'End her and burn the body.'
Arianna gasped, snapping awake from her nightmares. Her chest rose and fell in rapid rhythm as she squeezed her eyes shut, desperately trying to calm her racing heart.
It was haunting her again. The cruelty of her mate rejection tearing her from within.
After drawing several deep breath, Arianna calmed, slowly took in her surrounding. She was not longer in the king's chamber but surrounded by cold walls and firm iron bars.
With effort, she pushed herself up to a sitting position. A clanking sound echoed, and her gaze fell on the chains that bound her arms and legs, biting into her skin with their cruel tightness.
Her appearance was disheveled. Her hair resembling a bird's nest, and her skin was marred with red marks from the King's harsh, possessive grip. The soreness on her most intimate part forced her to keep her legs apart, an instinctive reaction to the pain.
"She's awake," a whisper broke the silence, drawing her attention to the cell across from hers.
A blonde woman, equally disheveled but without the red marks, stared at Arianna in awe. Dirt smudged her skin, and her lips parted as if she struggled to find words.
"How did you survive?" another hushed voice came from Arianna's right. A young woman with short hair and parched lips, her brown eyes wide with curiosity.
"W…" Arianna attempted to speak, but her voice faltered, hoarse from crying. How long had she endured the King's torment?
Her stomach churned with hunger. No wonder the old man had mentioned she needed food for her tasks. But what did these women mean by surviving? Was she supposed to be dead?
"Hi, I'm Nadia, and this is my sister Dalia," the red-haired woman introduced herself. "We were sold into slavery after our parents were executed as traitors. Then we were brought here to satisfy the King, just like you."
Arianna's brow furrowed in confusion, but she remained silent, trying to process their words.
"So how did you survive the King's rut? You look… weak, but fine. No blood, and your head is still intact," Nadia continued, her eyes burning with curiosity, mirroring Dalia's gaze.
"What do you mean?" Arianna rasped, struggling to understand.
"Didn't you hear the tales of the King's rut? Every slave he mounts during his rut is found dead the next morning—bodies torn apart, their lives snuffed out by the king… so I've heard," Dalia explained. Arianna's heart raced at the thought.
"But it seems the King didn't hurt you. You look… almost untouched. How did you manage it? Are you a witch?" Nadia asked, her curiosity piqued.
"No. I'm not a witch," Arianna replied too quickly. Witches were considered enemies of werewolves, due their practice of dark forbidden magics.
Nadia and Dalia exchanged a wary look.
"The king doesn't spare anyone," Dalia whispered. "Not during his rut. If you survived it, that means there's something different about you."
"Then who are you?" Nadia pressed.
Arianna swallowed hard. She was the daughter of Alpha Thane, betrayed by her own mate and now an exiled wolf, reduced to slavery. What a lovely title that was.
The girls exchanged glances, sensing the weight of Arianna's silence.
Arianna had no idea why she survived, or perhaps the Moon Goddess wasn't done making her suffer. What else awaited her? There was so much to worry about, especially her little sister, who was still in Kael's hands...
Before Arianna could respond, a loud creak echoed through the dungeon as the gate at the end of the corridor opened. Three heavyset guards with weathered faces stepped in, their heavy boots creating soft thuds as they approached her cell.
Nadia and Dalia shrank into the darkness of their cells in fear. Arianna wondered why, but she remained still as the lead guard, who bore a heavy scar running across his face, stopped in front of her.
"Take her," he ordered, and the other two guards marched forward to grab her harshly.
"Where are you taking me?" Arianna demanded weakly, but their grips on her only grew tighter as the led her out.
They remained quiet and Arianna braced herself. Whatever awaits her beyond this gates, she knew I wasn't freedom.
•••
King Duncan's piercing golden-amber eyes fluttered open, meeting the familiar surroundings of his chamber. His eyelids felt heavy, exhausted from the restless night.
The weight of his reality dawned upon him as the scent of blood and sweat hit his nose. Again, he had lost himself to his primal rut, ending another life.
He shut his eyes—how many had he killed this time? Two? Three?
