Bound To The Ruthless Lycan

Chapter 3 : The Queen’s Scars

The bathwater was scalding, but it couldn't strip away the ghost of his touch.

I sat submerged to my collarbones in the copper tub, my hands scrubbing violently at the skin beneath my jaw with a harsh lye soap. The grease from the kitchen hearths rolled off in grey, murky swirls, revealing the pale flesh underneath. But no matter how hard I rubbed until the skin turned raw and bleeding-red, I couldn't wash away the invisible heat where Damon’s thumb had dragged across my flesh.

The mate bond was a sick, twisted mockery. It didn't care that his pack had laid waste to my childhood; it didn't care that I had spent the last hour holding a heavy brass candlestick, ready to cave his skull in. It only recognized the ancient, monstrous pull between a Royal Lycan and a Pureblood line.

A sharp knock rattled the heavy oak door of the bathing chamber.

"The King's patience is not an endless well, Lady Seraphine," a voice rasped from the other side. It belonged to Mistress Vanya, a withered old woman with skin like cured leather and eyes that had seen three generations of Bloodmoon rulers.

"He can drink from the well until it runs dry," I called back, my voice gravelly as I wrung out my wet hair.

The door swung open anyway. Vanya stepped inside, carrying a heavy armful of dark velvet and silver chainmail. Behind her stood two younger servant girls, their eyes glued to the floorboards, trembling like young birch trees in a winter gale. They didn't look at me. In their eyes, I wasn't just the quiet slave who used to clean the grease-traps; I was the mad creature who had pinned their King to his throne with a silver blade.

"Get out of the water," Vanya commanded, setting the garments on a low bench. "The High Council gathers in the Great Hall before the sun clears the eastern ridge. You will not attend looking like a drowned ditch-rat."

I stepped out of the copper tub, water dripping onto the stone floor. I didn't reach for the linen towel Vanya held out. Instead, I stood bare before the old woman, letting her eyes map the faint, faded white lines running down my ribs—the scars from falling timber the night Silverwood burned.

Vanya’s eyes narrowed slightly, but her weathered face remained a mask of iron. "Scars can be covered with velvet, child. Pride, however, will get your throat cut before mid-day."

"Let them try," I said, snatching the linen towel from her hands and drying my arms with hard, aggressive strokes. "Your King promised me three hundred spears if I play his game. I intend to collect every single tip."

Twenty minutes later, the slave girl was gone.

In her place stood a ghost wrapped in blood-red velvet. The dress was heavy, stiff with silver embroidery that weighed on my shoulders like a harness. The high collar hid the red mark Damon’s hand had left on my neck, but it couldn't hide the sharp, predatory line of my jaw. Vanya had pulled my dark hair back into a tight, intricate braid, pinning it with silver hairspikes that felt less like jewelry and more like weapons ready to be drawn.

When I stepped back into the King’s bedchamber, Damon was already waiting by the window.

He had traded his sweat-soaked linen shirt for a dark tunic lined with black iron scales. His heavy broadsword hung at his hip, the leather scabbard scarred from years of use. As the heavy oak door creaked shut behind me, he turned around.

His golden eyes swept over me—from the silver spikes in my hair down to the hem of the red velvet dragging on the furs. For a fraction of a second, his breath caught. The cold, arrogant mask he wore so easily cracked, revealing the dark, hungry beast beneath the surface.

Then, he blinked, and the iron curtain fell again.

"You look like a Queen," Damon said, his voice a low, raspy rumble that set my teeth on edge. "Or a executioner."

"They are often the same thing in this castle, aren't they?" I replied, keeping ten feet of cold floorboards between us.

Damon let out a short, dark huff that might have been a laugh. He stepped away from the window, his heavy boots thudding against the floor. "Remember the rules, Seraphine. In the Great Hall, you do not look at the floor. You do not flinch when the lords bare their teeth. You look them in the eye, and you let them see the bloodline they thought they wiped out three years ago."

