Cruelly knotted

Luna hidden side

“Forced?” He pressed closer, thigh sliding between hers, forcing her legs apart just enough to remind her how sore she still was. She hissed. “The bond doesn’t lie, Olivia. You clenched around my knot like you were starving for it. Your heat called. I answered. That’s nature.”

“It’s not nature,” she spat. “It’s *you*. Taking. Always taking. My father’s lands. His people. Me.”

He tilted his head, studying her like prey that still had teeth. “And yet here you stand. Washed. Fed. Tended. Not chained in the dungeon where most conquerors would keep a defeated princess.”

“You think that makes you merciful?” She twisted, trying to free her wrists. He tightened his grip—not painful, just unyielding. “You murdered him. You knotted me while his blood was still wet on your claws.”

“And you’re still alive,” he murmured, lips brushing her ear. “Still breathing my air. Still wearing my mark. Most Alphas would have broken you by now. I’m *patient*.”

“Patient?” She laughed—sharp, brittle. “You call three hours of waiting patient? Or is it just that you enjoy watching me suffer?”

His free hand slid down her side, fingers tracing the curve of her hip through the towel. “I enjoy watching you *fight*. It’s... entertaining. Makes the surrender sweeter.”

“I’m not surrendering.”

“No?” He nipped her earlobe—sharp enough to sting. “Then why haven’t you screamed for help? Why haven’t you tried to run? The door’s unlocked. The maids left it that way on my order.”

Her breath caught. She hadn’t noticed. Hadn’t even thought to check.

“Because I know you,” he continued, softer now, almost tender. “You’re not stupid. You know what happens to Omegas who run from an Alpha who’s already claimed them. The bond would drag you back. And I’d enjoy the chase.”

She glared up at him, chest heaving. “You think you own me.”

“I *do* own you.” His thumb brushed the edge of the towel, teasing the knot that held it up. “Body. Scent. Future. But the relic...” He paused, eyes narrowing. “That’s still missing. And I’m starting to think his clever daughter knows more than she’s saying.”

Her pulse spiked—he felt it through the bond, a bright flare of panic she couldn’t hide.

Arthur smiled. Slow. Predatory.

“Ah. There it is.”

She yanked her wrists free—or he let her—and shoved him again, harder this time. “Get away from me.”

He stepped back. Just one pace. Giving her space she didn’t trust.

“For now,” he said mildly. “But tonight, little queen... you’ll dine at my table. In front of the pack. They’ll see their new Luna. They’ll smell me on you. And they’ll know exactly who you belong to.”

He turned toward the door, pausing only to glance back.

“And if you’re very good,” he added, voice dropping to a purr, “I might let you keep that towel on.”

The door clicked shut behind him.

Olivia stood there, trembling, towel clutched like armor.

She wasn’t broken.

At least not yet .

But the relic burned in her mind like a secret coal—and she knew, deep in the marrow where the bond lived, that he’d tear her open to find it.

The hour came like a sentence passed.

Maids returned—four this time, older ones with steady hands and lowered eyes. They carried gowns, jewels, brushes, oils that smelled of night-blooming jasmine and crushed amber. Olivia stood motionless in the center of the chamber while they worked, letting them lift her arms, slide silk over skin still tender from the night before. The gown they chose was midnight blue, heavy velvet that clung and flowed at once, cut low across her collarbone to display the fresh mating mark like a dark crown. A silver chain belt cinched her waist; thin chains draped from it to her hips, chiming softly with each breath.

One maid—a girl no older than eighteen—brushed Olivia’s damp hair until it fell in glossy waves past her shoulders. Another dabbed rose-tinted salve on her lips, then stepped back, cheeks flushed crimson.

Olivia caught the girl’s eye in the tall mirror. “Why are you blushing?”

The maid’s hands jerked. She dropped the brush; it clattered against stone. “N-nothing, my Queen.” Her voice cracked. “We only… we’ve only seen a glimpse of how beautiful you are.”

The others froze. Olivia searched their faces for mockery, for pity, for anything cruel. Found none. Only wide eyes, parted lips, something close to awe. It unsettled her more than scorn would have.

