Cruelly knotted

He dressed her

The carriage rocked over the rutted mountain road, wheels grinding stone like teeth on bone. Inside, the air had turned thick, sour with heat and fury. No lanterns burned; only slivers of moonlight slipped through the drawn curtains, striping the furs and the two wolves locked in silent war.

Olivia had not shifted back.

Her wolf form filled half the bench—silver-gray coat dusted with black at the ruff, ears flat, lips peeled just enough to show the gleam of canines. She sat rigid, tail lashing once, twice, against the padded wall. Every breath came out in short, irritated huffs that fogged the chill glass beside her.

Arthur—still in his human skin, coat unbuttoned, sleeves rolled to the elbows—watched her with that same lunatic patience he always wore when she fought him hardest. The maids were gone. He’d kicked them out at the last staging post with a single low word, door slammed before the youngest could even curtsy. Now it was only them. No witnesses. No buffer.

He leaned forward slowly, elbows on his knees. “Shift back.”

A low scuff answered him—sharp, dismissive. Her head turned away, gaze fixed on the curtain seam as though the night beyond it held anything worth seeing.

“I said shift back, Olivia.”

Another huff. Louder. Her shoulder rolled in clear refusal; the motion made the silver chain around her neck—new, Blackwood-forged, no trace of her father’s crest—catch the moonlight and flash like a warning.

Arthur exhaled through his nose. The sound was almost amused. Almost. “You think staying wolf keeps you safe from me?” He reached out, fingers brushing the thick fur along her shoulder. She snapped—fast, teeth closing an inch from his wrist. He didn’t flinch. Just caught her muzzle in one hand, thumb pressing firmly under her jaw, forcing her head up until those storm-gray eyes met his.

“Easy,” he murmured. Soft. Dangerous. “You bite me again and I’ll make you regret it in ways your wolf won’t forget.”

She snarled—muffled, vibrating against his palm—but didn’t pull away. Couldn’t, really. Not with his grip like iron wrapped in velvet.

He leaned closer. Breath warm against the sensitive fur of her ear. “You’ve been snarling at me since we left the pass. Huffing." He leaned Scuffing. Like I’m some stray that wandered into your den.” His free hand slid down the side of her neck, fingers burying in the ruff, scratching once—slow, deliberate. “What is it, little queen?" He closed the distance between them.. Almost. " Still angry about the council? About Silverridge?" The word hang in the air.

"Or is it just that I haven’t let you run yet?”

Her tail lashed harder—once against his thigh, hard enough to sting through fabric. A warning. A promise.

He laughed under his breath. Low. Rough. “There she is.”

She twisted suddenly—sharp jerk of her head—trying to shake his hold. He tightened instead, dragging her closer until her forelegs braced against his chest, claws pricking through his shirt. She huffed again—frustrated, furious—hot breath gusting across his collarbone.

“Shift,” he repeated. Quieter this time. Almost coaxing. “Or I’ll make you.”

Her ears flicked back. A long, rumbling growl rolled through her chest—more vibration than sound. She lunged—teeth aiming for his forearm—but he was faster. Hand slid from muzzle to throat, fingers curling just under her jaw, thumb pressing the soft hollow where pulse hammered. Not choking. Controlling.

She froze. Eyes blazing.

“Good girl,” he whispered. Then—without warning—he leaned in and kissed the side of her muzzle. Slow. Deliberate. Lips brushing fur, tasting salt and pine and the faint metallic edge of her anger.

She whined—sharp, indignant—and tried to wrench free again. He didn’t let her. Instead he opened his mouth against her fur and fed her his scent—deliberate, overwhelming—tongue flicking once along the edge of her lip, claiming even this form.

Her body shuddered. A low, helpless sound escaped her—half growl, half something softer. She hated it. Hated him. Hated how the bond answered anyway, heat pooling low in her belly even in wolf skin.

He pulled back just enough to meet her gaze. “Shift back,” he said again. “Or I swear I’ll knot you like this and let the whole caravan hear what their Luna sounds like when she’s too stubborn to beg.”

Her ears flattened completely. A final, furious huff—long and trembling—before the air shimmered.

Fur receded. Bones shifted. In seconds she was human again—naked, flushed, knees braced on either side of his thighs, hands fisted in his shirt. Breathing hard. Eyes wet with rage.

“You bastard,” she whispered. Voice cracked. “You don’t get to do that.”

He smiled—slow, cruel, tender. “I just did.”

She lunged—nails raking his chest, teeth snapping toward his throat. He caught her mid-motion, one arm banding her waist, the other tangling in her hair, yanking her head back until her pulse thrummed against his lips.

“Fight me all you want,” he murmured against her skin. “But you’re still mine." There is almost darkness in his voice.

" And this carriage is a long way from Silverridge.”

She snarled—human now, raw and broken. “Then make it longer.”

He laughed again. Forcing her to look at him.

And pulled her down.

The carriage rocked on.

Outside, the night listened.

And said nothing.

The carriage swayed like a cradle on the edge of a cliff. Moonlight bled through the seams of the curtain in thin silver threads, catching on the sweat still drying at the hollow of her throat. Olivia sat across his thighs now—back to his chest, legs draped over his, naked except for the ghost of heat that clung to her skin like mist after rain. Her spine was rigid, every vertebra a small, defiant wall.

