A Gift for the Three Alpha's

Chapter Six - Hunger

Lyra woke to find herself alone in the small room. Sunlight was streaming through the barred window, and her stomach was twisting with hunger. She had not eaten since the night before, and the exhaustion from everything that had happened was making her head spin.

She waited for Elena to bring her food, but no one came. Minutes turned to hours. Her stomach cramped painfully, and she knew she could not wait any longer.

Carefully, she unlocked her door and ventured into the corridors. The palace was quieter than usual, most of the guards stationed outside or patrolling the grounds. She made her way down toward the kitchen, guided by the smell of cooking meat.

The kitchen was warm and filled with the scent of stew and bread. A large pot sat on the fire, steam rising from it in thick clouds. Lyra's mouth watered. She reached for a wooden spoon and began to scoop some of the stew into a bowl, her hands shaking slightly.

"Thief!"

The head chef appeared from the back room, his face flushed with anger. He was a massive man with burn scars covering his forearms.

"I was not stealing," Lyra said quickly. "I was hungry. No one brought me food –"

"I do not care what your excuse is," he snapped. "You are not permitted in my kitchen. Get out. Now."

"Please, just let me explain –"

"Out!" He grabbed her arm and dragged her toward the door, not listening to anything she said. She stumbled into the corridor with an empty stomach and a growing sense of despair.

The halls were long and empty. Her legs felt weak beneath her, and her vision started to blur at the edges. She tried to keep walking, tried to make it back to her room, but her body had given up.

She collapsed in a hallway she did not recognize, darkness pulling at the edges of her consciousness.

When she woke, she was lying on a bed that was not hers. The mattress was soft, the linens fine. For a moment, she thought she was dreaming. Then she heard it—water running from a bathroom nearby.

Lyra's eyes went wide. This was not the servants' quarters. This was a prince's room.

She needed to leave. Now.

But as she moved to stand, she saw it. A table with papers scattered across it. Battle plans. Maps marked with red lines and circled locations. Lists of names.

She could not leave without looking.

Lyra moved as quietly as she could manage, her eyes scanning the documents. The Ironfang pack's next targets were clearly marked. Three packs to the east, two to the north. Supply lines, troop movements, attack strategies. This was invaluable information.

Then she saw it.

A page with her family name circled in thick red ink. "Moonspire" was written at the top, and beneath it, someone had drawn a line through it.

Her breath caught in her throat.

She could see it so clearly now –the night her world burned. Her mother had been beautiful, graceful, the kind of woman who could command a room just by entering it. She had pressed the silver pendant into Lyra's hand in the darkness, flames licking at the walls around them.

"Run," her mother had whispered, tears streaming down her face. "You have to run, my love. You are the last. You have to survive."

Her father had been there too, sword drawn, fighting the Ironfang soldiers even as the palace crumbled around them. She could still hear his roar of fury as they cut him down, still see the light leaving his eyes.

They had slaughtered everyone. Every member of House Moonspire. Every servant, every guard, every child. They had burned the library with all its knowledge, destroyed the gardens her mother loved, salted the earth so nothing would grow there again.

And now they had marked her family name as cancelled. As if they had never existed at all.

Lyra's hands clenched into fists. She would avenge them. She would stop the Ironfang from consuming the other packs. She would take back what was stolen from her, no matter what it cost.

The sound of the bathroom door opening made her freeze.

She dove back onto the bed and squeezed her eyes shut, forcing her breathing to slow. Pretending to sleep. Pretending she had not just seen the plans to destroy her people.

Footsteps crossed the room. Water dripped from wet skin onto the floor.

Through her barely open eyes, Lyra caught sight of him. Darius,completely naked, his massive body still glistening with water from the bath. Every muscle was defined, carved from years of violence and training. Scars crisscrossed his chest and back, each one a story of a battle won.

Her body betrayed her immediately. Heat pooled between her thighs, and she felt her n*****s harden beneath the thin dress. Her Omega biology was responding to his Alpha scent, to his raw power and dominance, no matter how much her mind wanted to resist.

She could not control her reaction. Her scent filled the air –arousal and submission mixing together like a siren call.

Darius's head snapped toward her. His dark eyes narrowed as he caught her scent, as he realized she was awake.

Before she could move, he was on her. His body pinned her to the bed, his full weight pressing her into the soft mattress. She could feel every inch of him against her, his arousal pressing hard against her thigh.

"Were you trying to run away?" he growled, his hand grabbing her chin and forcing her to meet his gaze. "Did you think you could sneak through my chambers and escape?"

"No, I –"

"You agreed to this," he said, his fingers already pulling at her dress. "You agreed to serve us. To belong to us."

His hand slid between her legs, and despite her anger, despite the fact that she was furious with him and everything he represented, her body responded. She was wet, painfully aroused and betrayed by her own biology.

He was rougher than Kael had been, more impatient. His fingers moved with less finesse and more force. He was tearing her dress, his mouth moving to her breasts, his teeth grazing her n*****s.

"So responsive," he murmured against her skin. "Your body knows exactly what it wants."

His hips were already moving, pressing his c**k against her, seeking entrance. The pleasure was building in her core despite everything, and she hated herself for it.

Then her stomach convulsed.

She could not stop it. She turned her head and vomited off the side of the bed, her entire body heaving. Tears streamed down her face—tears of humiliation, of rage, of complete and utter despair.

Her body was weak. She had not eaten, had not slept properly, had been beaten and abused and touched against her will. She was breaking apart from the inside.

Darius pulled back immediately, his expression shifting from passion to confusion to something close to concern. He stared at her as she sobbed, her body shaking with the force of her tears.

"What is wrong with you?" he asked, his voice harsh.

Lyra could not answer. Could not speak. She could only cry as the reality of her situation crashed down on her like a wave.

Darius did not touch her again. Instead, he rose from the bed and pulled on his clothes with sharp, angry movements. He looked down at her, still crying and broken on his bed.

"After the physician examines you," he said coldly, "I will not stop next time.”