Sold to the Alpha Prince

Chapter 10: Names and Nightmares

Lina’s POV

The bed was too soft to trust. It swallowed her bones like it meant to lull her into forgetting. But she couldn’t forget—not the men, not the lights, not the cold drag of oil between her thighs while strangers tried to buy her body like cattle.

She hadn’t slept. She’d lain there beneath velvet sheets that smelled like warmth and him and something dangerously male, every inch of her clenched in silence. He hadn't touched her. Not even once. He had laid her down, turned away, and left her to the fire and her thoughts.

And yet... she hadn't stopped trembling.

Her knees had curled into her chest sometime in the night. Her arms ached from holding the robe too tightly, fists clenching around the fabric like it might keep her safe. It didn’t. Not really. It only reminded her of the man who had handed it to her—the same one who’d spent ten million to own her, and then chosen not to touch.

That was the part that made her stomach twist.

He hadn’t hurt her. Hadn’t even tried. And somehow, that made it worse. Because his silence had a weight to it. A watchfulness. A power that curled into the corners of her mind and bloomed slow, like a bruise under skin.

She heard him before she saw him.

The soft clink of glass. The faint rustle of fabric. The door easing open, followed by the deep hush of his breath as he entered. She sat up too quickly, her body protesting in aches, but her mind suddenly alert.

He was back.

He moved like he belonged to the silence. No sound wasted. No motion unsure. He was shirtless now, only a pair of black linen pants hanging low on his hips. His chest gleamed faintly in the firelight, damp from a morning rinse. Water glistened in the hollow of his throat and ran in a slow rivulet down the firm line of his abdomen.

Her breath caught.

Not because he was beautiful. That would’ve been easier.

But because he looked like something carved from control. A creature who could break her in half and had chosen—deliberately—not to. And that restraint terrified her more than brute strength ever could.

Their eyes met.

He didn’t smirk. Didn’t leer. He simply stood at the edge of the rug, arms loose at his sides, gaze steady. He looked at her like she was something fragile in a world full of fire. Like he was trying to memorize the way she broke without touching her.

She hated that it made her shiver.

“You didn’t sleep,” he said softly.

It wasn’t a question.

She didn’t answer.

He took a step closer, careful not to crowd her.

She expected a command. An instruction. Maybe even an apology. What she didn’t expect was the quiet pause that followed, or the way his voice lowered just enough to thrum through her chest when he said—

“I never learned your name.”

Her lips parted. Just slightly. The question wasn’t cruel. It wasn’t a trick. But it still felt like a test.

She had a name. Of course she did. But no one had asked it in days. Weeks. Not since her father handed her over without a second glance. Not since the girls at the Vault stopped using it and started calling her dead weight.

Her throat tightened.

She looked down.

He waited.

No pressure. No demand.

Just space.

And something in her—something thin and cracking—wanted to fill it.

“…Lina.”

The name came out too small. Too soft.

But he heard it.

His mouth moved around it, lips parting just enough to taste the syllables. “Lina.”

She hated the way it sounded in his voice.

Like it mattered.

Like she mattered.

“I’m Kai,” he added, and this time, it was his voice that softened.

The name landed between them like a thread. Not quite a bond. Not yet. But a tether. A start.

Her eyes darted toward the robe again, suddenly aware of how much of her skin was still showing. Her calves, her ankles, the side of her thigh where the fabric had slipped.

He noticed.

But he didn’t stare.

He turned, walked to the hearth, and stirred the fire with a long iron poker. The muscles in his back flexed as he worked, the motion smooth, effortless. Like even fire obeyed him.

And she hated that she couldn’t look away.

He didn’t speak again until he sat in the armchair across from her, legs spread casually, glass of water balanced on his thigh.

“You can stay here until you’re ready,” he said. “No one will touch you. Not unless you ask.”

Her stomach twisted. That word again.

Ask.

She didn’t trust it.

Didn’t trust him.

But the worst part—the part she couldn’t say aloud—was that part of her wanted to.

Not because she believed him.

But because wanting made her feel something. Shame. Hunger. Heat.

Something that was hers.

She looked away, blinking fast.

Kai didn’t push.

He just leaned back, slow and sure, the fire casting flickers across his skin.

And she realized then — as the heat curled low in her belly and her breath caught behind her teeth — that the real danger wasn’t the room, or the chains, or even the past she carried.

It was the fact that, for the first time in her life… she didn’t want to run.