Chapter 3: A place beneath the throne
2082 Words
The chains rattled louder with every step.
Thalia kept her eyes on the floor, knees raw, wrists cuffed behind her back, the iron collar digging into her throat with every tug of the leash. She didn’t know how long they’d been dragging her, only that her body screamed with every jolt.
The guards didn’t speak. Neither did she.
Silence was safer.
But nothing could prepare her for the doors that opened next.
Light. Heat. Voices.
She blinked against the sudden glare—then froze.
It was a banquet hall.
Massive, gleaming, alive with the scent of roasted meat, wine, and perfume. Long tables lined with warriors, nobles, and cruel-eyed wolves who turned the moment she entered.
And at the head—on a blackened throne carved with fangs—sat Dominic Dreadmour, King of Bloodfang.
He wore black from throat to boot, a silver crown coiled with wolf fangs circling his head. His expression didn’t change as she was dragged in like a chained mutt.
But his voice rang out, cold and calm.
"Bring her here."
She stumbled. One of the guards kicked her behind the knees. She dropped hard.
The chain pulled.
They dragged her—through laughter, whispers, judgment. Past women in silk and warriors with blood still on their hands. No one helped. No one pitied.
She was nothing.
She was his.
They stopped at his side.
Right beside the King’s throne.
And then—
He nodded once.
The guards shoved her down to her knees. Hard. She winced but didn’t cry out.
A leather leash clipped to her collar.
Dominic leaned back in his chair, wine goblet in hand. His silver eyes never left the crowd.
“She will sit here,” he said coolly, “as a reminder.”
Murmurs.
A few laughs.
Someone raised a brow. “Of what, Your Majesty?”
He took a slow sip, then set the cup down.
“Of what happens when the Moon chooses wrong.”
The room erupted in cruel laughter.
Thalia bowed her head lower.
She was clothed, but only just—a dull, shapeless shift that hid everything except her humiliation.
Her knees dug into the cold marble. Her collar gleamed in the torchlight. Her lips were still split. Her wrists bruised.
And Dominic didn’t look at her once.
Food was served.
Meat, fruit, thick bread dripping with honey.
Her stomach twisted with hunger, but she didn’t move.
Her place was clear.
Not at the table.
But below it.
Someone passed too close and spilled wine across her knees. No one cared.
One of the warrior women leaned down and sneered, “Don’t lick it up, mutt. He might think you're eager.”
Another laughed. “She’s already trained. Look how still she is.”
Dominic said nothing.
He let them mock her.
He let them look.
And worse—he let her kneel there for hours, in silence, as the feast raged around her.
No food.
No water.
No words.
Just humiliation.
At one point, someone threw a bone near her feet.
A test.
Thalia didn’t move.
Dominic’s eyes flicked down at last.
And for the first time, a hint of a smirk touched his lips.
Good, she thought bitterly. I’ve pleased the monster.
The laughter, the music, the scraping of goblets—it all faded into a dull roar in her ears. The chain grew heavier. The hunger sharper.
Her wolf whimpered inside, buried deep where no one could reach.
And still, she endured.
Until—
A hand yanked her leash.
She gasped, dragged upward onto shaking legs.
Dominic stood.
The hall quieted.
“She’s had enough air,” he said simply. “Put her back.”
Back.
Not to a room.
Not to comfort.
Back to the dungeon.
To the cold.
To the dark.
The guards obeyed.
She didn’t resist.
Her knees nearly buckled again, but she didn’t give them the satisfaction of seeing her fall.
And as she was led from the hall—bruised, silent, and starving—she caught Dominic’s voice, smooth as silk behind her:
“Let them see what a cursed mate looks like.”
The doors closed.
The chain pulled.
And Thalia began to pray—not for freedom.
But for the strength to survive whatever came next.
The doors closed.
The halls beyond the feast were colder than before. Or maybe that was just her.
Her legs barely worked now. Every step left a smear of blood on the stone from where her knees had split. But the guards didn’t slow. They yanked her leash like she was nothing but a stubborn animal.
Her wrists throbbed inside the cuffs.
Her throat ached from the collar.
Her pride… didn’t exist anymore.
When they reached the dungeons, the doors groaned open again—welcoming her back into the dark.
The cell was colder than before. Or maybe she’d just forgotten how cruel stone could be.
They didn’t speak as they unhooked her leash, shoved her inside, and slammed the iron bars shut behind her.
No blanket.
No water.
No light.
Just the same chains still locked to her ankles.
The silence inside the cell was alive. Heavy.
She crawled into the farthest corner and curled in on herself. Her bones felt hollow. Her thoughts, quieter than they used to be.
Once, she might have cried.
Now… she didn’t have the strength.
But even in that darkness, even with shame burning beneath her skin, the mate bond pulsed faintly—like a poisoned heartbeat threading her soul to his.
She hated it.
Hated him.
And hated herself most of all… because somewhere in her gut, something still felt him.
Still ached.
Still burned.
Why? Why does the Moon tie wolves to monsters?
Was this some kind of divine joke?
A punishment?
She drifted somewhere between sleep and silence, haunted by laughter that wasn’t hers, voices that had mocked her, and the ghost of a silver-eyed king who hadn’t even looked her way.
Until he had.
Until that smirk.
Until she pleased him… by being silent.
She clenched her jaw against a scream that couldn’t come.
She wouldn’t give them the sound.
Not now. Not ever again.
