His Human Queen

A savage in a silken cage

Maeve:

When I woke, I was draped in silken finery. Sheets so soft, a bed so comfortable, I nearly forgot everything.

I nearly forgot I had been taken from my home because of the murder I unknowingly committed. I nearly forgot the hunger still gnawing at my ribs. I nearly forgot the cold ache that was no longer sinking its teeth into my fingers and toes. I nearly forgot the Morith.

But it was Caspian… it was he who kept me from forgetting.

I winced when I sat up.

“Go slow, Maeve,” Caspian said softly, his voice pulling my gaze to the corner where a chair sat. Where he sat working on his laptop, sorting papers on a bedside table that was all quickly forgotten the moment I sat up.

“Where am I?” I asked.

“You are in your suite, in the alpha wing of the pack house. You made it to Garmorr, little mortal.” He sat on the side of the bed; the armor he wore had been traded for a button-up and slacks. His hair, which had been blown wild in the mountains, was styled to perfection.

“Listen, I am going to have Constance and Edna bring you some breakfast. Why don’t you shower, and I can show you around. After your journey here, I am sure you have a lot of questions for me.” He wasn’t wrong there, so I just nodded.

He left, and the silence that descended was a strange, heavy thing after the constant noise of his presence. I forced myself to stand, my muscles protesting with a deep, bone-weary ache. The bathroom was a marvel of polished stone and gleaming fixtures, a world away from the frozen streams and mossy rocks I’d grown used to. The hot water was a shock, a blissful, scalding luxury that I let scour my skin until it was pink and raw. It felt like washing away the grime of the last few weeks, the fear, the blood. But it couldn't wash away the memory of the gnawing emptiness inside me.

I was just wrapping a towel around myself when a soft knock sounded at the door. "Come in," I called, my voice hoarse.

Two women entered, one older with a kind face and the other younger, her expression more neutral. They carried a tray laden with more food than I had seen in a month. There were steaming sausages, fluffy scrambled eggs, a stack of golden-brown toast, a small bowl of berries, and a glass of what looked like fresh orange juice. The smell hit me like a physical blow, a tidal wave of savory, rich aromas that made my stomach cramp with a ferocious need. The hunger, which had been a dull, constant companion, roared to life, a wild beast clawing at my insides.

They set the tray on a small table, and the older woman, Constance, smiled gently. "Eat up, dear. You need your strength."

They bowed their heads slightly and left, closing the door softly behind them. I didn't sit. I didn't even bother to dress. I walked to the table, my eyes locked on the plate, and grabbed a sausage with my bare hand. The skin seared my fingertips, but I didn't care. I shoved it into my mouth, tearing at the meat with my teeth, barely chewing before swallowing. It was heaven. It was ash and dirt and survival all in one bite.

My hands moved with a frantic, desperate speed, shoveling scrambled eggs into my mouth, the buttery richness coating my tongue. I grabbed a slice of toast, using it to scoop up more eggs, then ate the bread itself in two massive bites. Juice dribbled down my chin, but I didn't stop to wipe it away. I was a creature of pure instinct, a starving animal that had finally stumbled upon a carcass. There was no grace, no thought, only the primal, overwhelming drive to fill the hollow ache. I ate until my stomach, which had been a tight, painful knot, began to protest with a new kind of pressure. Only then did I slow, my movements becoming less frantic. I leaned back, gasping for breath, my hands and face sticky with grease and shame. I looked at the ravaged plate, at the remnants of my feast, and the full weight of my situation crashed down on me. I was a savage in a silk cage, and I had no idea what my captors planned to do with me next.

Caspian:

I stood just outside the door, my hand resting on the cool wood, listening. The sound of the shower had stopped, and I knew Constance and Edna would be back any moment. I had told them to bring enough for a small army, but even that, I suspected, wouldn't be enough. I gave them a few minutes after they delivered the tray, time for Maeve to settle, before I pushed the door open just a crack.

The scene that greeted me was not what I expected. I had anticipated a hesitant mortal, perhaps picking at her food, overwhelmed by the luxury. Instead, I saw a predator. She stood over the table, a towel wrapped loosely around her, her body still bearing the faint marks of her ordeal. Her movements were sharp, frantic, devoid of any civility. She grabbed a sausage with her bare hand, not even flinching at the heat, and tore into it as if her life depended on it.