"I don't need lessons on how to deal with dogs," I said coldly. "Just keep your hands to yourself."

Damon stopped right in front of me. The scent of pine, iron, and winter air swept off him, thick enough to choke on. He didn't touch me, but he reached out and took my left hand, keeping his calloused fingers an inch away from my skin as he slipped a heavy iron ring onto my index finger. The ring was cold, carved with the howling wolf of the Bloodmoon Pack surrounding a crest of Silverwood pine.

"A token for the lords," Damon murmured, his dark eyes locking onto mine. "To prove the pact is sealed."

"It feels like a shackle," I whispered.

"It's armor," he corrected. "Now, hold my arm."

I hesitated for a second, my heart hammering a frantic warning against my ribs. Then, tightening my jaw, I laid my palm flat against his forearm.

The moment my bare fingers pressed into the dark wool of his sleeve, a jolt of raw heat slammed through my palm, racing up my arm and straight into my chest. My breath hitched in my throat. Damon’s jaw flexed tight, his golden eyes darkening to pitch-black as his inner wolf snarled in response to the contact.

"Hold on tight, My Princess," he rasped, his muscle tensing under my grip. "The wolves are waiting."

The heavy double doors of the Great Hall were thrown open by four armored guards.

The deafening roar of voices inside instantly died away. Hundreds of lords, elders, and clan chieftains sat along the long oak tables, their pewter mugs frozen halfway to their mouths. The air in the room was thick with the smell of roasted meat, stale ale, and the sharp, sour tang of aggression.

At the head of the dais stood the High Council—five old men in grey robes—and beside them, a woman in a gown of spun gold.

Lady Cassandra.

Her pale blue eyes locked onto me the second I stepped into the light. Her knuckles turned white against the edge of the high table, her lips curling into a sneer of pure, venomous hatred as she recognized the girl standing beside her King.

"My Lords!" Damon’s voice boomed across the silent hall, echoing off the stone rafters like a thunderclap. He didn't slow his stride, dragging me along beside him up the marble steps toward the throne. "You demanded a Luna to secure the southern borders before the full moon!"

He stopped at the top of the dais, turning me around to face the crowded hall. He didn't let go of my arm. His grip was tight, anchor-solid, forcing me to stand straight against the wave of hostile glares washing over us.

"Here is your Queen," Damon declared, his voice cutting through the heavy silence like a broadsword. "Seraphine of Silverwood. The last Pureblood of the South."

A collective gasp rippled through the hall.

Before the elders could speak, Cassandra took a sharp step forward, her gold gown rustling loudly. "This is an insult!" she shrieked, her voice echoing off the stone walls. "She is a servant! A mute slave who has been scrubbing our floors for three years! She is a rat from the gutters, My King, not a Queen!"

Cassandra reached into her sleeve, pulling out a heavy parchment stamped with a red wax seal. "I have documents from the Southern Border! Proof that the Silverwood line was stripped of its nobility by order of Baron Logan himself! She has no right to stand on that dais!"

She marched up the marble steps, thrusting the parchment toward Damon's chest.

I didn't wait for Damon to answer.

I let go of his arm, stepping directly into Cassandra's path. Before the noblewoman could react, my hand shot out. I grabbed her wrist, twisting it sharply downward until the parchment fluttered uselessly to the stone floor.

Cassandra gasped, her pale eyes widening in shock as I leaned in, my face inches from hers.

"Baron Logan is a traitor who stole my father's seat," I said, my voice quiet, flat, and cold enough to freeze the blood in her veins. The hall was so quiet you could hear the crackle of the hearth fires fifty feet away. "And anyone who quotes his decrees in this hall is standing on the same rotting wood."

Cassandra tried to pull her arm back, but my grip was like iron.

"You..." Cassandra hissed, her voice trembling with rage. "You dare touch me, you filth?"

"I am the Pureblood of Silverwood," I whispered, leaning closer so only she could hear the promise in my voice. "And if you ever call me a slave again, I won't just take your parchment, Cassandra. I'll take your tongue."