive, burning eyes tracking her every movement.

Roxy raised her arms, running her hands slowly, sensually up through her own dark curls. She tilted her head back, exposing the long, elegant column of her neck to the moonlight. She began to move. It wasn’t a formal dance, nor was it the chaotic, beautiful battle-step of the Trickster King.

It was a slow, mesmerizing, and agonizingly sensual sway of her hips.

She dragged her hands down her own body, her fingertips tracing the soft curve of her collarbone, trailing down over the heavy, aching swell of her breasts, and circling the beautiful, pronounced curve of her pregnant belly. She moved with an unhurried, agonizingly deliberate rhythm, her hips rolling in a slow, hypnotic circle that promised absolute, unparalleled terrestrial sin.

It was a display of pure, unadulterated sexual dominance. She was completely owning her body, completely owning the moonlight, and completely owning the five terrifying monsters hidden in the trees.

In the shadows, the absolute limit of Warlord self-control violently shattered.

Torian let out a raw, broken, and completely feral sound—a deep, jagged mix of a growl and a desperate whine. The colossal White Tiger Alpha’s massive hands curled into fists. He couldn’t take it anymore. He had to touch her. He had to claim her.

Torian forcefully shifted his weight, entirely preparing to break out of the treeline and charge toward the water’s edge to take his Matriarch.

But before the Tiger Alpha could take a single step, a massive, heavily scarred hand shot out in the dark, violently grabbing his forearm with the crushing force of an iron vise.

Torian jerked his head to the side, his bright blue eyes flashing with fury.

Zarek was standing directly beside him. The Dragon King’s chest was heaving with the exact same violent, desperate lust, his golden eyes completely consumed by an inferno of need. A thick plume of dark smoke curled from his lips, but he held the Tiger Alpha firmly in place.

Zarek looked at Torian, his expression a dark, terrifying mask of absolute Warlord discipline barely restraining a volatile beast.

"You are too weak,"