Arthur’s arm looped around her waist, loose enough to pretend it was casual, tight enough to remind her it wasn’t. In his other hand he held half a pear—pale flesh already bitten once, juice running slow and clear down his knuckles.

“Open,” he said quietly.

She stared straight ahead at the opposite bench. “I’m not hungry.”

“You’re always hungry after you fight me.” The words were fond, almost gentle, but the cruelty lived in how slowly he said them. “And you fought beautifully tonight. All teeth and tail and those little huffs that make me want to pin you again.”

Her jaw clenched. “Don’t talk like you’re proud of me.”

“I am.” He lifted the pear to her lips. A single drop of juice trembled at the curve and fell onto her collarbone. “Proud of how sharp you stay. Even when you’re trembling.”

She turned her head half an inch—enough to show refusal, not enough to escape. “I’m not a child you feed from your lap.”

“No,” he agreed, voice dropping softer, “you’re a queen who keeps trying to bite the hand that holds the crown.” He pressed the pear gently against the seam of her mouth. “Bite, then. Or open. Either way I win.”

A long beat. Her nostrils flared. Then—slowly, resentfully—her lips parted.

He slid the piece inside. Let her teeth close around it. Let her chew while he watched the working of her throat like it was art.

“Seductive,” he murmured. “The way your tongue catches the juice before it spills. You don’t even know you’re doing it.”

She swallowed. “I’m doing nothing.”

“You’re doing everything.” Another piece. This time he let his thumb brush the corner of her mouth, collecting a stray droplet and pressing it back between her lips. “Even when you hate me, your mouth moves like it remembers mine.”

She bit down harder than necessary on the next bite—enough to graze his fingertip. He didn’t flinch. Only smiled that small, private smile that lived only for her defiance.

“See?” he said. “Sharp little teeth. Still trying to mark me even when you’re the one being fed.”

“Stop narrating me like I’m your favorite story.”

“You are.” He fed her another slow sliver. “My favorite chapter keeps rewriting itself. Every time I think I’ve reached the end, you turn the page and bite harder.”

Her chest rose on a shaky breath. “You’re disgusting.”

“Fond,” he corrected softly. “Cruelly fond.”

The pear was nearly gone. One last piece—small, glistening. He held it between thumb and forefinger, hovering just out of reach.

“Ask,” he said.

Her eyes flashed. “No.”

“Then starve.”

Silence stretched—taut, trembling. The carriage jolted once over a stone; her body rocked against his. She felt him harden beneath her again, felt the answering clench low in her belly she couldn’t hide.

“...please,” she whispered at last. The word tasted like ash.

He fed it to her. Let her lips close around his fingers this time. Let her tongue brush skin before she pulled back, cheeks burning.

“Good girl,” he breathed against her ear. “So seductive when you lose.”

The pear was finished. His hands—empty now—settled on her hips. For the first time since they’d begun he seemed to truly see her: bare, flushed, marked in a dozen small ways by his mouth and his grip.

His gaze drifted to the side bench. There, folded neatly, waited the dress she’d refused to wear earlier—deep indigo wool trimmed in silver thread, cut high at the throat, long sleeves meant to hide the bruises blooming along her forearms.

He reached for it without hurry.

“Arms up,” he said.

She didn’t move.

He lifted one of her wrists himself—gentle, almost reverent—and slid the sleeve over her hand. The wool whispered against her skin like a secret. He guided the fabric up her arm, inch by slow inch, fingertips trailing the inside of her elbow, the soft hollow beneath her bicep, the curve where shoulder met throat.

She shivered.

He kissed the place the sleeve ended—open-mouthed, lingering—then moved to the other arm. Same slow ritual. Same soft kisses pressed to skin before the cloth covered it.

When both arms were sleeved he drew the bodice across her chest. His knuckles brushed her n*****s—deliberate, unhurried—before he began to lace the front. Each pull of the cord was measured. Each tug brought her closer to being clothed, farther from the raw vulnerability he’d kept her in for hours.

He kissed her collarbone as the laces tightened. Kissed the hollow of her throat. Kissed the underside of her jaw while his fingers worked the final knot at her nape.

She was dressed now—covered, contained—and still she felt more naked than before.

He smoothed the skirt over her thighs, palms flat and warm through the wool. “There,” he murmured. “My little fish, back in her scales.”

She turned her head just enough to meet his eyes. “Fish?”

“Always slipping through my hands,” he said, voice low and fond. “Gleaming. Fighting the net. "

As if he knows her more than herself. "But the hook’s already set, isn’t it?” He traced the line of her throat where the new chain lay. “Deep." There a breath escape he didn't meant for this. "And you keep swimming anyway.”

Her lips parted—sharp retort ready—but he kissed her before it could form. Slow and invertibly Deep. The kind of kiss that tasted like ownership and apology at once.

When he drew back she was breathing too hard to speak.

He settled her more comfortably against his chest, arms encircling her waist like a living corset.

“Rest now,” he whispered into her hair. “Silverridge is still days away. Plenty of time to fight me again.”

She closed her eyes.

And hated how safe the cage felt.