Bound To The Ruthless Lycan

Chapter 1 : A Blade in the Dark

"Bring the wine up, Mute!"

A leather clad elbow smashed into my shoulder blade. The force sent me staggering forward, the brass soles of my boots scraping against cold flagstones. I caught my balance a hair's breadth before the silver tray in my hands tipped, my knuckles straining white against the metal handles.

"Watch it, girl," the guard spat, his breath reeking of stale ale and greasy pork. "The King isn't known for his patience. Spill a single drop, and I'll tear the skin off your back myself."

I kept my chin pinned to my chest, letting matted hair fall across my face. I didn't nod. I didn't make a sound. For three years, my tongue had remained locked behind my teeth.

To the guards, the servants, and the lords of the Bloodmoon Pack, I was just Seraphine, the twitchy, quiet orphan who scrubbed soot from the hearths and never raised her eyes.

They didn't know that beneath the grime, my skin bore no marks of lifelong servitude. They didn't know the silence they pitied was a mask.

And they certainly didn't know that the golden cup on the right side of my tray held three drops of clear Wolfsbane oil a liquid designed to turn an Alpha's lungs into wet ash before his heart could beat six times.

The grand hall roared with noise. Hundreds of warriors sat along oak tables, slamming pewter mugs and howling with laughter as roasted carcasses were dragged across the stone. Banners of the Bloodmoon Pack, a crimson wolf against a black sun, hung heavy from the rafters. Tonight was the Full Moon Feast, a victory celebration.

A celebration of the night they reduced my home to cinders.

My chest tightened, a cold hatred pooling beneath my ribs. I forced my breathing into a slow, shallow rhythm, burying the wild pulse in my throat as I reached the marble dais. There, raised above his men, sat the man who ordered the slaughter of Silverwood.

Damon Shadowfang.

He wore no crown. He didn't need one. His presence alone sat like an iron weight on every chest in the room. Heavy direwolf fur draped over broad shoulders, leaving his scarred, tanned chest bare. He leaned back in an obsidian chair, one long leg hitched over the armrest, his sharp face settled into a look of bored arrogance.

"My King," the head steward bowed low beside the chair, waving his hand toward me. "The vintage from the southern cellars."

Damon didn't look at the man. His dark gold eyes stayed fixed on two drunk soldiers wrestling over a marrow bone near the hearth. "Pour," he commanded.

The sound came from deep in his chest, a low, raspy growl that vibrated through the stone floor and set my back teeth on edge.

I stepped up the dais, keeping my eyes locked on his leather boots. My hands trembled—a practiced tremor of a frightened slave—as I tipped the glass decanter over the rightmost golden cup.

The dark wine swirled, swallowing the poison.

Just one sip, I told myself, my ears ringing with the rush of my own blood. Put your mouth to the rim. For my mother. For my father. For Silverwood.

I lifted the tray, extending the cup toward him.

Damon’s hand moved. His fingers were long, calloused, tipped with heavy black nails. He reached for the stem.

An inch away. Half an inch. His knuckles scraped the gold.

Then, he stopped.

The roaring in the hall seemed to drop away. Damon didn't grab the glass. Instead, his nostrils flared, catching the air once. Twice.

My ribs squeezed tight against my lungs. He knows.

Before I could pull back, his arm lashed out.

CRASH!

His forearm struck the tray, sending it clattering across the floor. The golden cup shattered against the stone steps, spilling dark wine. The second the liquid hit the floor, thick purple vapor hissed into the air, eating into the rock with a sharp, acrid stench.

"Poison!" a guard roared.

Steel rasped against leather as dozens of blades cleared their scabbards. Chaos broke open. Warriors shoved off their benches, weapons drawn, scanning the crowd.

I didn't wait for them to point at me. The trembling slave vanished. I reached beneath the heavy folds of my linen skirt, my fingers closing around the bone handle of a hidden silver dagger.

I didn't try to run. I went forward. With a harsh gasp, I planted a foot on the arm of his obsidian chair and drove the blade down toward the notch above his collarbone.

A clean, lethal strike. Fast and silent.

Damon didn't even stand up. His left hand shot out like a iron clamp.

CLANG!

His palm caught my wrist in mid air. The grip crushed my bones together, stopping the silver tip a hair away from his throat. The shock of the block rattled up my arm, forcing my fingers open. The blade dropped uselessly into his lap.

"Fools," Damon growled, his voice cutting through the shouting. "Stand down!"

The guards froze, spears raised, staring in shock as a kitchen girl pinned their King to his seat.

Damon didn't look at his men. He didn't look at the knife in his lap. Slowly, his golden eyes rolled up to catch mine.

He twisted my wrist, hauling my weight around until he slammed my spine against the stone pillar behind the throne. His heavy frame crowded mine, trapping me against the cold rock. His right hand came up, thick fingers locking around the front of my neck, holding my head still.

"A rat in the cellar," he purred, his breath hot against my face, smelling of bitter ash. "How long have you been crawling around my keep, little slave?"

I bared my teeth, refusing to let a single tear spill. I squeezed my eyes shut, waiting for the sudden, dry snap of my neck.

His grip tightened, pinching my windpipe closed.

Then, his thumb dragged across the skin beneath my jaw—scraping through grease and soot to cut a clean line across pale flesh.

Zzzzt!

A raw, sickening heat burst from the point where his skin touched mine.

It wasn't just pain. It was a violent, heavy surge that flooded my blood, sinking straight into my ribs. My lungs seized. My heart stumbled, hammering so hard against my chest my sight went spotted.

Deep inside, beneath three years of buried ashes, something clawed its way up. A wild, golden wolf threw its head back and howled.

Damon’s hand jerked.

He didn't break my neck. He pulled back as if he’d touched a hot coal, his eyes widening. The cold, bored look on his face cracked, revealing raw shock.

The air between us grew thick, heavy with an overwhelming smell that bled out from my skin—the sharp, sweet scent of crushed pine needles and frozen snow.

Pureblood.

Damon stepped closer, ignoring the guards crowding the stairs. His golden irises turned pitch-black as his aura burst open, crushing the breath out of every man in the room.

He buried his face in the curve of my neck, taking a deep, ragged breath. A low growl vibrated against my skin.

When he pulled back, his hand reached up to cup my jaw. His fingers were shaking.

"A mute servant?" Damon whispered, his voice rough, thick with a dark edge that turned my stomach to ice.

His thumb wiped away the rest of the soot on my cheek, leaving my bare face open to the light.

"A dead Pureblood princess in my keep...and my fated mate."