2. SHADOWS OF DESIRE
1314 Words
The arena's roar echoed in Lucian's ears as he agreed to stay for dinner. *Alpha Demion*, ever the gracious host, turned to his daughter, *Selene*, and remarked, "Well, we might as well head home, since the final round has concluded." Selene's smile was enigmatic, her eyes lingering on Lucian with a mix of curiosity and intent.
Lucian cradled the unconscious *Elia* in his arms, the slave who had displayed unexpected prowess.
Lucian’s men moved swiftly behind him, silent as wraiths. One of them, Ryze—a tall, dark-haired wolf with sharp eyes—hurried to catch up and whispered low, “My King... allow me. It isn’t proper.”
Lucian’s steps faltered.
He looked down and realized he was still holding the prisoner to his chest like something precious. Something breakable. Something his instincts refused to release.
But Ryze was right. A King does not carry a slave.
Lucian didn’t speak. He handed Elia over, coldly, deliberately, then marched ahead, as if none of it meant anything. As if he wasn’t silently questioning himself with every breath.
*Why?*
Why had he intervened?
Why had he felt the searing, soul-deep pull of a mate bond with a boy?
And why—by the moon—did his body hunger for someone so… fragile?
***
The guest wing of Alpha Demion’s castle was grand enough to rival a palace. Twin staircases curved like the horns of a ram. Golden sconces bathed the stone walls in amber. Red carpets soaked in perfume and pride ran beneath their feet.
Lucian was shown to a suite larger than most war camps. Vaulted ceilings. A bed carved from dark oak, tall enough to climb. A balcony that overlooked the valley. The best they had. He didn’t care.
His men entered silently, still carrying Elia—unconscious, pale, flecked with blood.
“Put him on the bed,” Lucian ordered.
His warriors hesitated. The bed?
Lucian’s tone sharpened. “I said the bed.”
They obeyed, exchanging confused glances.
Elia looked broken and too thin for a shifter, ribs pressing through skin, yet somehow… beautiful. Even in blood and bruises. Strands of dirty-silver hair clung to his cheek, and beneath the grime, his lashes were thick, his lips flushed from the fight. There was grace in his suffering, something almost cruelly enchanting.
Lucian stepped away from the bed, hands clenched. His blood burned. His instincts howled.
He was not supposed to feel like this.
“Ryze,” he muttered. “Clean him. Bandage the wounds.”
Ryze frowned. “With respect, Your Majesty... personally?”
Lucian didn’t repeat himself.
Two men began working on the boy. They carefully peeled off what was left of the prison rags—torn, blood-stained, barely cloth. Underneath, Elia’s skin was a map of bruises, some fresh, some old. His chest rose shallowly.
Suddenly, Elia’s eyes snapped open.
Instinct kicked in. The boy jerked violently upright, groaning in pain, lashing out, swinging at Ryze. His movements were clumsy, desperate. His eyes were wild with fear. Ryze tried to calm him down but he kept panicking and screaming.
Quite!!
The silence after Lucian’s command hung heavy in the room like a blade. No one dared breathe too loudly. Elia had curled into himself at the sound of the Alpha King’s voice—low, fierce, and absolute. He hadn’t even known the man was in the room until that moment, and the fear that spread through his limbs wasn’t just from pain—it was instinctual. Deep. Bone-cutting.
The warriors finished tending to Elia’s wounds in tense quiet. His skin was raw and swollen in places. Bruises bloomed across his ribs and jaw. Still, despite the clear signs of brutality, he never made a sound.
Once the bandages were secured, one of Lucian’s guards stepped forward, holding out a folded set of fresh clothing—simple, yet clean and warm.
“Put this on,” he said.
Elia stared at it for a moment, then rose unsteadily and limped toward the side chamber. The pain was fierce now, no longer dulled by shock. Every breath was a struggle. His body ached in ways he’d never known before. But it wasn’t just the bruises that stung—it was the confusion.
Why was he here? Why had the Alpha King himself brought him?
Inside the small changing alcove, Elia peeled the wrappings from his skin and slipped into the clean garments. The fabric felt foreign. He had never worn anything that wasn’t prison-rough or threadbare. This was soft, cotton-laced linen with proper seams and ties. Not a slave’s wear.
When he returned to the room, the warriors were still there—watching. Lucian stood near the window, unmoving, back straight, arms folded across his chest. He turned as Elia stepped out, and their eyes locked again—just for a moment.
The guards shifted.
“Leave us,” Lucian said.
Ryze stiffened. “Your Majesty—”
“I said leave.”
“But the boy—”
Lucian’s voice dropped. “I will not repeat myself.”
One by one, they obeyed, though reluctantly. The door clicked shut behind them.
The silence returned.
Elia stood awkwardly beside the bed now, hands clenched at his sides. He didn’t dare sit.
.Lucian approached slowly, his eyes scanning the boy’s face. He could feel the mate bond tugging at him again—tightening like a leash around his soul. It was maddening. Impossible. Dangerous.
Still… he needed to know.
“Who are you?” he asked, voice low.
Elia’s lips parted. He hesitated, eyes flicking to the floor. “I… I’m no one.”
“Don’t lie.”
“I’m just a prisoner,” he whispered. “A slave.”
Before Lucian could say more, there was a sharp knock at the door.
Lucian’s expression hardened. He gave Elia a slight nod, signaling him to stay put, then turned and crossed the room. But Elia’s body reacted before his thoughts caught up.
The moment the door creaked open and he saw *her*, Elia flinched violently and stumbled backward—away from the bed, away from the source of his nightmares. He didn’t stop until his back hit the stone wall in the far corner of the room, his shoulders curling inward like he wanted to disappear.
Selene.
She stood framed in the doorway like a twisted vision of beauty and venom.
Her gown tonight was cut from shimmering black silk, the neckline plunging, clinging to her curves as if painted on. One leg peeked out from a dangerously high slit, her skin glowing under the candlelight. Her hair was coiled into glossy waves that tumbled around her shoulders, and her lips—dark crimson—were curled into a slow, possessive smile.
But when her eyes fell on Elia cowering in the corner, they narrowed in disgust.
“What,” she sneered, stepping into the room uninvited, “is *that* doing here?”
Lucian didn’t answer. His jaw flexed, his eyes unreadable.
“I didn’t realize you were keeping rodents in your guest wing,” she added, with mock sweetness.
Lucian’s voice was calm. “Why are you here, Selene?”
She pouted, walking in further, hips swaying. “Dinner is almost ready. I thought I’d come check on you. Is that such a crime?” Her gaze returned to Elia. “Though I *do* see you’re already... entertained.”
Elia lowered his head, trembling, inching further into the corner like a child hiding from a storm. Her presence brought back too much—too many nights of whispered threats, of cold hands grabbing his jaw, of words meant to humiliate.
Selene's smile grew wicked." Won't you offer me a seat, Lucian?
He didn't move.
She sauntered over to the bed, dragging her fingers along the edge as she sat, letting the slit of her gown ride high on her thigh.
- Writer
