Bound To The Ruthless Lycan

Chapter 2 : The Cold Iron

My shoulder hit the stone wall before my feet found the floor.

Pain shot up my spine, a sharp, white flare that forced a rasp from my lungs. The oak door behind me slammed shut with a crack like thunder, followed by the heavy, dry scrape of iron bolts sliding into the frame.

I didn't wait to see where he was standing.

I scrambled to my feet, my heels slipping on the polished wood floor. My fingers closed around the first heavy object my hand brushed against—a heavy brass candleholder on the side table—and I swung it wild, aiming straight for the shadow towering over me.

Damon didn't even duck.

His hand shot out, his knuckles catching the thick brass stem mid-air with a dull thud. The metal didn't move an inch further. He didn't wrench it from my grip; he just held it there, his arm solid as a tree trunk, staring down at me through the dim red glow of the hearth.

"Try it," he said. His voice wasn't angry. It was flat, dry, and cold enough to raise the hair on my arms. "Break the brass over my face. See if that gets you out of this room alive."

"Let go of me," I rasped.

My voice sounded strange in my own ears—thin, sharp, and raw after three years of forced silence.

Damon released the candleholder. I pulled it back against my chest like a shield, my heels digging into the floorboards until my back hit the cold stone casing of the window.

He didn't pursue me. He walked away slowly, unbuckling his heavy leather sword belt and letting it drop onto a wooden chest with a loud metallic clatter. He wore only a thin linen shirt beneath his armor, soaked through with sweat and dark streaks of the soot I’d left on his jaw during the struggle.

"You're a terrible assassin, Seraphine," he murmured, picking up a cloth from the basin near the hearth. He wiped the black grime off his cheek, his movements unhurried. "Slow on the draw. Loud on the approach. And you left the oil in the wine long enough to burn through the gold plating before it even touched my tongue."

"It would have killed you if you weren't a monster," I spat. The words felt like broken glass in my throat.

Damon tossed the dirty cloth onto the floor. "It would have killed a lesser man. It wouldn't have killed me." He turned around, his dark golden eyes locking onto mine in the dim light. "And it certainly wouldn't have brought your father back from the grave."

My grip on the brass stem tightened until my fingernails bit into my palms. "Don't you dare speak his name."

"Why not?" Damon stepped toward the center of the room. He didn't come close enough to trigger that sickening, electric heat between our skins again, but his shadow still covered half the wall behind me. "Because you prefer the lie? Because it's easier to blame the king who marched his men to your borders than the uncle who opened your gates from the inside?"

I froze. My breath hitched in my chest. "What are you talking about?"

"Baron Logan," Damon said, his mouth cutting into a harsh, cruel line. "The man currently sitting in your father’s hall, drinking your father's wine, and selling off Silverwood’s iron mines to the highest bidder along the southern border."

"Logan fought at the rear wall," I said, my voice shaking despite my best efforts to keep it steady. "He held the courtyard while my mother and I—"

"—while your mother and you were chased into the drainage tunnels like rats," Damon interrupted coldly. "I reached Silverwood two hours after the fires started, girl. The outer gates weren't battered down. The iron hinges weren't broken. Someone pulled the lever from the guardhouse inside. Your uncle was standing on the battlements with a bloody sword, shouting that the Bloodmoon Pack had broken the treaty before my vanguard even crossed the river."

Silence stretched between us, heavy and suffocation-thick.

In the back of my mind, a memory I had buried for three years clawed its way to the surface: Logan’s hand on my shoulder in the dark tunnel, his skin cold, his breath even—not a single scratch on his armor despite the war roaring above our heads.

He was clean, I realized with a sudden, sickening drop in my stomach. The entire keep was burning, and Logan didn't have a single drop of ash on his face.

"He lied," I whispered.

"He took your birthright, paid off three members of my council to confirm his story, and left you to rot in my kitchens," Damon said. He walked over to his heavy oak desk, picking up a folded piece of parchment sealed with dark, unpolished wax. He didn't offer it to me. He held it between two fingers, his eyes never leaving my face. "And right now, he's building a force to strike my southern border. He needs a Pureblood name to make his claim legitimate to the old lords. He thinks you're dead."

I swallowed the lump in my throat, forcing my spine straight against the stone wall. "And why are you telling me this? You could have thrown me to your guards the second that cup shattered."

"Because I have traitors in my own hall," Damon said, his voice dropping into a low, dangerous rumble. "Lady Cassandra and her father are feeding Logan information from inside my keep. The High Council wants me to take Cassandra as Luna to settle the southern noble houses before the full moon."

He set the parchment on the edge of the desk.

"I won't put a snake in my bed," Damon continued. "And my wolf refuses to look at her. That parchment is a treaty. Stand beside me for six months as my Luna. Help me tear Logan's network out by the roots in front of the lords. When the snow clears, I will give you three hundred heavy spears to ride south and take your uncle's head yourself."

I looked at the black wax seal resting on the dark oak wood. My heart was hammering a frantic, wild rhythm against my ribs, but the panic was gone—replaced by a cold, sharp clarity that I hadn't felt in three years.

"A fake Luna," I said flatly.

"A public alliance," Damon corrected. "In the hall, you are my mate. In this room, you stay on your side of the floor, and I stay on mine."

I lowered the brass candleholder, letting it clatter onto the floorboards beside my boots. I took three steps forward, stopping just short of the desk, my eyes locked onto his golden gaze.

"If you touch me without my leave," I said, my voice dropping into a quiet, lethal promise, "I won't bother with poison next time. I will drive a blade through your throat while you sleep."

Damon looked down at me, the ghost of a dark, ruthless smile touching his lips.

"Signed and sealed, My Princess."