Cerys looked like she might faint.
Minutes passed in thick silence. I didn't move. Just stood there, regal and patient, while my other hand, still bleeding slightly, rested on the table beside me.
Eventually, the girl returned, breathless, clutching the long black whip between her shaking hands. She extended it toward me like it was a snake.
I took it gently. Ran my fingers along the leather. It was beautifully worn. Sharp at the tip. Heavy at the handle. Perfect.
I turned to Cerys.
"Stretch out your hands," I said calmly.
She blinked. "Your Majesty… please."
I arched a brow. "You heard me."
She hesitated.
"Werewolves," I began, slowly circling her like a predator, "have remarkable healing abilities. Rapid tissue regeneration. Accelerated cell growth. A trait that is, frankly, jealousy-inducing."
Cerys trembled.
"But pain…" I said, stopping in front of her. "Pain, no matter how fast you heal, is still very real."
I raised the whip.
"And I think you deserve to feel exactly what I would have felt, had you succeeded in poisoning me."
Before anyone could protest, before the horror could fully register, I struck.
The crack echoed like thunder.
Cerys screamed.
A red welt bloomed across her pale hands where she'd thrown them up in defense. The sound was sickeningly satisfying.
I didn't stop.
Whip.
Whip.
Whip.
Three.
Four.
Five.
Her sobs filled the chamber. The guards stood frozen, wide-eyed and pale. No one moved. No one dared.
Six.
Seven.
Eight.
The old Joelle would've cried. Would've begged her not to make her do this. Would've run away after one lash.
I wasn't Joelle.
Nine.
As I raised the whip for the tenth time, a sudden sting shot up my arm, like a pulse echoing across Joelle's nerves. A ghost of the pain I was inflicting. Her body wasn't built for this rage. It was soft. Fragile. Worn down by months of neglect and emotional starvation.
But I'd felt it now.
Ten.
I lowered the whip. Calmly. Slowly. Cerys was a crumpled mess on the floor, her hands blistered and trembling, her once-perfect hair matted with tears.
I exhaled.
"Take her," I told the guards, tossing the whip aside like it bored me now. "Drag her to the kitchens. She will scrub the pots until her reflection gleams in them. No food. No water. No rest."
They moved this time.
No hesitation. No defense.
They were scared now.
And that's how it should be.
I turned to the others. Their faces were pale, shocked.
Good. Let them see.
"This is the new order of things," I said, voice low, but steady. "I don't care what you thought of me before, if you cross me… you will pay dearly."
I stepped forward, walking past the broken glass and the blood.
"You all serve me, get that through your thick skulls."
By the end of the day, the castle was buzzing with the sound of terror disguised as gossip.
Whispers clung to the stone walls like ivy. Everywhere I passed, conversations stopped mid-sentence. Maids dropped their gazes. Courtiers stepped aside like I was a loaded weapon.
Apparently, dragging Lady Cerys out screaming and whip-bruised had been… impactful.
Good. I needed them to think I was mad.
I wanted them to tremble.
It was the first time Joelle, this body, had ever tasted real power.
And I was starting to enjoy it.
Later that evening, I was seated in a warm marble bath scented with rose oil and something spicier, maybe cinnamon, maybe something extinct. The palace bathed queens like they were preparing a sacrifice.
And maybe they were.
Steam curled lazily into the air as two attendants scrubbed my arms with sea salt and oils. I barely paid attention, enjoying the softness of the water, the muted glow of the candlelight, the way their hands trembled just a little more than yesterday.
That's when it happened.
One of them, small, dark-haired, probably no older than sixteen maybe, fumbled the carved ivory water jug and let it splash across my lap with a startled gasp.
"Your Majesty, I'm so sorry, I didn't mean, please forgive me, please, !"
She was already on her knees before I could blink. Eyes wide, head bowed, hands trembling like she expected fire to fall from the ceiling.
I stared at her.
She looked ready to cry.
"Should I call for the guards?" I asked lazily, stretching my legs beneath the water. "Or should I punish you myself?"
She squeaked.
The other maid nearly dropped the towel she was holding.
I waited a beat.
Let the silence soak in.
Then I smiled.
"Relax," I murmured. "I'm not heartless. I only punish traitors, not clumsy hands."
She blinked up at me, stunned.
"But…" I leaned in slightly, my tone dropping into something silkier. "If you ever pretend to be loyal to me again while thinking I won't notice what you say when I'm not around…"
My smile widened.
"I'll make you regret you ever stepped foot in this palace."
She nodded furiously, scrambling back to her feet like a terrified rabbit.
God. I could get used to this.
The moment I was dressed and perfumed, I dismissed the maids and stepped out onto the terrace.
The sky stretched above me like a painting, moons above, silver mist clinging to distant mountaintops. Somewhere in the distance, wolves howled. The kingdom of Altharia was stupidly beautiful. Like someone had bottled every fantasy Pinterest board I'd ever seen and shaken it into existence.
And for a moment, I let myself enjoy it.
The cool breeze against my skin. The weight of silk robes clinging to my hips. The scent of moonflower and ancient trees.
This was the world the old Joelle had been too busy crying to appreciate.
Not me.
I wasn't here to weep.
And definitely not for him.
Because while everyone else in the palace had adjusted their attitudes, there was one person who hadn't.
The Alpha King.
Johan.
The man whose name made servants stiffen, whose footsteps silenced entire rooms. The husband I'd yet to see since I'd woken in this stolen body. Not even a knock. Not a glance. No summon. Nothing.
Which meant one thing:
He hadn't noticed anything had changed.
He didn't care.
Still believed Joelle was some weak little flower too afraid to bloom.
That… annoyed me.
No. It infuriated me.