The scent hit him like a blade to the chest.
It cut through the thick musk of blood, sweat, and fear that filled the slave market's stone chamber. Sharp. Clean. Warm. The kind of scent that didn't belong here — not in this place soaked with cruelty and chains. It whispered of forests after rain, of distant wildness, of something forgotten.
Of home.
Alpha King Thorne Valen stood at the top of the cold marble steps, unmoving, his silver cloak trailing behind him like a second shadow. Dozens of bodies knelt below in the pit — slaves, barely clothed, heads bowed, skin bruised and marked with ash to indicate ownership. The stench of suffering was thick in the air.
But beneath it all was her.
He blinked once, slow. His men didn't notice the shift in his breathing, but his wolf stirred sharply, growling against his ribcage.
Mate.
No.
Impossible.
His fingers curled against the railing.
For years, Thorne had ruled without question. The Northern Territories obeyed him because they feared him. His power was absolute. His heart was silent. His throne — made of stone and iron — welcomed no softness.
The Moon Goddess had long cursed him, or so he believed. He'd watched others find mates. Felt nothing. Chosen no one.
Until now.
"Which one?" he asked, voice low, a dangerous rasp.
General Garrick, his Beta, stepped beside him. "They were taken from the borderlands. Some say remnants of the Elden packs. Mostly useless. The tall one with the broken jaw might survive a moon in the mines."
Thorne didn't respond. He didn't care about the rest.
His eyes swept the pit like a predator in the dark.
Then—there.
A figure, smaller than the rest, huddled against the far wall. Knees drawn to her chest. Hair matted. Back to the stones. She didn't look up when others flinched at his presence.
She was too still.
Too silent.
But her scent clawed into his lungs and refused to leave.
He took a step forward.
"Bring her up," he ordered.
Garrick hesitated. "That one? She hasn't spoken since she was dragged in. Might be broken."
"Now."
The Beta didn't argue again.
Two guards descended into the pit and yanked her up roughly by the arms. She didn't scream. Didn't fight. Just moved like her body was no longer her own.
When she reached the top of the steps, Thorne turned to face her fully.
For the first time in a hundred years, his heart stuttered.
She was thin — painfully so. Collarbone sharp beneath dirt-smeared skin. A faded bruise darkened her cheek. But her eyes…
Silver. Like moonlight trapped in glass.
She looked at him. Not with awe. Not with fear. Not even curiosity.
She looked at him like she was waiting to die.
Something in him cracked.
"What is your name?" he asked.
Silence.
Garrick stepped forward. "She hasn't said a word since the guards caught her. She's been beaten, half-starved, and they say she tried to escape twice."
Thorne turned to the Beta, voice cold as the mountain wind. "Then you've failed to teach your men how to treat what is mine."
Garrick paled.
The guards froze.
The girl looked up again, blinking slowly.
Thorne stepped forward and gently placed two fingers beneath her chin, lifting her face toward his. Her skin flinched beneath the contact — not fear, exactly. But caution. She was like an animal too used to pain.
"Do you know who I am?" he asked.
Still no answer.
But her lips parted slightly, and her pulse quickened beneath his fingers.
He could hear it.
He dropped his hand and turned away.
"She comes with me."
"My King—" Garrick tried, his voice strained. "The others—"
"Burn the rest," Thorne said flatly.
The pit behind him fell into chaos — screams, panic, the shuffle of bodies. But Thorne didn't turn back. He simply walked forward, his cloak swirling behind him.
And she followed.
Not because she was told.
But because something bound them now.
---
The journey back was wordless.
Thorne rode alone at the front. The girl sat behind him on the same black warhorse, her frame small against his. She didn't speak. She didn't cry. She didn't cling to him either.
But when the wind shifted, she leaned ever so slightly into his warmth.
It took everything in him not to react.
When they arrived at Blackmoor Keep, the guards parted like waves before him. Servants averted their eyes. The girl's chains still hung loose around her wrists, but Thorne had already decided they would come off the moment they were alone.
She stumbled slightly as her bare feet touched the cold marble inside the great hall. The palace was cold — even in summer. It had been built for wolves, not softness. Every stone here bore witness to war, not love.
He stopped at the base of the grand stairway and looked back at her.
She was still standing just beyond the threshold, not moving, not even looking at the tapestries or chandeliers or other things that usually stole attention.
Her eyes were fixed on him.
Not his crown.
Not the wolf behind his eyes.
Him.
"What are you waiting for?" he asked, voice gentler than before.
She stepped forward.
Only once.
He noticed then — the way she flinched when the nearby servants moved, the way her body angled slightly sideways, as if prepared for a blow that never came.
Who had done this to her?
He clenched his fists.
His palace had never known mercy. But for her... he would burn it down and build it again with his bare hands if she asked.
She didn't ask.
She didn't say anything at all.
---
Thorne stood at the tall window, staring down at the courtyard below where the fires still burned the remnants of the slave pit. A sentence he hadn't meant to say echoed in his mind.
"She is mine."
It hadn't been strategy. Or even anger.
It had been truth.
He didn't even know her name.
Behind him, she stood by the hearth, wrapped now in a thick robe one of the maids had left. Her hair had been washed, though it still tangled at the ends. Her skin, too pale in the firelight, looked as though it hadn't seen sunlight in years.
Still, she hadn't spoken.
Not since that one word in the chamber.
"Do you want to eat?" he asked.
Silence.
He tried again. "Or rest?"
Nothing.
He turned toward her.
She was watching him now. Still cautious, but different. More aware. Her eyes tracked every movement he made.
"You're not a slave anymore," he said.
That got a reaction.
Her brow furrowed, just slightly. Her lips parted.
But the words didn't come.
"I won't chain you," he added. "I won't force you to speak. But you're not going back to what you were."
Her voice, when it came, was rough. Dry. Like stones dragging across each other.
"Then what… am I?"
His heart punched against his ribs.
He didn't answer immediately.
Because he didn't know how to say it.
Because she deserved to hear it properly — not like a curse, not like a command.
So he said the only truth he had.
"You're mine," Thorne whispered, voice raw. "But I'll earn the right to call you that."
And for the first time… her eyes softened.
Not much.
But enough.
Enough to shatter the quiet monster inside him that had long forgotten how to hope.