But high above, in the royal chamber where fire still crackled and wine still ran red, Dominic Dreadmour stood at his balcony alone.
He looked down over his kingdom, eyes sharp with something colder than steel.
The smell of her was still in his skin.
The bond, still clawing through his veins.
And for a brief, dangerous second…
He closed his eyes.
And listened.
To the silence below.
To the girl in the dark.
To the soul he hadn’t broken yet—but would.
Because no matter what the Moon said…
She wasn’t his mate.
She was his lesson.
His punishment.
His curse.
And one day soon…
She’d beg for mercy.
And he wouldn’t give it.
Dominic stayed on the balcony long after the fires below burned out. The wine on his tongue turned bitter. The scent of her—ash, blood, and something maddeningly his—lingered far too long in the room.
He hated that.
Hated her.
Or so he told himself.
Because if he didn’t, the bond might win.
And Dominic Dreadmour had never lost to anything.
Not gods.
Certainly not an omega with hollow eyes and a heart too soft for his world.
He turned from the night and stalked to the hearth, ripping the iron poker from its stand and slamming it into the logs again. Sparks flew. The fire cracked louder.
Still not enough to drown out the sound of her silence.
That was the worst part.
Not her screaming.
Not her crying.
But how quiet she was.
How small she’d become.
It made something in him twist.
Crack.
He growled low.
“She’s not yours,” he muttered to the flames. “She’s your burden.”
But the Moon didn’t answer.
Just watched.
Watched as the great Alpha King stood before a fire and tried not to feel the weight of a girl he’d chained to the dark.
Down in the dungeons, hours blurred like spilled ink.
Thalia didn’t know if it was morning or night. She didn’t care.
Time didn’t matter when pain followed her like a shadow.
Her throat was too dry for words. Her wrists bled where the shackles had rubbed her raw. Her thoughts scattered every time she tried to remember the sound of her own voice.
She curled tighter.
Smaller.
Trying to disappear inside herself.
Trying to hold on to that last ember of something that still felt like her.
But even that flickered now.
Every time she closed her eyes, she saw him.
Not the man—there was no man.
The beast.
The king.
The curse in black.
Dominic.
She hated the sound of his name in her mind.
But she couldn’t stop it.
Couldn’t stop him.
Couldn’t stop the bond that burned hotter every time he was near.
She bit her lip until it bled just to remind herself she still could feel.
That she was still real.
Still Thalia.
Not his omega.
Not his slave.
Not yet.
Above, the bells tolled once—cold and final.
A summons.
A warning.
A ritual beginning.
Tomorrow was a feast.
Tomorrow, the entire court would gather.
Tomorrow… she would kneel again at his feet.
But this time—
They would watch.
And this time—
Dominic Dreadmour would teach her the meaning of the word “obedience.”
The dungeon door slammed open.
Two guards entered—silent, expressionless.
Thalia didn’t fight.
She couldn’t.
They unlocked the chains from the wall but didn’t speak. They didn’t need to. The thick iron collar remained. The leash snapped tight in one’s hand as the other shackled her wrists again, binding them in front of her like a pet being paraded.
She stumbled when they pulled her forward, knees bruised, muscles raw.
No shoes.
No dignity.
Just a thin, scratchy dress clinging to her skin like shame.
They dragged her through the lower halls and into a chamber she hadn’t seen before—deep within the bowels of the fortress. Stone walls. No windows. And in the center, a steaming basin. A servant stood beside it with a brush.
“Strip her,” one guard ordered.
Thalia flinched, but she didn’t resist.
Not anymore.
The servant worked in silence, scrubbing every inch of dirt and blood from her skin like she was a filthy object to be polished for display. Her scalp burned. Her hands trembled. Her lips cracked again with the sting of cold water.
Then came the shift.
A fresh one—but no better.
Brown. Rough. Too thin. It barely reached her thighs.
The collar stayed on.
And then she was led through the inner fortress—up, up, past locked doors and polished marble floors.
Until the scent of meat, wine, and wolves flooded the air.
Voices buzzed beyond the carved double doors of the grand hall. Dozens—maybe hundreds. Laughing. Eating. Alive.
She was dragged to the far end—toward the dais where a single throne sat at its center.
Black.
Gold-edged.
Massive.
And at its heart… Dominic.
He didn’t look up as she was thrown to the floor beside him.
Didn’t speak.
Didn’t acknowledge her.
As if she were exactly what she was—
Furniture.
A footstool for the king.
She stayed kneeling.
Head down.
Hands chained in her lap.
Not a word spoken.
Not a bite of food.
Not a sip of water.
While he feasted.
While the court drank and laughed and whispered.
Her knees ached.
Her stomach howled.
But she didn’t move.
Not even when his Beta stood and raised his goblet.
“To our Alpha King,” he declared, “and to the gift the Moon has cursed him with!”
The room erupted in cruel laughter.
Someone threw bones at her feet.
Someone else hissed, “Show your teeth, mutt!”
Dominic didn’t stop them.
Didn’t speak.
Didn’t glance her way once.
And that silence—
That silence—
Was worse than any whip.
Because it told her exactly what she was:
Nothing.
Nothing but a chained disgrace rotting at his feet.
And that… was merciful.
Because what came next—
Would make her wish he’d left her to die.
And just as she dared to breathe—
Dominic rose from his throne.
“Bring the whip,” he said coldly.
“Tonight, we remind her who owns her screams.”
- Writer
