Claimed by the Cursed Three: The Muted Luna's Awakening

A slap to the face was how every single day began for me. "Pull the laces tighter, you useless mute! Do you want me to look like a sack of potatoes in front of the warlords?" Phyna’s sharp fingernails dug deep into my cheek, dragging across my skin until she drew a bead of blood. I didn’t flinch. I couldn’t. When you have lived nineteen years as the pack’s punching bag, pain stops being a surprise. It just becomes the air you breathe. I bowed my head, my raw, bleeding fingers gripping the thick silk cords of her corset. I pulled with everything I had. Phyna gasped, clutching her gold dressing table, satisfied at last by the violent cinch at her waist. She turned to look in the mirror, brushing a long strand of honey-blonde hair over her shoulder. She was gorgeous. Everyone said so. She was the Alpha’s favored daughter, the pride of the Silverpeak pack. Me? I was the dirty secret left in the servants' quarters. My fingers reached up unconsciously to touch the thick, cold metal welded around my throat. The silver collar. It had been locked around my neck when I was seven years old, after my mother died in the woods under mysterious circumstances. Silver was poison to our kind, but this band didn't have enough to kill me. It only burned. It hummed with a dark, bitter magic that clamped down on my vocal cords, choking every cry, every plea, every single sound I could ever make into dust. Wolfless freak. That was what the pack called me. The mute dog. "Listen to me, Preta," Phyna purred, stepping in close. The heavy scent of rose oil rolled off her, but underneath it, I could smell the rot of pure greed. "Tonight isn't just another banquet. The Triplet Kings from the Obsidian Citadel crossed our borders at dawn. They have come to take their tithe. And if I play my cards right, one of them will make me his Queen." She leaned in, her eyes narrowing into cold slits. "You will stay in the shadows with the wine trays. If you drop a glass, if you dare look at them with those disgusting pale eyes of yours, or if you embarrass me in any way, I will tell Father to throw you to the training warriors for the night. Do you understand?" I swallowed hard, the metal collar searing into my swollen skin, and nodded once. Satisfied, she turned on her heels and swept out of the room, her silk gown trailing behind her like liquid gold. I stood there for a minute, taking one shaky breath into my bruised lungs. Just survive tonight, I told myself. Just carry the trays, look at the floor, and don't make a sound. The Great Hall was hot and suffocating with the smell of roasted meat, alcohol, and hundreds of sweating shifters. Every light was lit. The Alpha warriors stood in rigid lines along the walls, their spines straight, but I could smell the sharp, sour tang of their fear. Everyone was terrified. The rumors about the Obsidian Triplets had reached our borders years ago: Damon, Luther, and Rylan. Three monster brothers born of the same bloody womb, cursed with an ancient hunger, and ruthless enough to have slaughtered every rival pack from the northern tundras down to the sea. People said they didn't take mates. They took blood tithes. I kept my head down, balancing a heavy silver platter loaded with crystal goblets of dark red wine. My bare feet were numb against the freezing marble floor. My knees ached, but I kept moving among the tables, serving nobles who didn't even bother to look at me—except to shove me out of their way. Suddenly, a horn blew from the ramparts. A heavy, dead silence fell over the hall. Even the musicians stopped playing mid-note. The massive iron doors groaned open, and the freezing night air rushed into the room, blowing out half the torches. Three figures stepped through the threshold. My heart gave a strange, violent jerk in my chest. They looked like gods carved out of black stone. All three were tall—towering over every warrior in our pack—with broad shoulders, midnight-black hair, and dark suits that barely hid the thick, corded muscle underneath. The one in the center walked with lethal, chilling authority. Damon. His jaw was set like iron, his cold eyes sweeping over the room like he was inspecting sheep in a slaughterhouse. To his left was Luther. He moved with silent, calculated grace, his hands resting easily at his sides, his gaze sharp and dissecting, reading every exit, every throat, every weakness. And on the right walked Rylan. He looked wild, his coat unbuttoned, fangs slightly bared, a savage smirk on his lips as his golden-amber eyes dared any man in the room to draw a breath the wrong way. My father, Alpha Corvin, hurried down from the high dais, bowing his head lower than I had ever seen him bow to anyone. Behind him, Phyna glided forward, wearing her most seductive smile, her eyes glued straight onto Damon. "My Lords," Father stammered, his voice tight. "Welcome to Silverpeak. We are honored. Please, allow my daughter, Phyna, to present our tribute—" Damon didn't even look at him. He didn't look at Phyna, either. In fact, the moment the three brothers stepped past the middle pillars of the hall, they stopped dead in their tracks. All three heads snapped upward. Their nostrils flared at the exact same second. A wave of suffocating, dominant power exploded into the air—so thick, so raw, that several older wolves in the hall fell to their knees under the sheer weight of their Alpha command. What was that smell? Suddenly, the cold silver collar around my neck began to heat up. It wasn't the dull burn of poison anymore. It was boiling, tingling, screaming with a spark that shot straight into my veins, rushing down to the very core of my chest. Deep inside my slumbering soul, something that had been dead for twelve years suddenly cracked. Awake. My breath hitched. A terrible, dizzy heat rushed through my body. My hands began to shake uncontrollably. The heavy silver platter tilted in my grip. Clatter! A crystal goblet slipped. It smashed against the marble floor, shattering into a hundred sharp pieces, splashing red wine across the pale stone like freshly spilled blood. "Stupid girl!" a nearby guard hissed, kicking my hip with his heavy boot. "Get down and clean it!" I scrambled to my knees instantly, my head bowed low, my trembling fingers picking up the wet shards of glass. A sharp piece sliced straight into my palm, but I didn't care. I just wanted to disappear. I felt Phyna's furious glare burning into the side of my head, and I knew what was coming later. The dungeons. The whip. Heavy, rhythmic footsteps echoed across the stone floor, coming closer. Not the guards. The air grew icy cold, yet burning hot at the same time. The scent of crushed pine, ozone, and dark winter rain crashed over me so heavily I could barely inhale. A pair of polished black combat boots stopped inches from my bleeding hand. I froze, kneeling in the pool of wine. "Look at me," a deep, rough voice demanded. It was low, vibrating like thunder through the stone beneath my palms. I kept my eyes glued to the floor, my chest heaving. The collar burned like an open flame. A large, gloved hand reached down. Strong fingers hooked under my chin, not rough, but with an iron grip that left no room for defiance. He forced my face upward. I was looking directly into the crimson-flecked eyes of Damon. Behind him, Luther and Rylan were already circling, their bodies tense, their pupils blown so wide with sudden madness that their irises were nearly black. Damon’s gaze dropped from my eyes, down to my parted, silent lips, and finally landed on the ugly, blackened silver collar locked tight around my throat. The temperature in the entire hall dropped ten degrees. Damon inhaled deeply, his chest expanding, his eyes turning entirely black as his wolf came crashing to the surface. Then, three voices roared at the exact same fraction of a second, so loud and ferocious that the stained glass windows along the high walls rattled in their frames: "MINE."