Rejected And Betrayed, Claimed By The Lycan King

Chapter 6: The Marking

Rose POV

We stood in a straight line, side by side in front of our bunks. The bunkhouse smelled of sweat, dust, and damp wood. I could feel the heat from the torches burning along the walls, but I was still cold. Cold with fear.

My heart beat so fast it echoed in my ears. My palms were wet, and I kept clenching and unclenching my fists to stop myself from shaking. I tried to blend in, to act calm like the other boys. But my fear was crawling under my skin.

The supervisor and a large, scary-looking man walked down the line, checking each of us. The man carried a branding iron—used to mark every miner. One by one, each boy took off his shirt, and the man pressed the hot iron on their backs. Some winced, but no one screamed. It was quick. Not deep. Just enough to show we belonged to the camp.

The man grunted after each mark and nodded to the supervisor, who made a note in his book.

Maxwell stood a few feet away, arms crossed, watching everything. And he was watching me. His eyes never left my face. Then he whispered sharply, “Take off your shirt. Quickly.”

I froze.

“Didn’t you hear me?” he said louder.

I pretended I didn’t. I kept my eyes forward and tried to act like I didn’t notice the heat rising in my cheeks.

He didn’t know the storm inside me. He had no idea I was a girl in disguise, hiding a baby in my belly. I couldn’t let them see me—not like this.

They were getting closer. The boy next to me was called forward. He took off his shirt. The man pressed the iron against his skin. The smell of burnt flesh filled the air, but the boy barely flinched. Then it was the next boy’s turn. Then the next.

They were almost at me.

My knees felt weak. My mouth went dry. I didn’t dare look up. My whole body was tense, screaming to run—but I couldn’t move.

Then they were in front of me.

The man looked me up and down. “Shirt off. Now.”

I said nothing. I didn’t even blink. I just stared at a spot on the wall, trying to hold myself together.

The man frowned. “Hey! I said take off your shirt!”

Still, I didn’t move. The air felt thick. Everyone around me was silent, watching.

The man stepped closer. “What’s wrong with you, boy? You deaf?”

The supervisor narrowed his eyes. “He’s acting strange.”

The man growled and raised his voice. “You little brat—take off your damn shirt before I rip it off myself!”

I didn’t answer. My breathing was shaky, and my heart was hammering so loud I thought everyone could hear it. My body was frozen in fear. If I took off my shirt, they’d see. They’d know.

The man snapped.

With a loud curse, he slapped me hard across the face.

The force of it sent me stumbling. My knees buckled, and I fell to the floor, landing hard, face down. Pain exploded in my cheek and rang in my ears.

Gasps filled the bunkhouse.

I didn’t cry. I didn’t scream. I just lay there, stunned, my face burning and my whole body trembling. My shirt had shifted during the fall, the back lifting just enough to show the skin of my lower back.

The man stepped forward, raising his hand again.

“I’ll teach you some manners—!”

“Enough,” the supervisor barked.

The man froze, his hand still in the air.

The supervisor stepped forward. His sharp eyes scanned me, narrowing at the torn part of my shirt. He reached out and tugged it slightly. Part of my back was exposed—just enough for the mark.

He didn’t say anything. He simply nodded and pressed the iron to my skin.

I bit my lip and held back a gasp. The pain was sharp and hot, but nothing compared to the fear I’d felt moments before.

“There,” the supervisor said. “That’s all we need. Move on.”

The man grunted but didn’t say more. They moved down the line, leaving me on the floor.

Maxwell watched them go, then knelt beside me.

“Hey,” he said quietly. “You okay?”

I didn’t answer.

“You should’ve just taken the shirt off. What were you thinking?”

I still didn’t look at him. I slowly pushed myself up and walked to my bunk without a word. My face throbbed, and my back stung, but the ache in my heart was worse.

That slap wasn’t just physical—it reminded me of every moment I’d been powerless, every time I was punished for protecting myself. It reminded me of Scofield, of Mrs. Carter, of being betrayed and thrown away.

Maxwell followed. “Hey. I’m just trying to—”

I climbed into my bunk and turned my back to him.

He sighed and stepped away, leaving me alone.

I curled up under the thin blanket and wrapped my arms around my stomach, protecting my baby. Silent tears rolled down my cheeks.

“I’m sorry, little one,” I whispered. “We just have to hold on. Just a little longer.”