The Alpha king's worthless mate

Chapter 4: The Punishment

“Bring the whip.”

The words sliced through the air like a sword, silencing the feast in an instant.

Laughter died.

Goblets froze midair.

Even the torches seemed to dim.

Thalia didn’t breathe.

Dominic’s voice hadn’t been loud. It didn’t need to be. The weight of it alone was enough to chill every bone in the room.

A guard stepped forward immediately, bowing, and left through the side doors. The court remained still, their gazes turning to the girl at the King’s feet.

She had moved.

That was her mistake.

Only slightly—barely more than a flinch when a goblet had shattered near her knees. Reflex. Instinct.

But not allowed.

Not under him.

She kept her head bowed now, back straight, lips bloodied but pressed shut.

She didn’t plead.

Didn’t cry.

Dominic stood slowly.

Deliberately.

His towering form cast a long shadow over her trembling body. He didn’t look at her. He addressed the court.

“She has forgotten her place,” he said coldly. “And I will remind her.”

A ripple of cruel anticipation spread through the room.

“She is not a guest,” he continued. “Not a noble. Not even a wolf worth name or title.”

He finally turned to her, eyes like frozen ash.

“She is a lesson.”

The whip arrived in silence.

Braided leather, black as night, lined with silver tips—not designed to maim.

Designed to hurt.

To humiliate.

He took it without a word.

Then pointed to the marble square at the center of the hall.

“Unchain her,” he ordered. “And strip her back.”

The guards obeyed. Quick, practiced, indifferent.

Thalia said nothing as the shackles on her wrists were undone, as her rough shift was torn at the back, baring her spine to the court’s eyes.

She didn’t resist when they dragged her forward and forced her to her knees again—this time in the center of the feast, beneath the chandeliers and the eyes of dozens.

Her knees burned against the cold floor. Her hair hung in tangled strands across her face.

Dominic circled her slowly.

The whip dragged behind him like a promise.

“She disobeyed,” he said, voice calm. “She forgot that she does not think. She does not feel. She does not flinch. She exists to kneel and to obey.”

He stopped behind her.

Silence stretched.

Then—

Crack.

The first strike landed across her back like lightning. Her body jerked, but she didn’t scream.

She bit her lip until she tasted blood.

The room remained quiet except for the sound of the whip, again—

Crack.

And again.

Each strike seared into her skin, shallow but brutal. Red lines bloomed down her spine, precise, controlled.

Not rage.

Discipline.

Dominic delivered pain with the elegance of a king and the cruelty of a god.

“Do you understand now?” he said above her.

She didn’t answer fast enough.

Crack.

A gasp escaped her throat. Her shoulders trembled.

But still, no scream.

The court watched in fascination.

Some turned away.

Most did not.

“You are not a mate,” Dominic said. “You are a burden. A blemish. The Moon’s joke.”

He stepped around her, grabbing her chin and lifting her face for all to see.

Blood streaked her cheeks. Her eyes were glassy.

Still, she didn’t beg.

Not yet.

He dropped her head.

One last strike.

Crack.

And then the silence was absolute.

He tossed the whip to the floor like it was filth.

“She will wear these marks as her collar now,” he declared. “And if she forgets again…”

He leaned down, whispering near her ear, a smile ghosting his lips.

“There will be no back left to mark.”

He turned.

The feast resumed.

The music returned.

As if nothing had happened.

The guards dragged her limp body back to the foot of the throne. Chained her again. Dressed her again—not out of mercy, but for decorum.

And Dominic?

He drank from his goblet, unbothered.

A king at peace with his violence.

Thalia lay in silence.

Her back was fire.

Her pride—ashes.

But her soul… still hers.

Broken.

Bleeding.

But not gone.

Not yet.

And that… was the true danger.

Her soul… still hers.

Broken.

Bleeding.

But not gone.

Not yet.

And that… was the true danger.

The guards hauled her away again when the feast began to dull, dragging her like an afterthought down the gleaming corridor. Her knees left faint streaks of blood behind—small stains no one would clean.

She didn’t fight.

She didn’t speak.

She didn’t look up.

Her vision blurred. Not from the pain. Not even from the bruises blooming over her ribs or the raw heat clawing down her spine.

It was the silence.

The silence inside her.

Her wolf had gone quiet.

Her pride had collapsed.

And still, Dominic hadn’t looked at her once—not really.

Back in the cell, the chains clanked like laughter as they tossed her into the dark.

She hit the ground hard—cheek against stone, knees too weak to hold her.

The door slammed shut.

She waited.

One breath.

Two.

