Chapter 9: The Thread Between Us
2042 Words
The morning came slow.
Soft.
Cruel.
Thalia stirred first, but only barely—her lashes fluttering, her breath catching against the place where her cheek rested: warm skin, firm chest.
Dominic.
Still here.
Still holding her.
And for one terrifying second…
She didn’t want him to let go.
But her body remembered before her mind did.
The cramps.
The shame.
The way she’d sobbed into his collar like a child.
She shifted, just enough to pull away—but his arm tightened.
Not hard.
Not commanding.
Just... present.
A silent reminder that she was still his.
Still claimed.
Still tethered.
She didn’t speak.
Didn’t move again.
Neither did he.
The bond hummed faintly between them—quieter now, but stronger. As if the suffering had braided them closer, without either of them agreeing to it.
Finally, he exhaled.
“You slept.”
It wasn’t a question.
She nodded against his chest.
“Good.”
Silence fell again.
And this time, it was worse.
Not because of what he’d done.
But because he hadn’t done anything at all.
She pulled away slowly.
He let her go.
No chains.
No collars.
Just space.
Cold, gaping space that made her feel more exposed than if he’d stripped her again.
She wrapped the blankets tighter around herself and sat at the edge of the bed. Her legs still ached. Her belly twinged. But the fire inside her had dulled to something else now.
Something quieter.
Something dangerous.
Dominic rose without a word.
He moved to the washbasin, splashed water over his face, and scrubbed the remnants of the night from his skin like her touch had marked him more deeply than he wanted to admit.
She watched.
From the bed.
Silent.
But not afraid.
Not this morning.
He caught her gaze in the mirror.
Held it.
Then said, “There will be visitors today.”
Her throat closed.
“Why?”
“They want to see you.”
She stiffened.
“Why?”
“Because you're mine,” he said, voice flat. “And because some are still foolish enough to question what that means.”
He turned.
Met her eyes fully now.
“You’ll wear what I leave for you. You’ll kneel when I say. You’ll speak only when I command it.”
Her jaw clenched. “And if I don’t?”
He took a step forward.
Just one.
And the air shifted.
Darkened.
But when he spoke, his voice was quiet.
“Then I’ll remind you,” he said. “That I didn’t save you from the dungeon. I borrowed you from it.”
Her hands fisted in the blankets.
Not in defiance.
In self-control.
Because part of her wanted to say something stupid.
Like I’m not yours.
But even her wolf knew better.
Because the mark of him was inside her now.
Not ink.
Not bite.
But presence.
He left then.
orders.
threats.
Just silence and the soft click of the door behind him.
She didn’t rise.
Didn’t cry.
She just sat there.
And for the first time since being dragged into Bloodfang...
She wondered what she would’ve become if he’d never touched her.
Never fed her.
Never held her.
Because now, when she closed her eyes…
She remembered the warmth of his hands more clearly than the cold of her cell.
And that?
That terrified her more than any punishment ever could.
That terrified her more than any punishment ever could.
Because she knew what came next.
The shift.
The mask sliding back into place.
The man who had held her last night—silent and steady, steady enough to trick her—was already gone.
And the King?
The real King?
Was back.
She saw it in the way the guards returned, stiff and wordless, eyes trained ahead as they dropped a set of robes across the foot of the bed. Deep crimson. Silver threading. High-necked. Collarless, but binding in a way silk had no right to be.
“This,” one muttered, not looking at her, “is what the Alpha commands.”
Then they left.
No food.
No words.
No softness.
Just the reminder: She had duties now. Performances. Appearances.
And no excuse not to obey.
Thalia stared at the fabric.
She didn’t want to touch it.
Didn’t want to play the role he’d dressed her for—decorative and docile and just tamed enough to shame herself.
But disobedience wasn’t a weapon anymore.
It was a death sentence.
And she didn’t want to give him an excuse to finish what he’d started in that dungeon.
So she dressed.
Her fingers shook as she laced the sides of the gown. Every tug tightened the grip on her ribs, until she felt more like a painting than a person. Her hair was still damp, uncombed, wild around her face—but she didn’t fix it.
Let them see the girl beneath the chains.
Let them see the beast he was trying to civilize.
By the time the door opened again, she was on her knees.
Exactly where he’d said she should be.
Dominic stood framed in the doorway.
His eyes dragged over her in silence.
Not with hunger.
Not with heat.
Just cold, quiet scrutiny.
As if she were meat on a table.
As if last night hadn’t happened at all.
“Better,” he said.
She didn’t answer.
Didn’t lower her eyes.
Not right away.
Not until his voice dropped, sharp and warning:
“Try that stare again in front of my court,” he said, “and I’ll carve it from your face.”
That broke her.
Her chin dipped instantly.
Shame heating her cheeks.
He approached then, slow and silent, and stopped just behind her.
“You think because I held you, that something changed,” he murmured, voice brushing her ear like steel.
A pause.
“No, little wolf. I didn’t hold you because I cared. I held you because your pain belonged to me. Because no one else was allowed to witness it.”
Thalia swallowed hard.
His breath ghosted over her neck.
His hand touched the back of her head once—fingers curling in her hair not with tenderness, but with ownership.
“You needed me. That doesn’t make us equal. That makes you mine.”
She shivered.
Not from cold.
