Rejected by My Mate, Claimed by the Alpha King

Chapter 7: The King’s Terms

The air in the spire tasted like copper and cold sweat.

Lyra lay curled on the obsidian floor, her cheek pressed against the freezing stone. Every breath felt like she was inhaling needles. The poison the Wolfsbane was a slow, grinding agony, a chemical fire that sought out the dormant, sealed wolf in her marrow and tried to extinguish it like a guttering candle.

She looked at the tray of food. The half-eaten venison sat there, looking succulent and murderous.

Hide the tray. Toby’s note was crumpled in her fist, the paper damp with her perspiration.

With a groan that sounded like breaking glass, Lyra forced herself to crawl toward the fireplace. Her vision swam, the black silk of the bed hangings looking like giant, looming wings. She grabbed the silver tray, the metal clattering loudly in the silence, and shoved it deep into the ash-filled corner of the hearth. She piled half-burnt logs over it, her fingers turning black with soot.

The effort drained the last of her strength. She collapsed by the fire, her heart fluttering like a dying moth.

The three deadbolts on the door didn't slide open. They vanished.

It was a trick of the Citadel’s magic: the sound was absent, but the presence that entered the room was loud enough to shake the walls. King Xerxes stepped into the chamber. He wasn't wearing his charcoal coat anymore. He was in a white silk shirt, unbuttoned at the throat, and dark trousers. He looked less like a monarch and more like a predator who had just finished a hunt.

He stopped, his nostrils flaring.

“You’ve been sick,” he said. It wasn't a question.

Lyra tried to push herself up, but her arms were made of water. “I… I fell.”

Xerxes was across the room in two strides. He didn't kneel this time; he reached down and hoisted her up by the waist, tossing her onto the black silk bed as if she were a discarded cloak. He leaned over her, his golden eyes narrowing until they were slivers of molten sun.

He grabbed her chin, tilting her head back to inspect the mark on her neck. It was still pulsing with that sickly, toxic green light.

“Who fed you?” he growled.

“The… the slot,” Lyra gasped, her head spinning. “The tray.”

Xerxes looked at the empty spot on the floor where the tray should have been, then at the fireplace where the soot was disturbed. A dark, terrifying realization crossed his face. He didn't look at the hearth; he looked at Lyra, and for a fleeting second, she saw something that looked like respect.

“You didn’t finish it,” he noted.

“Toby… a note…”

“Kael!” Xerxes roared.

The door swung open, and Kael appeared, his silver-blonde hair windswept. He took one look at Lyra’s pale face and the glowing mark and swore a string of words that Lyra had never heard, even in the roughest corners of the Blood-Moon kitchens.

“Wolfsbane?” Kael asked, stepping closer.

“High concentration. One of the High Alphas is playing for blood early,” Xerxes said, his voice dropping to a deadly, quiet register. “Find the servant who delivered the tray. Bring them to the pits. And Kael?”

“Sire?”

“Don't kill them yet. I want to know who provided the extract.”

Kael nodded once and vanished.

Xerxes turned back to Lyra. He reached into a pouch at his belt and pulled out a small, amber crystal. He pressed it against her forehead. The cold was instant and absolute. It felt like a block of ice was being shoved into her skull, but the fire in her veins began to recede. The green light on her neck dimmed, flickering back to a dull, bruised black.

“You’re going to live,” Xerxes said, his voice devoid of comfort. “Which is unfortunate for you. It means you’re still useful.”

Lyra waited for the dizziness to pass. She pulled the silver cloak around her, feeling the immense weight of her own powerlessness. She was in a mountain full of people who wanted to poison her, being saved by a man who looked at her like a strategic asset.

“Why?” she whispered. “Why go through all this for an Omega?”

Xerxes walked to the window, looking out at the storm-wracked peaks. He looked lonely, a king of ice in a castle of glass.

“It is time we established the terms of your stay, Lyra. Since it seems my Court is determined to turn your meals into a funeral rite.”

He turned around, his hands clasped behind his back. The power dynamic shifted instantly. The savior was gone; the Sovereign had returned.

“Rule one,” he said, his voice echoing. “You are my mate in name only. Do not mistake the mark on your neck for affection. It is a political seal. It tells the thirteen packs that you are under the protection of the Obsidian Throne. It gives me the legal right to execute anyone who touches you without my permission.”

Lyra flinched. “I didn’t ask for it.”

“You didn’t have to. You are a Ward. In the Citadel, a Ward is a person whose will is secondary to the safety of the State.” He stepped closer, his shadow falling over the bed. “Rule two. You do not leave this spire without me or Kael. Not for the gardens, not for the library, not even if the mountain starts to crumble. If you are found in the hallways alone, my guards have orders to restrain you. They are not gentle.”

“You’re imprisoning me,” Lyra said, her voice trembling with a spark of indignation.

“I am preserving you,” he countered. “Rule three. You will attend the High Court sessions at my side. You will wear the clothes I provide. You will keep your mouth shut and your eyes on the floor. You are a symbol, Lyra. You are the Omega who defied the Moonstone. I need the Alphas to see you and wonder what I know that they don’t.”