Then—

She broke.

The sob that left her throat was silent at first. Just a tremble in her ribs. A quiver in her shoulders.

Then another.

And another.

Until her body shook.

Until her face was pressed into her own arms, and the tears wouldn’t stop. Hot. Shaking. Endless.

No one could hear.

No one could see.

So she cried.

For her wolf.

For the life that had been stolen.

For the truth that no one would ever come for her.

No rescue.

No warmth.

No future.

Just the memory of a whip, the cold eyes of a King who called her a stain, and a body that wouldn’t stop hurting.

She curled tighter.

Smaller.

As if she could vanish between the cracks in the stone.

She cried until there were no more tears.

Only trembling.

Only silence.

And then, finally—

Sleep came.

But not peace.

Because even in dreams…

The pain followed.

The nightmares were cruel.

But waking was crueler.

Thalia stirred in the dark, her body aching, mouth dry, lashes stiff from dried tears. For a moment, she didn’t know where she was.

Then she moved.

And the chain tugged her neck.

Right. Still here.

Still his.

The stone beneath her had grown colder. Or maybe her body had just stopped remembering warmth. Her shift clung to her like wet parchment, and every breath felt like dragging glass through her lungs.

She curled in tighter, her arms wrapped around herself as if they could keep the pieces from falling apart.

But the pieces were already gone.

She wasn’t sure how much time passed—hours, maybe a day. No light reached her cell. No voices. No food.

Only the sound of dripping water in the distance.

And footsteps.

Her heart stuttered.

Heavy boots.

Two sets.

She pushed herself upright with a grunt. The iron collar around her neck reminded her to bow her head. To be still. To not hope.

The door creaked open.

The guards stepped in. One held chains. The other—a bucket.

Water.

Thalia’s throat seized.

She didn’t ask. She didn’t beg. She didn’t move.

The bucket hit the ground at her feet. No cup. No spoon. Just the water and their silence.

Then the chain was clipped to her collar again.

The guard spoke—flat, cold. “The King wants you cleaned. Again.”

Thalia stared at the bucket.

She waited for a gesture. A nod. Anything.

But none came.

So she knelt. Lifted the heavy pail with shaking hands. Splashed the water over her skin, washing away dried blood, sweat, shame.

Every movement echoed.

When she was done, she sat there, trembling, drenched and small.

The guards didn’t offer cloth. They didn’t offer words.

They just stared.

“She’s learning,” one muttered.

The other grunted. “Or breaking.”

Same thing, Thalia thought numbly.

The chain pulled tight again.

She followed.

This time, the path didn’t take her back to the throne room.

Or to his chambers.

It led upward.

Farther than she’d ever been.

The walls changed—from stone to polished marble, lined with banners and sconces. Every footstep felt wrong beneath her. Every breath, borrowed.

She didn’t belong here.

And maybe that was the point.

When the doors opened next, she braced herself for pain.

But it wasn’t pain that waited.

It was silence.

A grand, high-ceilinged room with no fire, no color. Just one chair. Facing a massive window. And in that chair—

Him.

Dominic Dreadmour.

Cloaked in black. Crownless. Motionless.

She dropped to her knees before he could speak.

The leash went slack.

She didn’t look up.

Minutes passed.

Maybe more.

He didn’t say a word.

Didn’t ask.

Didn’t command.

He just sat there… while she knelt, water still dripping from her skin, body curled inward like a shadow of the girl she used to be.

And when he finally moved—just his head turning slightly—she tensed so hard her breath caught.

But still… nothing.

No punishment.

No order.

Just his voice—soft, deadly.

“Tell me, Omega…”

She flinched.

“…why do you still breathe?”

The question wasn't a threat.

It was a test.

And Thalia—tired, hollow, silent for too long—gave the only answer she had left.

“To make you angry,” she whispered.

The silence that followed was razor-sharp.

And in the quiet that settled between them, she didn’t know if he’d smile…

Or kill her.

But either way—

She was ready.

Dominic didn’t speak.

Didn’t move.

Didn’t even blink.

The air between them grew so still, Thalia could hear her own pulse—a thin, pathetic drumbeat beneath her ribs. She expected the blow. Expected to be dragged, to be slapped, to be silenced like always.

But instead—

He laughed.

Soft. Cold. Cruel.

The kind of laugh wolves heard in their nightmares.

“To make me angry?” he repeated, rising from the chair with deliberate grace. “How poetic.”

Thalia didn’t answer.

Didn’t dare.

Dominic circled her slowly, his boots echoing across the marble floor like war drums. “You think that’s strength, little omega? Breathing just to spite me?”

