Bought by Lycan Kings

The Consort's Price

The word *mark* felt like a hot iron pressing against my bare skin.

My pulse thudded against Ragnar’s heavy thumb, fast and erratic.

It was a wild, panicked rhythm that he could easily feel through his hard, calloused palm.

I *avoided eye contact*, staring instead at his broad chest, where his runic tattoos seemed to shift under his tight black shirt.

*Great. A shared consort. They want to paint me like a prize trophy and parade me in front of the very monsters who threw me into the dirt.*

"I cannot do this," my *voice trembled slightly*.

I pulled at my arm, trying to break his grip, but his fingers remained locked around my wrist like a heavy steel shackle.

"You can, and you will," Ragnar *lowered his voice to a dark rasp*.

He slowly let go of my wrist, but the skin where his fingers had rested burned with a lingering, electric heat.

I scrambled backward on the silk sheets until my spine hit the hard wood of the headboard.

My thick auburn-red waves fell around my face in a tangled screen, and I tried to pull the blanket over my soft, voluptuous curves.

Thorion *squared his massive shoulders*, his smoldering hazel eyes tracking the movement of my hips.

He *flared his nostrils deeply*, drawing in the sweet vanilla and wild honey of my scent.

"Look at her, Ragnar," Thorion grunted, his deep voice vibrating through the floor.

"She is shaking. That coward Frostwood has her terrified of her own shadow."

"I am not terrified," I lied, though my hands *fidgeted nervously* with the hem of my damp shirt.

My tongue stuck to the roof of my mouth, and I could feel the cold sweat drying on the back of my neck.

"You are," Zephyr’s quiet, freezing voice cut through the air.

He *tilted his head slowly*, his slate-gray eyes scanning my face with a terrifying, clinical focus.

"Your heart is beating at a dangerous speed, Morana. Your scent is turning sour with panic."

He took a step closer to the bed, his silent, predatory movements making no sound on the black marble floor.

He *adjusted his leather gloves* with a slow, deliberate snap.

"You think we are putting you on display to mock you," Zephyr continued, his voice dropping an octave.

"You think this is a game to us."

*Isn't it? To them, I am just a financial asset, a blood-contract they bought to settle a debt.*

I closed my eyes, and a sudden, sharp memory flashed behind my eyelids.

I saw Eamon’s face in the dark of the old Silver Moon barn, months ago.

*"You are my true mate, Morana,"* Eamon had whispered, his hands sliding over my voluptuous hips, his breath warm against my neck.

*"I do not care what your father says about Isolde's magic. It is you I want. I will protect you."*

Then came the memory of the bright pack hall, only weeks later.

I stood in the shadows as Eamon held my sister Isolde's hand, his pale green eyes shifting restlessly.

*"She was just a cheap distraction, Lord Winterbourne,"* Eamon had sneered to my father, pointing a finger at me.

*"A useless, unawakened disappointment. I would never soil my bloodline with her."*

The raw, physical ache of that betrayal ripped through my chest all over again.

My fingers dug into my stomach, shielding the secret life growing inside me.

*I was a fool then. I will not be a fool now. These Alphas are just bigger predators with sharper teeth.*

"If I go to that gala," I whispered, my chest heaving, "everyone will know. Eamon will see me. My father will see me."

"Let them look," Thorion rumbled, *cracking his knuckles loudly*.

"Let them see what happens when they throw away a treasure. They will see you in our territory, under our protection."

"Protection?" I let out a dry, bitter laugh that felt like gravel in my throat.

"You mean ownership. You want to show the Board that you own the mole so they do not kill me before you get your silver-purifying formula back."

Ragnar’s jaw muscles bunched until the skin over his jagged battle scar went completely pale.

He *ground his teeth silently*, his golden eyes flashing with a sudden, violent intensity.

He reached out, his massive, scarred hand grabbing my ankle through the blanket and pulling me down the bed.

I gasped, my heart threshing wildly against my ribs as my body slid across the silk.

He did not hurt me, but his grip was absolute, pinning my soft frame against his massive, hard chest.

"Listen to me, little wolf," Ragnar growled, his face mere inches from mine.

"The formula is nothing compared to what you carry. If the Board thinks you leaked it, they will try to destroy you."

He *taps his heavy gold signet ring* against my ankle, the cold metal biting into my skin.

"The only way to stop them is to make you untouchable. A consort is protected by ancient Lycan law. They cannot touch you without declaring war on my entire bloodline."

"And what of Eamon?" I asked, my voice trembling.

"He knows the baby is his. He will tell the Board. He will tell everyone I am carrying a low-rank child."

Zephyr let out a cold, sharp breath.

"He will say nothing," Zephyr said, his eyes narrowing coldly.

"Because the moment he opens his mouth, I will peel the skin from his bones in front of his own Alpha."

The sheer, unhinged violence in his tone made my stomach twist.

These men were not saviors; they were executioners.

Suddenly, a sharp knock rattled the heavy mahogany door of the penthouse.

Thorion’s head snapped toward the sound, his smoldering hazel eyes instantly glowing yellow.

"Who is it?" Ragnar demanded, his voice a low, territorial warning.

The door opened slowly, revealing a tall, slender female wolf dressed in a crisp Syndicate uniform.

It was Cecelia, a high-ranking member of the pack’s security detail.

I knew her face; she had been one of the females who stared at me with pure disgust when I first arrived at the offices.

She carried a long, black garment bag in her hands.

Cecelia looked past the Alphas, her eyes locking onto me with a cold, mocking sneer.

She looked at my messy auburn-red hair, my red eyes, and the soft curves of my body under the blanket.

"The designer finished the gown for the... guest," Cecelia said, her voice dripping with a subtle, nasty sarcasm.

She stepped into the room, but instead of handing the bag to me, she let it slide from her fingers.

The expensive garment bag fell onto the cold marble floor with a heavy, dusty thud.

"My apologies," Cecelia whispered, her eyes gleaming with silent triumph.

"It slipped. I am not used to carrying things for unawakened street rats."

A cold, suffocating silence fell over the room.

My heart stopped, and my throat tightened as the familiar sting of humiliation flooded my chest.

*Of course. Even here, I am nothing but a joke to them.*

But before I could even draw a breath, the air in the room grew heavy and hot.

Thorion’s massive shoulders squared, and a low, savage growl ripped from his chest.

Zephyr slowly turned his head, his slate-gray eyes locking onto Cecelia like a hawk targeting prey.

Ragnar slowly stood up from the bed, his towering six-foot-six frame casting a massive, terrifying shadow over the entire room.

His amber-gold eyes glowed with a feral, unhinged fury that made the glass windows vibrate.