Chosen to Warm HIS Bed
1782 Words
You ever wake up to a medieval horror movie directed by Tim Burton and written by Satan himself?
Yeah. Me neither. Until now.
The auction hall was dead quiet. Like, “your ex finally blocked you on everything” kind of quiet.
Chains had stopped dragging. Screams? All gone. Buyers? Vanished. Just me, standing there in what looked like the world's saddest cathedral cosplay, still cuffed like some bad Netflix plot twist.
Time dragged its ugly knuckles across the floor.
And then—
“Do you intend to stand there until the stars rot from the sky?”
Oh, great. A voice. Dry as a bone, sharp enough to cut glass, and packed with the kind of condescension you only develop after centuries of being the biggest prick in the room.
I didn’t move. Just blinked once. Twice.
And because my mouth is legally divorced from my brain, it took charge with a deadpan classic:
“Would it be more dignified if I laid down instead? I hear the crows like fresh roadkill.”
Silence. But the kind that vibrates—like the universe is holding its breath to see if you die or deliver a punchline.
Then: click. click. click.
Boots. Slow. Sure. Expensive.
I turned, my spine straightening like instinct had taken over.
From the shadows, he strolled in like he owned the concept of walking.
Tall. Dark. Deliciously problematic.
Black everything—coat, gloves, boots, the works. Hair like ink and arrogance had a lovechild. Skin pale as secrets. And those lips? Red like spilled wine on white sheets. Too sharp. Too intentional.
But the eyes?
Ice. Trapped light. Like staring into a glacier that hated you on principle.
A shiver bolted down my spine, but I didn't let it show. You don't flinch at lions. You bare your damn teeth.
His lips twitched. A smile? A threat? Probably both.
“What curious tongue you bear, little stray. Do all your kind spit their venom at the hand that feeds them?”
“Oh, is that what this is? Feeding?” I tilted my head. “’Cause from where I’m standing, Your Highness, it looks a lot like a garage sale with bondage.”
His hum was low. Amused. Which annoyed the hell out of me.
He began circling like he was browsing me for defects. Hands behind his back. Regal. Rude.
“Did no one teach you when to sharpen your wit and when to sheath it?”
“Forgive me. My tongue has abandonment issues. It tends to make decisions without supervision.”
"You speak with the arrogance of a courtier, and the ignorance of a lowborn. A rare and tragic combination."
Lowborn.
Courtier.
What the actual medieval Game of Thrones mess?
But I didn’t let the confusion show. Mask on. Poker face. Detective mode: activated.
“Let’s play a game. Where am I? Still in New York? Or did I get dragged across the border into a Renaissance fair from hell?”
He just stared.
“No? Not New York? What about Paris? Berlin? Narnia? Antarctica?”
Still nothing.
"Look, just blink twice if I’m about to be sacrificed to a moon cult, okay?"
Finally, he spoke. “You stand within the Council Court of Valeriya. Stand longer, and even the crows might mistake you for a forgotten relic.”
Valeriya.
What in the Tolkien-infused fever dream is Valeriya?
Before I could piece anything together, he turned his chin and spoke to the dark:
"Caelen. Fetch this stray. I have no patience to ferry wild things."
The air behind me shifted—like a ripple in space.
And boom.
There he was.
Caelen.
Built like a nightmare, eyes like black mirrors, holding my chain like it was nothing but an accessory to his war crimes.
He nodded once and tugged.
“Walk. Quietly.”
The yank almost made me stumble. Almost. I clenched my fists, jaw ticking, swallowing the urge to elbow him in the spleen. Not yet. Not the time.
I followed. Bare legs freezing. Chain clinking with every step like some morbid soundtrack.
The hallway they dragged me through? Real cozy. Black stone, torchlight, medieval tapestry hellscape. Wolves. Crowns. Moons crying blood. Super subtle.
Doors creaked open.
And the world sucker-punched me right in the lungs.
Because it wasn’t New York.
It wasn’t Earth.
It was... something else entirely.
A massive staircase stretched down from the castle—fortress, really—into a wilderness out of nightmares. Trees taller than buildings. Mist curling around them like ghosts.
The stars overhead? Too big. Too bright. Too... wrong.
And down in the courtyard?
Carriages.
Like, actual horse-drawn, Cinderella-cosplay, zero-engine carriages.
I stared. Blinked. Stared again.
“What the hell is this place?”
Caelen? Silent.
I tugged the chain, the stubborn New Yorker in me rising like a beast from the deep.
“What year is it?”
“Year 711 of the Lunar Accord. Now stop speaking before I tear your tongue out of your head.”
I stopped dead.
Year what now?
My lips parted, but nothing came out. My brain scrambled for cell reception that didn’t exist, for street signs, for anything that would make this make sense.
