Cursed by the wolf king

The first slap of cold water didn’t wake her. The second one did. Elara’s eyes snapped open to darkness—damp stone, rusted chains clinking in the corner, and the sharp sting of pain flaring across her shoulder blades. “Up, you lazy b***h,” Miranda’s voice hissed, venom wrapped in silk. “You think the King wants a w***e who can’t even scrub floors?” Elara bit back the retort climbing up her throat. Not today. Not when silence was the only armor she had left. She rose, her limbs aching, her body stiff from the cellar floor. Rags clung to her like second skin—filthy, threadbare, and soaked through. Her pale arms bore bruises in violet constellations. Her left eye still swelled from Cassian’s last visit. But her gaze was steady. One icy blue, the other molten gold. A flaw, they called it. A curse, whispered the servants. She carried the buckets up to the manor’s main level, ignoring the snapping of Miranda’s heels behind her. The scent of roasted meat hit her like a punch. Her stomach growled. She didn’t ask for food. She never did. She carried the buckets up to the manor’s main level, ignoring the snapping of Miranda’s heels behind her. The scent of roasted meat hit her like a punch. Her stomach growled. She didn’t ask for food. She never did. In the dining room, the Wynn family feasted like royalty. Polished mahogany table. Gilded plates. Silver cutlery clinking in rhythm. The chandelier above sparkled, like it hadn’t watched years of cruelty drip into the cracks of this home. “Careful, mutt,” Cassian sneered as she passed behind him. “Wouldn’t want you to bleed in the soup.” Elara said nothing. Not because she didn’t want to. Because the last time she had, he’d broken two of her ribs. She set the pitcher of wine beside Lyra, who crinkled her nose like Elara was rotting. Probably because her cheek still bore the faint purpling from a slap two days ago. Courtesy of Lyra herself. “Oh, gods,” Lyra drawled dramatically. “She smells like the kennels.” “I’d say don’t be cruel, darling,” Miranda cooed, “but what’s the point? It’s her last night here.” Elara froze. Last night? Miranda’s smile was thin and satisfied. Cassian was smirking too. “No one told her?” Lyra pouted. “Mother, how mean.” Miranda looked at Elara like she was a stain on the carpet. “You're going to the Breeder Ceremony, darling. Tomorrow morning.” A beat. Then two. “I’m not of age,” Elara said quietly. Miranda clicked her tongue. “You’re nineteen. That’s plenty old enough to warm a bed and make a few pups.” Elara blinked. Her breath caught. “You were going to send Lyra,” she said, more to herself than anyone else. “Were,” Miranda agreed, swirling her wine. “But then we realized—you’re expendable. She’s not. And since they’re picking from the noble houses by name, we’ll just… switch yours.” “No one’s seen you in years anyway,” Cassian added. “They’ll think you’re her. Until they don’t. And by then, the King’ll have ripped your throat out.” Lyra giggled behind her hand. Elara’s blood turned to ice. The Lycan King. The one cursed by dark magic. The one who kills every woman who touches him. This wasn’t a punishment. It was an execution. Later, after the wine had flowed and the laughter had died, Elara stood in the back courtyard, arms raw from scrubbing dishes. The night air was biting. Her breath puffed like fog. Above her, the stars blinked indifferently. She stared at the cracked stone fountain—dry for years, ivy creeping up its sides like claws. Her reflection in the stagnant pool was gaunt, hollow-eyed, smeared with soot and fury. They were sending her to die. And not even with her own name. Not that it mattered. No one had ever used her name with kindness. She reached into the pocket of her apron and pulled out the only thing that was hers—her mother’s locket. Tarnished, dented, but still whole. She popped it open, revealing the tiny portrait inside. A woman with silver hair and eyes that matched her own. You didn’t survive, she thought, tracing the image. But I will. The door slammed open behind her. Cassian. Of course. “Well, well,” he drawled. “Thought I’d say goodbye before you embarrass the family tomorrow. You should be grateful, you know. You’re finally worth something.” Elara didn’t turn. He stepped closer, too close. She smelled the wine on his breath. “Don’t suppose I should get a sample of what the King’s getting,” he said, reaching for her wrist. This time, she didn’t freeze. She moved. Fast. The bucket in her hand swung hard—cracking across his jaw. Cassian howled, stumbling back with a snarl. “You b***h!” Elara didn’t wait for more. She ran. Not far. There was nowhere to go. But she ran anyway—into the stables, into the cold, into anything that wasn’t him. She collapsed beside the hay bales, panting, shaking. And laughing. Just once. Just for a second. Because for the first time in a long time, she’d fought back. Even if she died tomorrow, she’d remember this moment. The stars above winked. And somewhere in the woods, a howl echoed in the dark. ~Early the next morning~ They didn’t even dress her properly. A torn gown. No shoes. A cloak that smelled like mold. Silver cuffs around her wrists, just tight enough to bite. She stood beside the family carriage, mud seeping between her toes. Miranda gave her a once-over and sighed. “You’ll be dead before nightfall,” she said, matter-of-fact. “Try not to scream. It’s undignified.” Elara met her eyes. “I hope he rips your daughter’s face off next.” Then she climbed into the carriage. No one followed. The door slammed shut. The horses moved. And just like that, Elara Wynn—the girl who wasn’t meant to survive—was gone. But the girl they were sending to the cursed Lycan King? She wasn’t coming back empty-handed.