Bought by Lycan Kings

The Iron Sanctuary

The silence inside the armored transport was absolute. It felt like cold lead pressing down on my chest, heavy and suffocating. My tongue stuck to the roof of my mouth as I stared down at the dark, ribbed rubber floor mat, refusing to look up. I *avoided eye contact* entirely, my hands gripping the rough edge of the damp wool blanket until my knuckles turned as white as the snow outside. My heart was a trapped bird, threshing wildly against my ribs in a frantic, uneven rhythm that I was certain they could all hear.

"Whose is it?" Zephyr demanded, his voice dropping to a freezing, predatory chill. He slowly released his grip on my wrist, but his presence remained suffocatingly close. He *adjusted his leather gloves*, pulling the black leather tight over his fingers with a slow, deliberate snap. His slate-gray eyes narrowed coldly, tracking the rapid rise and fall of my chest.

I couldn't speak. If I opened my mouth, I was terrified I would either throw up or let out a pathetic sob. I *fidgeted nervously* with the hem of the blanket, trying to pull it over my soft, voluptuous curves. My hourglass figure, which my sister Isolde always mocked for being too heavy and soft, felt completely exposed under their intense, animalistic gazes. I felt like a lamb cornered by three massive, hungry wolves who had just realized I was carrying a prize they hadn't bargained for.

"Morana," Ragnar *lowered his voice to a dark rasp*, the sound vibrating through the metal floorboards of the transport. He *ground his teeth silently*, his jaw muscles bunching so hard the skin over his jagged battle scar went pale. He *tapped his heavy gold signet ring* against the steel armrest. *Click. Click. Click.* The rhythmic metallic sound was like a countdown to my execution. "Answer him. Now."

"It... it doesn't matter," my *voice trembled slightly*. I squeezed my eyes shut, wishing the floor would open up and swallow me. "It has nothing to do with your alchemical formula. It has nothing to do with your contract. It's my baby. Just mine."

"Nothing to do with us?" Thorion roared, *squaring his massive shoulders* as he leaned forward from the front bench. The cabin instantly filled with the heavy, suffocating scent of fresh cut cedarwood and smoky pine, rolling off his heated skin. He *flared his nostrils deeply*, drawing in the air around me. "You are our fated mate, Morana! Your scent belongs to us! But there is a rot on you. A foul, sour stench of rotten pine needles and bitter charcoal ash!"

*Eamon.*

The memory of my ex-lover hit me like a physical blow. I could still see his slick, arrogant sneer as he stood beside my twin sister Isolde, letting my father drag me away in the rain. *'You're a cheap distraction, Morana,'* his voice echoed in my head, cold and mocking. *'I would never soil my bloodline with a useless, unawakened disappointment.'*

*Oh, look. The three-headed monster found my little secret. I'm sure they'll offer me a highly professional severance package now. Perhaps a nice, comfortable cell with a view of the graveyard.* My chest ached with a physical, burning pressure, a mix of lingering heartbreak and absolute terror for the tiny life growing inside me.

"It's Eamon's, isn't it?" Zephyr asked, his voice flat, but his slate-gray eyes burned with a dark, dangerous fire. He *tilted his head slowly*, his gaze dropping to my lower abdomen where my hands were protectively clasped. "The cowardly Alpha of the Silver Moon. The one who signed your transfer papers without looking you in the eye."

I bit my lower lip so hard I tasted copper. I didn't answer, but my silence was confession enough. The physical symptoms of my guilt were screaming—the rapid thud of my pulse, the sweat slicking my palms, the way I shrank back into the leather seat, trying to make my soft curves disappear.

The transport turned sharply, tires screeching against wet, smooth concrete. We were descending a steep ramp, leaving the freezing winds of the Dead Zone behind. The vehicle bounced over a heavy steel security seam, and a fresh wave of morning sickness washed through my throat. I let out a soft, involuntary gasp, my hand pressing harder against my stomach.

Instantly, Thorion was on his knees in the narrow space between the seats. His massive, raw-muscled frame completely blocked out the rest of the cabin. He didn't touch me, but his heat was a solid wall, melting the remaining frost on my eyelashes. "She's sick. Ragnar, she's going to faint. We need to stop this damn interrogation."

"We are here," Ragnar commanded as the transport came to a heavy, pressurized halt.

The heavy iron security gate of the private underground garage groaned shut behind us with a loud, final thud, sealing us in the dark. The scent of corporate floor wax, wet stone, and premium gasoline filled the air as the cabin doors slid open. It was a cold, high-security vault, empty of any staff or guards—Ragnar had cleared the entire level.

Ragnar didn't give me a choice. He reached into the vehicle, his massive, scarred arms sliding effortlessly under my thighs and back. He hoisted my voluptuous body against his towering, six-foot-six frame. The contrast was staggering—my soft, yielding curves crushed against his hard, corded chest. The scent of ancient sandalwood and raw leather washed over me, so thick it made my dizzy head spin.

"Put me down," I whispered, my fingers bunching into the fabric of his expensive wool coat. "I can walk. Please."

"You can barely stand, Morana," Ragnar rumbled, his chest vibrating against my cheek as he strode toward the private executive elevator. "And you are carrying a child. You will not take another step on your own."

