Bound To the Cruel Alpha

Chapter Nine

Draven

The air in the courtyard was thick with the scent of damp stone and burning torch resin. The Council stood in a rigid semicircle, their grey and crimson robes untouched by the morning wind, as if even the breeze dared not disturb them.

At their center stood Elder Varros Drayke, his silver hair coiled tight against his scalp, his eyes black as polished onyx. He had etched the pack laws into stone with his own claws. He had held Draven’s wrist steady during his first execution, back when his fingers were still too small to properly grip a knife.

And now, his gaze locked onto Seraya.

Draven dismounted, his boots hitting the cobblestones with deliberate force.

He scanned the faces of his Enforcers behind him. Corren stood rigid, while the others avoided his gaze. No obvious guilt, but that meant nothing. Secrets thrived in shadows.

And then there was her.

Seraya sat stiffly atop her horse, wrists bound, gaze locked on the Elders. She hadn’t spoken since dawn, but the bond between them hummed like a live wire, taut and insistent.

And now the Council knew.

Elder Varros stepped forward, his mouth a thin line. “Draven.” No title. No courtesy. That was a bad sign.

“Elder Varros. You’re early.”

“We received word.” His eyes flicked to Seraya. “Interesting company you keep.”

Draven didn’t look back at Seraya, but he felt her. He felt the heat of her glare, the tension in her bound wrists, the way her pulse jumped when Varros stepped forward again.

“You dare bring a rogue into our stronghold,” Varros said, his voice like a blade drawn slowly from its sheath.

A muscle in Draven's jaw twitched, but he kept his voice neutral. “Do you have spies following me around, Varros?”

A ripple passed through the Enforcers behind him. Even Corren stiffened.

“Why is she still breathing?”

“Why, Varros? Your spy didn't deliver complete information?”

A murmur rippled through the gathered Enforcers. Draven didn’t turn, but he felt Corren’s stare burning into his back. He was threading on ice and he knew.

Seraya made a sound, almost a laugh, bitter and quiet. Draven didn’t need the bond to feel her disdain.

Varros’ gaze sharpened. “The Council will convene at once. You will present her, and your justification for keeping her alive, before the full assembly.”

A demand, not a request.

Draven inclined his head, the motion stiff. “As you command.”

But as the Elders turned, their robes sweeping the dust, he caught the flicker of triumph in Varros’ eyes. This wasn’t just about Seraya.

This was a challenge. To his authority. To his loyalty.

And the rogue at the center of it all sat silent, her pulse a steady, mocking rhythm against his own.

He clenched his fists.

A dark chuckle rumbled through Draven's chest.

How quickly had they forgotten.

Forgotten the years he had spent carving order from chaos. Forgotten the battles where his fangs had torn out the throats of their enemies. Forgotten that every scrap of their influence existed only because he allowed it.

"Alpha," Corren began, ever the loyal hound straining at his leash.

Draven silenced him with a glance. Then turned.

The courtyard stilled as Draven crossed those final paces to Seraya's horse. Up close, the damage on her was worse. The crusted blood at her temple, the shallow cut along her collarbone where another overzealous enforcer had gotten too close with his blade. Her red rimmed silver eyes burned with defiance even as the bond between them thrummed like a plucked bowstring.

"Get down," he ordered.

Her chains clinked as she lifted her chin. "Make me."

A muscle twitched in Draven's jaw.

Then he moved.

One hand at her waist, the other gripping her bound wrists, he hauled her from the saddle. Seraya hissed as her bare feet met freezing stone, her body swaying, but his grip was iron. Unrelenting.

Corren surged forward. "Let me take her—"

"No."

The word cracked through the courtyard like a whip. Draven didn't bother looking at his second as he addressed the gathered Enforcers, his voice carrying to the farthest guard tower:

“We have returned unharmed. The hunt was swift. Tonight, you will join me in the banquet hall as tradition demands. You will drink and we will celebrate this victory as befits wolves of this pack." His lips curled. "You are dismissed."

Silence. Then murmurs. They had expected chains and screams. Expected to witness the rogue's execution.

Draven would give them none of it.

Corren's jaw worked. "The Council demands—"

"The Council," Draven interrupted, finally turning that glacial gaze on him, "will have what I choose to give them. Or do you take orders from them now?"

Something dangerous flickered in Corren's eyes, but he stepped back.

Good.

Draven's grip tightened on Seraya's arm as he dragged her forward.

She stumbled, her bare feet scraping against rough stone, but he didn't slow. He did not care. The chains between her wrists clinked with every step, a mocking counterpoint to the Council's silence.

"Are you enjoying this, Alpha?" Seraya spat the title like a curse.

He didn't answer.

The fortress corridors blurred around them, torches casting jagged shadows that seemed to recoil as they passed. Servants froze. Guards stiffened. None dared speak. None dared move.

The massive oak doors loomed ahead, carved with the visages of long-dead Alphas. The guards stationed there stiffened as Draven kicked the doors open.

The sound echoed like a bomb.

Inside, the murmurs died instantly.

The full Council stood arranged before the dais, their expressions ranging from outrage to calculating interest.

He dragged Seraya forward and threw her at the foot of the throne. She hit the ground with a choked gasp, her body curling instinctively, but he was already moving past her.

Up the steps.

To his seat.

The obsidian throne was cold beneath him, its armrests carved into the snarling maws of wolves long dead. He sat down, slow, deliberate, and let the silence stretch. Finally he spoke.

"You were saying?"