Forbidden Temptation

Chapter Seven

Seraphine's POV

At the bottom of the stairs, I was no longer controlling my steps. They held me on both sides; the iron on my ankles scraped my skin, pinching me at every step. The stones were wet, the air cold and smelled of lime. Someone said, “two more,” but the numbers broke apart in my head. Then my body gave out. I fell. The iron on my wrist clanged, then darkness.

I floated in a half-sleep. Sounds came and went. Key in a lock. Slow steps. An oil lamp hissing. Someone coughs. My wolf inside my chest was just a warm, heavy mass—it stayed still, but it was watching. The stone seemed to hum in the walls.

“I told you she’s not one of ours,” a young, sharp voice said. “The membrane let her in,” a second, drier one replied. “It's still a problem,” the young one shot back. “The northern border has been moving for weeks. She comes from there too.” “Enough,” a third, deep voice cut in. He didn't shout, but silence followed the word.

My eyelids were heavy. I opened them slightly. A stone wall, bars. Thin streaks of water on the floor, a bucket in the corner. Two figures in the doorway: one had a scar running from his temple, and patched leather on his shoulder—a man who had seen a lot. Next to him, the man with the cap, dark-eyed, and quieter. Farther back, slightly turned away, a taller figure in a heavy cloak. I didn't know their names. Only their faces. Their smells mixed: iron, oil, pine, discipline.

A canteen was pushed through the small opening. Water. My hand trembled as I slid toward it. They didn't reach in. The taller man caught the canteen with a quick move before it tipped, then let go. I drank a few sips. The water was cold, and it scratched my throat.

“She’s alive,” the scarred man said. “But that’s not a bandage, just a rag.” He looked at my side through the bars. “It’s bleeding.” “She’ll get a dressing,” the man with the cap replied. “The iron stays.” He nudged the chain on the floor so it wouldn't cut as much. This small kindness mattered.

“She could be a spy,” the young one muttered, stepping closer. “The membrane allows it, the Council waits, and then we clean up.” “You don’t decide,” the deep voice told him. “It will be decided.”

My wolf moved its ear inside me at that voice. It didn't flinch. It recognized a kind of strength that doesn't mess around.

Steps in the hallway. Heavier boots, more iron. Another smell mixed into the air: expensive oil, better leather, something metallic that wasn't a weapon. The two soldiers stood straighter. The lamp light flashed a new cloak: dark fabric, silver stitching, a brooch that caught the light strangely.

He stopped at the bars. He didn't need an introduction. The way everyone else breathed around him told me who he was. The King.

He looked at me. Only long enough for his eyes to sweep over my wrists, my ankles, the cloth wrapped around my stomach. He frowned, barely visible.

“What is this?” he asked. “This is what they brought me across the border?” “The membrane let her in, my lord,” the man with the cap said. He just stated the fact. “The membrane ‘allows’ many things,” he snapped back. “The membrane doesn't decide. I decide.” He gestured toward me, like someone looking at flawed goods. “Look at me.”

I lifted my head. It was hard. My throat was rough, my ribs protested. I looked into his eyes. Cold, smooth gaze. He wasn't asking. He was judging.

“Where did you come from?” he demanded. “North,” I said. My voice was raspy, but clear.

The King looked at the man with the cap.

“Wolf?” “Yes,” the man with the cap nodded. “Not the scent of our pack.” “Then she means nothing until I say otherwise,” he replied. “Tie her up properly. Double if needed. I don't want her breaking the bars tonight.” “She’s already in iron, my lord,” the scarred man pointed to my ankle. The King's glance moved over it, assessing, but not lingering. “Then again. And wash her. Her smell bothers my nose.”

The young man almost spoke, but fell silent. The King’s gaze returned to me. “If she lies, I will take her beyond the walls,” he said simply. “I will finish it there.” He didn't threaten. He declared it.

My wolf snarled inside me, but stayed put. The cold iron was helpful now: it kept my movements controlled. “Questions,” the King said to the man with the cap and the scarred man. “But a healer first. She shouldn't die on the floor.” He turned to the young one. “And you be quiet. This isn't a market.”

He left. His guards moved with him. Their scent—oil, iron, cold—stayed in the air for a while, then went quiet.

The man with the cap waited until the hallway was silent. Then he looked at me. There was no pity or hate. Just a job. “More water,” he told the scarred man. “And call down a healer. One who can bandage.”

The young man came too close to the bars. He stared. Nervous, quick energy. I lay there, looking back. “Spy,” he muttered. “It always turns out that way.” “Maybe,” the man with the cap replied calmly. “Maybe not. You don’t decide.”

The small door in the bars opened. The scarred man slid in clean cloth and another canteen. He didn't touch me. I pulled them over. At my ankle, he propped up the chain so it wouldn't cut as much. These small gestures brought back the feeling that there was still some order in the world.

The healer, when she arrived, didn't talk much. She smelled of lime and alcohol. She didn't ask impossible questions. She felt my body, pressed, and I growled when she hit a bad spot. She put a new, tight bandage on my stomach. I knew why: if I fell apart, no one would get answers tomorrow.

“Rest,” she said on her way out. “Water. Food later.”

The man with the cap nodded. The young one huffed but was quiet. Steps, clanking, the lamp light moved away. The cell was quiet again. The bandage held tight, the water settled my stomach, the iron on my wrists was cool. My wolf settled down inside, pressing its nose against my ribs. It wasn't comforting. It was guarding.

I don't know how much time passed. The stone was cold everywhere. The straw crunched if I moved. A shadow stopped at the bars. Not the young one, not the scarred one. The kind who can stand completely still. He didn't speak. He was just there. His presence made the sounds sharper: water drops, the metal sound of the chain, my own breathing. His gaze was heavy, but not mean. Just measuring.

“Sleep,” he finally said. Simply. Not a threat, not a plea.

I closed my eyes. Sleep didn't come right away, but my body no longer screamed with every move. The bandage squeezed evenly, the water calmed me, the iron secured me. The King's scent was still in the air, but it wasn't choking me. The muffled voices of two soldiers arguing filtered in from the end of the hallway. I didn't care.

My wolf lay down beside me inside. It only said this: “Tomorrow.” I nodded back inside. The stone was cold. The darkness didn't drag me down now; it just covered me. It was enough that I was alive today. And it was enough that I knew: I would remember them by face, not by name. Names could wait until the time for decisions. Now, there were only faces, voices, iron, and stone. And the fact that I hadn't broken yet.