“I’m a prop,” she whispered.

“You are a piece on a board,” Xerxes corrected. “And currently, you are the most dangerous piece I have.”

Lyra felt a surge of cold anger. She sat up, her fingers tangling in the black silk sheets. “And what happens when you’re done with the game? When the Alphas stop wondering? Do I go back to the Blood-Moon? Do I go back to scrubbing floors?”

Xerxes moved with that terrifying, predatory speed. He was suddenly at the edge of the bed, his hand gripping the bedpost so hard the wood groaned.

“There is no going back, Lyra. Jax has already replaced you. Calla is likely wearing your few belongings as rags. You are a ghost to them.” He leaned in, his golden eyes burning with a fierce, uncompromising light. “You are mine now. Not because I love you, and not because the moon chose us. You are mine because I am the only thing standing between you and the abyss.”

He reached out, his hand hovering near her face. He didn't touch her, but Lyra could feel the heat radiating from his skin.

“You will never leave my sight when we are in public. You will be an extension of my shadow. If you run, I will find you. If you hide, I will tear this mountain down to reach you.”

“Why me?” Lyra cried out, the frustration finally boiling over. “I’m not a warrior! I’m not a Queen! I’m just… I’m just Lyra!”

Xerxes froze. His expression shifted just for a heartbeat into something that looked almost like pain.

“Because, Lyra,” he said, his voice dropping to a whisper, “you are the only thing in this world that doesn’t look at me and see a monster. You look at me and see a cage. And I find that… refreshing.”

He stood up, smoothing the silk of his shirt. “Kael will bring you a new meal. He will taste it in front of you. Tomorrow, you will be dressed for the Induction. The High Alphas will try to break you with their words. Do not let them.”

He walked toward the door, but stopped when a soft thump sounded from the hallway.

Kael walked in, looking unusually flustered. He was holding a small, silver tray with a single glass of water and a piece of plain bread.

“The servant escaped,” Kael said, his jaw tight.

Xerxes’ aura flared, the blue fire in the hearth turning a violent, screaming violet. “Escaped? Within my walls?”

“They jumped,” Kael said. “From the West Bridge. They were a t****l, Sire. Their mind was wiped before they even brought the tray. Whoever did this is a professional.”

Xerxes swore, a sound like grinding tectonic plates. He looked back at Lyra, his eyes filled with a new, sharper level of concern.

“Rule four,” Xerxes added, his voice grim. “From this moment on, you do not sleep unless Kael or I am in the room.”

Lyra stared at him. “What?”

“The shadow-creature you saw at the window,” Xerxes said, acknowledging her earlier fear. “It’s a Skitter-Wight. They don't hunt for flesh. They hunt for the scent of the Forbidden. They found you because your seal is leaking.”

Kael set the tray down on the nightstand. “It means the poison did its job, even if you didn't finish it. It weakened your mental barriers. You’re a beacon now, Lyra.”

Xerxes walked to the chair by the fire and sat down, crossing his legs. He looked perfectly comfortable, despite the fact that he was essentially turning her bedroom into a command center.

“Wait,” Lyra said, clutching the cloak. “You’re staying? Here?”

“I told you, little star,” Xerxes said, his golden eyes catching the firelight. “You never leave my sight.”

He pulled a small, black-bound book from his pocket, the same ledger Lyra had seen in the carriage. He began to read, his face a mask of cold indifference.

Kael pulled up a stool by the door and began sharpening a dagger, the shink-shink-shink of metal on stone the only sound in the room.

Lyra lay back on the bed, staring at the high, vaulted ceiling. She was safe. She was surrounded by the most powerful men in the world. And yet, as she listened to the rhythmic scrape of Kael’s blade and watched the steady rise and fall of the King’s chest, she had never felt more alone.

She was a bird in a cage of obsidian, and the lions were sleeping inside with her.

Hours passed. The fire burned low, turning from blue to a deep, smoldering orange. Lyra’s eyes grew heavy, the exhaustion of the poison and the terror finally taking their toll.

Just as she was drifting off, she heard a soft sound.

Tink. Tink. Tink.

She bolted upright, her eyes flying to the window.

The Skitter-Wight wasn't there. But someone had etched a single word into the frost on the glass.

RUN.

Lyra looked at Xerxes. He was still reading, seemingly oblivious. She looked at Kael, who was nodding off against the doorframe.

She looked back at the window. The frost was melting, the word disappearing into streaks of water that looked like tears.

Lyra reached out to touch the glass, but as her finger brushed the pane, a sudden, searing pain shot through the mark on her neck. She gasped, clutching her throat, and realized with a jolt of horror that the mark wasn't black anymore. It was turning a brilliant, snowy white the color of the wolf in her dreams. Xerxes dropped his book, his eyes widening as he saw the glow. He lunged for her, but before he could touch her, the reinforced glass of the window didn't just shatter; it exploded inward, and a hand made of pure shadow reached out of the blizzard to grab Lyra’s throat.