He had thought choosing a woman as his betrothed would lessen his insanity, but it was getting worse. Perhaps because Lady Valkyrie had yet to ascend as his queen.
He sat up, sadness flashing across his handsome features. His jaw clenched at the sight of blood on his sheets. The floor was clean, the maid must have wiped it down as usual, clearing the body of the poor slave he must had ended.
Duncan summoned his beta, Lucas, through mind-linking, a Lycan like him, announcing that he was awake.
Lucas came in almost immediately, bending a knee before him with his gaze lowered. "Your Grace."
King Duncan rose from the bed, naked. His masculine features were strikingly prominent in the dim light of the early morning. His tense muscles rippled beneath his skin as he moved, his body glistening with a thin layer of sweat.
King Duncan's voice was low, raw, and rough. "How many days?"
"A day day, your Grace."
A day? That was a surprise. The last rut took three days. Could it be finally working? No, he shouldn't get his hopes up. Fewer days didn't mean he hadn't taken a life.
Lucas's knee was still bent, waiting for his next command.
"Arise, Lucas," King Duncan commanded.
Lucas obeyed, rising to his feet but keeping his gaze lowered. He knew better than to meet Duncan's eyes when he was fresh out of his rut. The beast within the Lycan King was still lingering just beneath the surface.
"The reports on the patrol?" King Duncan asked in a rough voice.
"Just one. The messenger from the northern pack turned out to be right. I went there to investigate and the rogue attack was indeed true.."
King Duncan sighed, suppressing the anger that slowly rose within him. "Rogues again. Every pack comes clawing here for help the moment their defenses fail."
"I'm afraid this is different. The rogues were organized, they seem to have a leader."
King Duncan's eyes flashed with interest. Rogues were not known for being organized. "A leader?"
"Yes, a powerful one."
A vein pulsed in King Duncan's jaw. The rut had taken a toll on him.
"Send for Lady Valkyrie. Tell her to come prepared," King Duncan muttered, his beast slowly rising to the surface. He needed to unleash the remnants of his rut before it turned into bloodlust.
As Lucas left, King Duncan stepped into his bathtub, which was large enough to fit seven grown men.
The bath was already prepared by the maids, the warm water enveloping him as he slid his massive frame in.
A scent lingered in his nostrils—different and intoxicating. He had noticed it ever since he woke up: a blend of wildflowers, a faint trace of rain-soaked earth, and something sharper.
The way it wrapped around him disturbed his mind. That must be the scent of the slave whose life he had taken. The thought made him sigh.
How many more lives must he end before this is over?
The door creaked open, and the familiar scent of jasmine filled the room, barely soothening him.
As Lady Valkyrie stepped in, she let her robe slip from her shoulders, revealing her nakedness and flawless skin.
Even though he hadn't touched her, she felt aroused by the intensity of King Duncan's golden-amber eyes piercing through her.
Approaching him, she caressed his toned chest.
"How are you feeling, Your Grace?" she asked, her voice soft and seductive. Before her hand could reached his face, he held it.
"Turn around," he commanded, his voice rough and urgent. Valkyrie obglied, excitement coursing through her as she anticipated how the king would take her.
With thick fingers tangling in her hair, he pressed her against the edge of the tub.
Comfortable or not, he didn't care—he was determined to satisfy the beast that churned beneath the surface.
A smile spread across her face as his hard ērected ôrgan pressed against her slick, warm folds. Ready to welcome him. She was meant for him alone.
Not some filthy slave who dared to survive. The king would never find out.
Valkyrie had meticulously staged the scene to make it look like the king had ended another life. She would ensure it stayed that way. The slave who had survived would be unrecognizable soon. Once she uncovered the truth about how the slave survived, she would end her.
With a powerful thrust, the king entered her—hard, rough, and full—shattering her thoughts.
Valkyrie welcomed him, letting out a loud cry that echoed off the walls as he fûcked her so hard. His pace punishing, his grip on her hair, fierce and the pain did nothing but excited her even more.
A wave of possessiveness surged through her.
Duncan was hers.
Hers alone.