Bound To The Ruthless Lycan

Chapter 5 : The Weight of the Tooth

The heavy oak door swung shut, locking out the roaring chaos of the Great Hall.

I didn't push him away. I didn't even have the strength to raise my hands.

My knees buckled the moment the cold draft of the bedchamber hit my skin. I took two shaky steps back, my spine colliding hard with the carved post of the canopy bed, before sliding all the way down to the floorboards.

My neck was on fire. It wasn't just the physical sting of his fangs breaking my flesh—it was a wave of pure, suffocating nausea that rose straight into my throat. In front of a hundred warriors, in front of the woman who wished me dead, Damon had driven his teeth into my jaw. He had marked me before the entire court like a piece of conquered territory, planting his flag on my skin.

Damon stood near the threshold. He didn't come closer. He didn't offer a hand.

He unbuckled his heavy sword belt, letting it hit the floor with a loud metallic thud, and looked down at me. His dark golden eyes were already stone-cold again.

"Sick to your stomach?" he asked, his voice flat, devoid of a single drop of regret.

I pulled my knees to my chest, my thumb pressing hard against the puncture marks beneath my jaw. They were still slick with his saliva. "You marked me... like an animal."

"I saved your life," Damon replied coolly, stepping toward the oak desk to set his scabbard down. "Three more seconds of you challenging Vane on those steps, and the elders would have demanded an open blood duel. Without my scent on your skin, you wouldn't have survived until sunrise."

"I didn't ask to be saved by being humiliated!" my voice cracked—the raw, furious voice of a woman stripped of her pride, not the quiet shadow of a mute slave. "You didn't have to tear my skin open in front of them!"

"A claim in the Great Hall isn't made with soft words, Seraphine," Damon snapped, his voice rising a fraction, cutting through my anger with absolute authority. "Vane is an old wolf who only understands blood and ownership. If I had simply held your hand, he would have treated you like a temporary distraction. Now, every lord in this keep knows my teeth went into your throat. No one will dare touch you without stepping over my corpse first."

I let out a bitter, raspy huff, staring at the floorboards between us. "And after six months? Once this farce is over and you've forced the council into submission? Do I just become damaged goods you toss back to the south?"

Damon froze. His hand paused over the dark oak desk. He turned slowly, his eyes locking onto mine from ten feet away. The muscle in his jaw flexed tight, casting sharp shadows across his face in the dim firelight.

"After six months," Damon said, every word dropping like lead, "you will lead three hundred heavy spears across the southern border, sever your uncle's head, and reclaim your father's seat. That is my blood promise. Never question it."

He didn't wait for my answer. He turned on his heel, grabbed a heavy wool blanket from the wooden chest, and walked toward the far side of the room. Without another word, he threw himself down on the narrow stone window seat, turning his back to me.

Night dragged through the bedchamber, slow and suffocating.

Hours passed in absolute silence. I remained on the floor, my back pressed against the bedpost until the chill of the room sank deep into my bones. The mark on my neck throbbed in rhythm with my pulse, sending faint, unnatural surges of heat through my veins.

It wasn't just a wound. It was a tether. Every time I drew breath, the smell of cedar, iron, and winter air filled my lungs, forcing my instincts to acknowledge his presence in the room.

Damned bond, I swore silently, grinding my back teeth together.

Slowly, I forced myself to stand. My legs were stiff. I walked over to the basin, dipping a linen cloth into the cold water and wiping away the faint, dried smudges of blood on my jaw. I hissed softly as the rough fabric dragged across the inflamed skin.

Across the room, shadowed by the deep window casing, Damon’s breathing was heavy and even. But he wasn't sleeping deeply—I could tell by the subtle shift of his shoulders, his hand resting inches from the hilt of the small hunting knife tucked into his waistband.

I shed the heavy, stiff velvet dress, letting it fall into a pool of dark red at my feet, and pulled on a plain white linen shift. I climbed into the massive bed, pulling the thick wolf furs up to my collarbones.

My eyes stayed glued to the stone ceiling, watching the faint orange embers of the hearth flicker against the dark rafters.

My mind raced. Lord Vane wouldn't take his public humiliation lying down. I had exposed his illegal weapon shipments in front of the entire High Council. He knew I was a walking death warrant for his house. He wouldn't wait six months to strike. He would move tonight, or at first light.

The midnight hour had long passed. Outside the high windows, the full moon hung pale and sharp in the frost-bitten sky.

Then, a noise smaller than a needle hitting stone shattered the quiet.

My entire body went rigid beneath the furs. My breath locked in my chest as my eyes snapped toward the heavy oak door.

Click.

The faint, unmistakable scrape of metal dragging against metal. Someone was inserting a thin pick into the iron keyhole from the outside. The heavy lock mechanism began to shift, slow and deliberate.

I turned my head toward the window. The stone seat was empty. Damon was already gone.

Before I could draw breath to speak, a shadow materialized beside my pillow. Damon stood over the bed, moving with the terrifying, soundless grace of a phantom. The short blade in his right hand was drawn, its dark steel catching a sliver of moonlight.

He leaned down slightly, lifting a single finger to his lips, signaling absolute silence.

On the other side of the oak door, the heavy iron bolt gave a final, soft clack as it slid free.

The door began to creep open.