My breath caught in my throat. I’ve seen starving wolves in the dead of winter, their ribs showing like the bars of a cage, their eyes wild with desperation. I have seen them fall upon a kill with a ferocity that is both beautiful and terrifying. Maeve was no different. She was a creature of pure, unadulterated need. She shoved eggs into her mouth, her cheeks bulging, her focus absolute. There was no thought of propriety, no awareness of the world beyond the plate in front of her. It was the most honest, raw thing I had ever witnessed.

And it broke something inside me.

A cold, sharp anger began to churn in my gut, an anger that had nothing to do with her and everything to do with what had been done to her. She was so small, her frame delicate even without the gauntness that clung to her. To see someone so fragile reduced to this… to this primal, animalistic state, it was a failure. A failure of the world, of fate, of whatever gods watched over mortals. I, an Alpha, a protector of my pack, was forced to stand by and watch this small woman devour her food like a feral thing because she had been left to fend for herself against monsters.

My wolf bristled beneath my skin, a low growl rumbling in my chest. It wasn't a growl of aggression toward her, but of a fierce, protective rage. The urge to go to her, to wrap her in a blanket and assure her she would never be hungry again, was so powerful it was almost painful. She was a mortal, a stranger, a complication I hadn't asked for. But in that moment, she was also a responsibility. A small, broken bird that had fallen into my care, and I would tear apart anything that tried to harm her again.

She finally slowed, her gasping breaths loud in the quiet room. She leaned back, her chest heaving, and looked down at her hands, at the mess she had made. A flicker of shame crossed her face, and that was almost worse than the hunger. She shouldn't feel shame for surviving.

I pushed the door open fully, my expression carefully neutral. "Feeling better?" I asked, my voice softer than I intended. She jumped, her wide, startled eyes locking onto mine, a wild animal caught in the light.

She flinched, a deer startled by a hunter's step, and her eyes, wide and dark with lingering panic, flew to mine. For a moment, she was cornered, trapped. The wildness in her gaze was a stark contrast to the sticky smear of egg on her cheek. I saw the shame there, the humiliation of being seen in such a state, and it made the protective rage in my gut coil tighter.

I didn't move any closer. I didn't want to spook her. Instead, I slowly reached into my pocket and pulled out a clean, folded handkerchief. I held it out, my hand open, a gesture of peace, not demand. "Here," I said, my voice still low and even. "Don't worry about the plate. Constance would be offended if you didn't make a mess. She thinks it's her duty to fatten you up."

My words seemed to break the spell. The wild animal in her eyes receded, replaced by the wary, intelligent mortal I'd dragged through the mountains. She hesitated, then took a tentative step forward, her fingers brushing mine as she snatched the cloth. The brief touch was electric, a jolt of something I couldn't name. She wiped her face and hands with quick, jerky movements, her gaze never leaving me.

"I'm sorry," she whispered, her voice raspy. She wouldn't meet my eyes anymore, instead staring at the floor. "I didn't mean to..."

"Mean to what?" I asked gently, taking another step into the room and closing the door behind me. "Mean to eat after starving for weeks? Mean to survive?" I let a little of my own hardness show, a sliver of the anger I felt at her situation. "Don't you dare apologize for that, Maeve. Ever."

She looked up then, a flicker of defiance in her expression. It was a good sign. "You don't know what I've been through."

"No," I conceded, leaning against the wall. "I don't. But I know what it looks like. And I know you're safe now. No one here will let you go hungry again." I gestured toward the wardrobe against the far wall. "Get dressed. There are clothes in there for you. They should fit. When you're ready, I'll be right outside. We have a lot to talk about."

I didn't wait for a reply. I turned and left, closing the door softly behind me, giving her the space to reclaim her dignity. Outside, I leaned my back against the cool wood, the image of her, starving and fierce, burned into my mind. The rage was still there, a cold fire in my blood, but now it was mixed with something else. Something that felt dangerously like a new, and very complicated, responsibility.