Not from his nearness.
But from the hollow truth in his words.
He was right.
He hadn't saved her.
He’d claimed her.
And now he was showing her what that really meant.
When he stepped away, her body sagged slightly, knees aching from stillness, but she didn’t rise.
Not until he gave the command.
“Come.”
She stood.
Followed.
Silent.
Shamed.
Bound by something far stronger than chains.
And as the great hall doors opened before them—light pouring in, eyes turning, whispers starting—Thalia realized something else:
The fear was no longer of what Dominic might do to her.
The fear was of what she might become if he kept doing it.
Because the thread between them?
Was no longer just power.
It was dependency.
And dependency…
Was far more dangerous than hate.
Thalia knew what came next.
The looks.
The whispers.
The stares she couldn’t meet without feeling like her skin might melt straight off her bones.
She followed Dominic into the grand hall like a ghost wrapped in silk—silent, breath tight, heart pacing faster than her feet. The nobles had already gathered, wolves and warriors in polished armor, their mates in high collars and tighter smiles.
Eyes snapped to her the moment she entered.
She didn’t flinch.
Not yet.
But she knew what was waiting. She could feel the weight of Dominic’s gaze, even without turning.
And worse?
She could feel the cold already curling back into his voice, his presence, his power.
Whatever he’d been last night—whatever man had held her through her worst pain—he was gone now.
What was left?
The King.
And she was nothing but proof of his dominance.
Her stomach twisted.
No, not twisted—tightened.
But not from pain.
From panic.
And that’s when the thought came.
Wild. Reckless. Dangerous.
I can’t survive this. Not like this. Not today.
So she did the only thing her instincts offered in return.
She screamed.
Loud.
High-pitched. Sharp. Like her insides were tearing apart all over again.
Gasps filled the chamber.
Chairs scraped.
Guards froze.
Some of the nobles jerked back in alarm.
But not Dominic.
He didn’t move a muscle.
Didn’t blink.
Didn’t even spare her a glance.
That bastard.
So she screamed again—louder this time. More broken. More real. She dropped to the cold stone floor like her legs gave out, one hand over her belly, the other clawing at her robe.
“I-it hurts!” she sobbed, curling up. “Please—goddess, please—make it stop—”
More commotion.
The guards rushed forward.
One of the women in the court whispered urgently, already halfway to rise.
And finally—finally—
Dominic moved.
His head turned.
His gaze locked on her.
She saw it—the tiniest twitch at the corner of his mouth.
Hidden.
Barely there.
But real.
He was smiling.
He knows.
He knew she was faking.
He could feel it—through the bond, through the air, through her desperate little performance.
But instead of calling her out…
He played along.
The bastard played along.
With slow, deliberate steps, Dominic strode across the chamber.
He didn’t bark orders.
Didn’t demand silence.
He simply bent down, as calm as a storm building behind mountain cliffs—and scooped her up into his arms.
Her arms snapped around his neck instantly, gripping him like she might shatter if he let go.
A small sound escaped him—half scoff, half chuckle.
Thalia froze.
But he didn’t stop.
Didn’t expose her.
He just kept walking.
Back through the hall.
Back up the stairs.
Back through corridor after corridor, with her trembling dramatically in his arms, her fingers clutching his shirt like salvation.
She even threw in a few sobs for good measure.
Held her belly.
Buried her face in his throat.
Tried not to smirk when she felt his heartbeat spike.
He’s falling for it.
Or so she thought.
Dominic carried her through his chamber doors, kicked them shut with one sharp motion, and crossed to the bed without a single word.
Then—he dropped her.
Not hard.
Not cruel.
But certainly not gently.
She hit the furs with a bounce and a breathless gasp.
Before she could fake another whimper, he stepped back—
Arms crossed.
Brows lifted.
Smirk blooming slowly at the edge of his mouth.
“I should’ve trained as a healer,” he mused dryly. “You recover so quickly.”
Her breath caught.
He knew.
He knew.
Her cheeks flushed hot—but not from shame.
From pure, impulsive determination.
She lunged forward.
Grabbed his collar.
And yanked.
Dominic froze mid-step as her lips crashed against his.
Warm.
Soft.
Desperate.
Her mouth moved over his like it belonged there—no hesitation, no question. Just heat and need and madness wrapped in silk and stubbornness.
And for a heartbeat…
He didn’t move.
Didn’t breathe.
Then—
He kissed her back.
Hard.
Sharp.
Hungry.
His hands snapped to her hips, pulling her flush against him. Their lips collided again and again, rougher now, deeper, as if he wanted to devour the lie she’d just fed him—and punish her with every kiss for daring to think she could manipulate him.
But she didn’t care.
She kissed him anyway.
Fiercely.
Frantically.
Until the growl that rumbled from his chest wasn’t annoyance.
It was desire.
Hot. Dangerous. Laced with warning.
Still, she didn’t stop.
Because in that moment, with his mouth claiming hers and his grip locking her in place—
Thalia didn’t care about fear.
Or rules.
Or even the consequences.
Because she knew something now.
He may own her body.
He may command her obedience.
But this?
This fire?
This madness they sparked in each other?
It didn’t belong to him alone.
It belonged to them both.
And if he was going to destroy her—
She’d damn well burn with him first.
- Writer