She said nothing. Let them finish: a circlet of blackened silver set with moonstones, soft kid gloves that reached her elbows, slippers that whispered against the floor. When they stepped away, she looked like something carved from night and frost—elegant, untouchable, dangerous in her stillness.

The great dining hall opened before them like the maw of a sleeping beast.

Long tables ran the length of the room, dark oak scarred from generations of claws and feasts. Torches burned in iron sconces; firelight danced across tapestries that still showed the old Christopher crest half-stitched over with Blackwood black and crimson. Banners hung heavy with new embroidery. The air smelled of roasted venison, mulled wine, cedar smoke, and the layered musk of a hundred wolves trying to behave.

Arthur waited at the head of the hall, already seated in the high-backed chair that had once belonged to her father. He rose as she approached—slow, deliberate, the lunatic gleam in his eyes softened by candlelight into something almost courtly. He extended his arm.

Etiquette. Ceremony. She laid her gloved hand on his forearm as though it were a blade she might yet turn against him. His fingers closed over hers—warm, possessive, thumb stroking the inside of her wrist once, a secret claim no one else could see.

They entered together.

A ripple of sound: betas and gammas rising in unison, fists thumping chests in the old salute. “Lord Alpha,” they murmured as one. “Lady Luna.”

Arthur drank it in. The praise. The deference. The way every eye tracked the way he held her—like a trophy, like a queen, like something he would kill to keep. His smile was small, satisfied, private.

The wolves noticed her scent first—fierce, wildflower-sharp, threaded now with his pine-and-smoke musk so thoroughly it was impossible to separate the two. Then her face: high cheekbones, storm-gray eyes, the quiet fury that lived in the set of her mouth. Even marked, even claimed, she moved like someone who had not yet surrendered. Beauty edged with steel. Several younger wolves stared openly until their elders cuffed them. A few older ones bowed deeper, respect warring with memory of the war they’d just survived.

They reached the head table. Arthur pulled out her chair with exaggerated courtesy, then took his own beside her. Servants moved like shadows—platters of venison glazed in honey and thyme, loaves still steaming, bowls of dark berries, flagons of wine the color of spilled blood.

Olivia waited until the first course had been served and the hall quieted into expectant murmurs.

“May I set an example for your new Luna, my lord?” she asked, voice clear, carrying to the far walls.

Arthur’s brows lifted. He studied her for a long beat—searching for the trap, finding only that serene, treacherous smile.

He inclined his head. “Of course.”

He had no idea what she planned.

She rose.

The hall fell silent.

Olivia lifted her goblet—slow, deliberate. Firelight caught the moonstones at her brow, turned them to pale flame.

“To the end of war,” she said.

A murmur rippled—surprise, caution.

“To the peace my mate has forged,” she continued, gaze sweeping the tables. “To the no-war zone he has declared. To the agreements signed with the river packs, the northern alliances, the neutral territories that once feared Blackwood’s shadow. May this table be the first of many where old blood is washed away with new wine.”

She paused.

Arthur watched her, expression unreadable, but the bond thrummed—curiosity, suspicion, a flicker of dark pride.

Olivia raised the goblet higher.

“And to the relic,” she added softly.

The word landed like a stone in deep water.

Every wolf stilled. Breath held. Eyes darted—first to her, then to Arthur, then to the shadows as though the thing itself might materialize.

She smiled again—that same smile of betrayal, sweet as poisoned honey.

“May it remain where it has always been: hidden. Safe. Untouched by any hand that would use it to break what has only just begun to mend.”

She drank.

Deep. Unhurried.

Then set the goblet down with a soft clink.

Arthur’s hand shot out—fast, but not violent. He caught her wrist, thumb pressing over her pulse. His eyes burned.

The hall waited for blood.

Instead, he leaned in. Lips brushed her ear.

“Careful, little queen,” he murmured, voice velvet over razors. “You play a dangerous game at my table.”

Olivia turned her face just enough that their mouths were a breath apart.

“Then enjoy it,” she whispered back. “While it lasts.”

She sat.

The feast resumed—louder now, forced cheer masking the undercurrent of shock. Wolves ate, drank, toasted the peace with wary glances toward the head table.

Arthur never released her wrist.

His grip was iron.

But his smile—slow, feral, delighted—said he had never been more entertained.

The new era had begun.

And already, it tasted of war dressed as peace.