He stopped behind her. She felt him—his presence like frost crawling over bare skin.

“No,” he murmured. “That’s not strength. That’s desperation.”

She bowed her head lower.

But it didn’t help.

He seized her chain and yanked her backward.

She gasped—her body twisting, collar biting into her throat—until she landed flat on her back. The ceiling above her blurred from the sudden impact.

Dominic stared down at her, silver eyes glowing faintly beneath the shadows.

“You want to anger me, Omega?” he said slowly. “Then disobey me. Again.”

He stepped back.

Then pointed to the far side of the room—to a low platform near the wall.

“Stand on that,” he ordered. “Now.”

Her legs trembled as she rose.

The floor swam under her feet. Her bruises screamed with every step. But she made it. She climbed the shallow steps and stood there, breath ragged, barely upright.

Dominic’s gaze raked over her.

Then—he nodded.

And the doors behind her burst open.

Guards.

Nobles.

Dozens of them.

Faces she didn’t know—all pouring into the room like vultures invited to a feast.

The court.

The entire court.

They filled the space with silks and whispers, cruel stares and curiosity.

Dominic didn’t introduce her.

He didn’t need to.

They all knew.

She was the cursed mate.

The cursed omega.

Dominic stepped forward, voice rising over the hush like thunder wrapped in velvet.

“This is what the Moon has gifted me,” he said coldly. “A mutt. A broken thing.”

Thalia lowered her head.

“I gave her one command today,” he said, walking slowly around her, letting every eye in the room follow him. “Silence. Submission.”

He stopped in front of her.

“She failed.”

The chain dragged across the floor.

The guards tensed.

“She spoke.”

Gasps.

Whispers.

Dominic turned to the Beta at his right. “How should we deal with a disobedient omega?”

The man—tall, grizzled, eyes like stone—smirked. “A whip. She learns the bite of leather, she learns the weight of silence.”

Dominic’s gaze returned to Thalia.

Her stomach turned.

“No,” he said.

Relief surged—too soon.

“Leather is for wolves,” he continued. “This one doesn’t deserve that honor.”

He raised his hand.

Two guards stepped forward.

One carried a wooden rod.

Polished.

Heavy.

Unforgiving.

Thalia’s heart thudded wildly as she backed one step from the platform’s edge.

Dominic’s voice was low now—but sharp as ice.

“Strip.”

She froze.

The room went silent.

Only her shallow breathing remained.

“I said,” he hissed, “strip.”

She shook her head once, trembling.

“I—I can’t…”

The rod was slammed against the marble.

The sound made her flinch.

“Then I’ll do it for you.”

Dominic took the steps in a blur. His hands tore the shift at the neckline—ripping it clean down the center. It hit the ground like a death sentence.

She covered herself instinctively.

Too late.

They’d seen.

She’d disobeyed.

Dominic stepped back.

“Hold her.”

The guards seized her arms, yanking them above her head and shackling them to a metal bar behind the platform.

She was exposed. Vulnerable. Helpless.

And then came the first strike.

Not with fury.

But with calculation.

The rod cracked against the back of her thighs.

She cried out.

The second blow came faster.

Then a third.

Each one burned.

Each one dragged more air from her lungs, more sound from her throat.

Tears slid down her cheeks.

The court watched.

Some with glee.

Some with indifference.

None with pity.

Dominic watched too—eyes flat, cold, empty.

He didn’t blink when she sobbed.

Didn’t flinch when she choked on her own breath.

Ten strikes.

Then silence.

Thalia sagged against the cuffs.

The world swam.

The rod dropped to the floor.

And Dominic leaned close.

His voice was a whisper in her ear.

“That,” he said, “is what disobedience costs.”

She couldn’t answer.

Couldn’t lift her head.

He stepped away.

Turned.

Raised his hand—

“Unshackle her.”

The guards obeyed.

She crumpled to her knees, the shift in tatters at her feet.

The court began to file out. Conversation resumed. Wine was poured.

And she—

She stayed there.

On the platform.

Bleeding. Humiliated. Broken.

Dominic didn’t look back.

Not once.

But as he passed the Beta, he muttered,

“Tomorrow… she learns how to beg.”

And with that—

The doors slammed.

Leaving Thalia in silence.

Alone.

Half-conscious.

Shaking.

Until the final line of his promise echoed in her mind, louder than her sobs:

"Tomorrow... she learns how to beg."

And somehow, she knew…

Tomorrow would be worse.

Worse than anything she’d survived before.

And maybe…

She wouldn’t survive it at all.