Chapter 4
1063 Words
Avery’s Pov
They opened the gates like they were doing us a favor.
“Run!” the guard barked. “Or die!”
And just like that, as if we were vermin in a barn being let loose for the hawks to feast on.
I stood frozen, trying to make sense of the madness. Girls screamed, sobbed—one even pissed herself.
Me? I laughed. Short, sharp. The girl next to me flinched, because that was the moment it hit me. We weren’t being released. We were being unleashed like dogs in a den—except we weren’t the ones doing the biting.
The arrow confirmed it with a sickening whistle and a body collapsing beside me.
She screamed once.
Then silence.
Her blood soaked the soil, and every girl around me finally got the message: we were the prey.
And so, we ran.
The trees swallowed us, feet pounding dirt and roots, breaths ragged, clothes catching on bark and thorns. I didn’t look back. I didn’t need to. That scream was enough.
My lungs burned. My heart raced so fast it threatened to burst. But it wasn’t just fear that kept me moving. It was memory.
Our mansion engulfed in flames. Father lying in a pool of his own blood. Mother’s words cut short by an axe. Their murderers laughing, cloaked in the colors of the crown.
I didn’t survive that night just to die like this. Not for some twisted royal game. Not for their amusement.
Not again.
If I made it out alive, I swore by my parents’ bones I’d burn this kingdom to ash. And if that meant the princes too? So be it.
I ducked behind a fallen log, chest heaving.
Voices carried on the wind—loud, hungry. The crazy prince was near. I could smell his arrogance from here. He was taunting the others, laughing when one tripped.
The bastard was enjoying this.
And me? I was getting damn tired of running.
My fingers curled around a stick. It wasn’t much, but it’d have to do. I wasn’t going down quiet. If I died, someone was losing an eye.
I crept deeper into the woods, feet soft on moss.
That’s when I felt it.
A presence.
I turned fast.
He was there. Cloaked in shadows, broad shoulders, sharp jaw, eyes dark like a storm. Not hungry like the others. Just watching.
I raised my makeshift weapon. “Don’t!”
He didn’t move. “Alright. You win. Just… hear me out.”
“Why?” I snapped. “So you can play the nice prince before putting an arrow in my back like your brother did to that girl?”
“I didn’t shoot anyone,” he said.
“That makes you a coward. Not a saint.”
A low whistle cracked through the trees. The crazy prince. Getting closer.
I turned to run, but he moved faster, catching my wrist.
“Wait—stop.”
I spun, nearly slashing his throat with the stick. He caught it midair.
What the—
We stared at each other, and suddenly something shifted.
The air snapped, thick and hot, like lightning before a storm. My pulse stuttered.
My vision blurred for a second. Then I felt it.
The bond.
No. You’ve got to be kidding me.
Fate didn’t just hate me. It wanted to humiliate me.
He felt it too—I saw it in the way his eyes widened, the way his body stilled, like something ancient inside him had just woken.
“You can’t be…” I whispered.
He nodded slowly. “I am.”
“You’re my—” he began.
I cut him off with a glare. “Nope.”
He blinked. “What?”
“No. Try again. Wrong girl. You must’ve bonded with a ghost or something, because it sure as hell isn’t me.”
“You felt it too.”
“I felt a lot of things, including nausea. Now back off.”
He stepped forward, slow. Not predatory—curious. Gentle, even. Which made it worse.
“I don’t want to hurt you,” he said.
“That’s nice. Your brother already did. Arrow through a girl’s spine, remember?”
His jaw clenched. I hit a nerve.
Then he softened. “I’m not like them.”
“Newsflash, prince. You wear the same crest. That makes you exactly like them.”
He looked wounded. It shouldn’t have made me hesitate, but gods help me, it did.
“You’re scared,” he murmured.
“No,” I spat. “I’m pissed. There’s a difference. And if you don’t get out of my way, you’re going to find out how sharp this stick is.”
But he didn’t move. Instead, he said softly, “I’m not letting them hurt you. Run.”
I froze.
“Run!”
I stammered. “W…why?”
“Run!” he growled.
“It can’t be. You’re the worst of them.” I stepped back and bolted, confused, exhausted, furious.
The second I stumbled back into the arena, a horn blared in the distance.
The hunt was over.
I stood in the pit—bloodied (not mine, surprisingly), filthy, and proud.
The crowd gasped.
The last girl standing.
The girl who lived.
Ethan looked furious. Tristian looked impressed. And Devon?
He looked like he wanted to drag me out, claim me, and set the world on fire for what I’d endured.
From his throne, the king rose.
His voice rolled across the plaza, rough as gravel and twice as cold: “You survived. Impressive. I will take you as my slave.”
The crowd erupted — a tide of faces, voices, and hungry celebration, as if spectacle could swallow what had been done to me. They cheered for the claim, for the spectacle of conquest. They wanted to watch me shrink.
Devon didn’t cheer. He stood still, jaw tight, eyes like a shut door. His silence cut through the noise in a way applause never could.
And me?
I smiled, blood on my teeth.
Because now I was inside their world.
And if fate wanted me to be the mate of a prince, so be it.
I would learn their rules, memorize their faces, and cheat their courtesies until every polite bow became a blade aimed at the heart of their throne.
One royal at a f*****g time.
- Writer