But all I got was the cold, and the whisper of metal dragging behind me, and the horrible, spiraling realization—
This wasn't my damn time.
The cold had teeth, and it sank into my bones without mercy.
The chain yanked again, and I stumbled, catching myself before my face kissed the dirt.
I muttered under my breath, half-prayer, half-coping mechanism.
“Okay. Okay. Think. Logical deduction. Classic kidnapping. Cartel? Human trafficking ring? Maybe Russian? Or Dutch? They have good design sense, could explain the weird-ass cloaks. Or maybe I’m in a government blacksite, all drugged up and hallucinating in a padded room. Yeah, that tracks…”
Caelen grunted—either annoyed or constipated—but kept walking. No clarification. Rude.
"Wait, maybe it's a psychotic break. Those happen. Stress-induced time loop? Alternate dimension? I fall into a magical pothole, and suddenly it’s all horse-drawn Ubers and guys with swords the size of surfboards? Sure. Why the hell not!"
Then it came.
The voice.
Low. Smooth. Cold as ice crusting my boots.
“Move her into mine.”
I froze.
And would you believe it—so did Caelen. Mr. Tall, Grumpy, and Emotionally Constipated himself paused like someone had slapped him with a fish.
That voice wasn’t loud. Didn’t need to be. It had that thing—that bone-deep command that made your instincts curl up and say, “Yes, sir. Right away, sir. Would you like my soul gift-wrapped?”
Caelen’s grip tightened. The chain shifted direction—this time, toward a carriage that looked like it might grow legs and eat people for fun.
It was black. Heavy. Quiet. The silver crest on the door glinted like a warning sign written in blood and expensive cologne.
My boots scraped against the frostbitten ground as I was all but shoved into it.
Inside, the warmth was artificial and wrong, like something rich people invented to feel better about their moral bankruptcy. Velvet curtains. Leather seats. Silver filigree. Everything screamed money and secrets.
I was still calculating escape routes when the Prince slid in after me.
And oh boy.
He was all jawlines and shadows. Black coat. Tall enough to make ceilings nervous. He sat down like he owned the air between us. Legs stretched long, brushing too close. I didn’t flinch—I don’t flinch—but I pressed back into my seat like I was trying to merge with the damn wood.
He didn’t speak. Just stared.
Not the kind of stare that makes you blush.
The kind that makes you check your pulse to confirm you’re still alive.
And I stared right back. Detective instinct. You never look away first. Never show the teeth you're planning to use.
Except… this wasn’t a staring contest. This was evaluation.
His eyes flicked over me like he was cataloguing weaknesses, measuring threats.
My lips parted before my brain could shut them up.
“If you’re planning on killing me, you really missed a golden opportunity back there. Could’ve left me outside. Fed me to wolves. Saved yourself the awkward small talk.”
“If I meant you harm, stray… you would not be breathing now.”
My fists clenched. So tight I felt the bones grind.
“Right. Because chains, public humiliation, and being treated like a farm animal are such gentle gestures.”
His head tilted. The glove on his knee didn’t twitch, but his fingers tapped once—an idle gesture, thoughtful. Calculated. Deadly.
"You are mine, by right of claim. Best you grow accustomed to it."
Mine.
God, the way he said it.
Not like a lover. Not even like a villain with a twisted crush.
No. It was worse.
It was the voice of someone saying table or furniture.
Object. Thing. Possession.
“Claim? Is that what you guys call it now when you buy a woman like she’s the last pair of shoes at a sale rack?”
“You were not bought. You were selected.”
And that? That made me laugh. One of those low, dangerous laughs that never reaches your eyes.
“Oh, selected, was I? Wow. That makes it so much less horrifying. Like an audition I didn’t sign up for.”
He didn’t blink.
I kept going. Couldn’t stop.
“You dropped a hundred thousand gold coins on me. For what? Because I looked bored and enslave-able? You really need to reassess your budget.”
Still nothing.
“Terrible investment, just saying. I’m not sweet. I don’t sew. I can’t bake. And I absolutely, positively will burn your castle down if you so much as breathe near me while I’m sleeping.”
The chain jangled as my wrists twitched. Rage vibrated under my skin, clawing to get out, but I kept it leashed. Barely.
He turned his head then.
Slow. Purposeful.
And his voice?
“You were not chosen to clean my clothes, stray. You were chosen to warm my bed.”
My stomach turned inside out.
He said it with the finality of a court sentence.
No heat. No lust.
Just... intent.
Ownership.
The kind that didn’t involve roses and romantic walks. The kind that ended with broken things.
But I didn’t drop my eyes. Hell no. I leaned forward instead, slowly, voice low and sharp.
“Well, here’s the problem with that plan, Your Royal Psychopath. I don’t do collars. And I sure as hell don’t warm beds.”
Let him choke on that.
Because this stray?
I bite.
- Writer