We entered the elevator, the smooth glass doors sliding shut with a soft, clinical chime. As the lift shot upward toward the penthouse, the quietness of the space only amplified the tension. Zephyr stood near the control panel, his arm with the alchemical tattoos crossed tightly over his chest. He *narrowed his eyes coldly* at the reflection of us in the glass.

"The Board has already flagged the laboratory breach," Zephyr said, his voice quiet but sharp. "Your sister Isolde has submitted a formal complaint. She claims Morana was seen copying the formula before she fled. If the Board finds out she is here, they will demand we hand her over to the Syndicate police for high-definition questioning."

"Let them try," Thorion growled, *cracking his knuckles loudly*. The sound echoed in the confined space like pistol shots. He *squared his massive shoulders*, his hazel eyes glowing with a feral, yellow light. "I'll tear the throat out of any officer who tries to lay a finger on her. She's freezing, she's pregnant, and she's ours. The contract is signed. She belongs to the Vane Syndicate now."

"She is a suspect in a multi-million dollar corporate theft, Thorion!" Zephyr shot back, his composure cracking slightly. "The laws of the pack lands do not apply to the Board of Directors. If we harbor a thief, we lose our corporate charter!"

*Our corporate charter. That's all I am to them. A liability. A piece of damaged property that might cost them their precious billionaire empire.* The realization was a cold stone in my stomach. They didn't care about me. They only cared about the leverage I represented, or the scandal I might cause.

The elevator chimed, the doors sliding open to reveal Ragnar's private penthouse. The floors were polished black marble, reflecting the grey, rain-slicked sky through the massive floor-to-ceiling windows. It was beautiful, sterile, and terrifyingly high. A luxury prison.

Ragnar carried me down a long hallway, his heavy footsteps echoing off the walls, until we reached a massive bedroom with a giant, dark-timbered bed. He placed me gently on the soft, silk-sheeted mattress, but his hands lingered on my waist. His thumbs brushed against the soft curve of my hip, his grip tightening for a fraction of a second as if he wanted to sink his fingers into my flesh.

I shivered, pulling the wool blanket tight around my shoulders as I crawled backward against the headboard, trying to put distance between myself and the three towering Alphas standing at the foot of the bed.

"Now," Ragnar said, his amber-gold eyes locking onto mine with an unhinged, possessive intensity. He *ground his teeth silently* and *tapped his gold signet ring* against his thigh. "We are behind closed doors. Tell us the truth, Morana. Why were you in that laboratory at two in the morning?"

My breath hitched. My tongue felt dry, sticking to the roof of my mouth. I *avoided eye contact*, looking down at the silk sheets beneath my hands. The moment of truth was here, and the landmine was active. If I told them about my morning sickness, they would know the baby was Eamon's, confirming my tie to their rivals. If I lied, Zephyr would know.

"I... I was sick," I whispered, my *voice trembling slightly*. "I went there to find alchemical silver-dust. The smell... it's the only thing that stops the nausea. I didn't touch the formula. I swear on my life, I didn't touch it."

Zephyr stepped closer, his slate-gray eyes scanning my face, my neck, the frantic pulse beating in my throat. He *adjusted his leather gloves* slowly. The air in the room grew thin as we waited for his verdict.

"She's telling the truth," Zephyr murmured, his voice softening into something dark and complicated. "Her heart rate is steady. She didn't steal it."

A heavy, collective exhale went through the room, but the relief was short-lived.

"Then someone else framed her," Thorion growled, stepping up to the edge of the bed. He reached out, his massive, warm hand hovering just inches from my cheek, desperately wanting to touch but resisting. "And we both know who did it. Isolde and that coward Eamon. They used her as a scapegoat to cover their own transaction with the rival firm."

"It doesn't change the Board's perspective," Zephyr pointed out coldly. "To the world, she is still the thief. And she is carrying the child of our enemy's top Alpha. The Board will demand we terminate the pregnancy to protect the Vane bloodline from contamination."

My heart stopped. The blood rushed out of my face, leaving me completely numb. My hands flew to my stomach, clutching my curves through the blanket. "No," I gasped, my chocolate brown eyes wild with panic. "No! You won't touch my baby! I'll run! I'll go back to the Dead Zone! I'd rather freeze to death than let you touch my child!"

I scrambled to the edge of the bed, ready to throw myself off, but Ragnar moved like lightning.

His massive hands clamped onto my waist, his towering, six-foot-six frame of solid muscle pinning me to the mattress. His chest pressed hard against my soft curves, his heat radiating through my clothes, making my skin burn. The raw, heavy scent of ancient sandalwood and dark musk completely filled my nose, drowning out my panic.

"No one is touching you, Morana," Ragnar *lowered his voice to a dark rasp*, his amber-gold eyes glowing with a terrifying, unhinged possessiveness that made my core tremble. His knuckles turned bone-white as he gripped the wooden frame of the bed beside my head, trapping me beneath him. "And no one is touching that child. Eamon Frostwood is a dead man walking for what he did to you. But make no mistake—you are ours now. You are never leaving this room."