Rejected by My Mate, Claimed by the Alpha King

Chapter 8: The Maid’s Warning

The morning air in the Citadel didn’t drift; it bit. It was a cold, sterile thing that carried the scent of wet slate and the faint, lingering ozone of the previous night’s magical explosion.

Lyra sat on the edge of the black silk bed, her neck throbbing with a dull, rhythmic ache. The window had been repaired and replaced by a slab of obsidian-glass so thick it distorted the mountain view into a swirling, bruised purple mess. Xerxes was gone, called to a dawn meeting of the High Council to answer for the "incident," and Kael had been replaced by two silent sentinels at the door who looked more like statues than men.

A soft click signaled the opening of the service slot, followed by the heavy rattle of the deadbolts. A woman entered, pushing a cart of polished silver. She was old, her skin like crumpled parchment, her hair a shock of white pulled back so tightly it made her eyes look permanently startled.

“Breakfast,” the woman croaked. Her voice sounded like two dry leaves rubbing together.

Lyra watched her with a hawk’s intensity. After the Wolfsbane, every meal felt like a game of Russian roulette. “Are you going to taste it first?”

The maid paused, a silver dome in her hand. She looked at Lyra, her gaze lingering on the white-flecked mark on her neck. A flash of pity? Terror? Crossed her face before she masked it with a practiced, hollow neutrality.

“The King has already had the kitchens purged, little bird. The Head Chef is currently being… questioned by the Seneschal. I assure you, your porridge is just porridge.” To prove her point, she took a small wooden spoon from her apron, dipped it into the bowl, and swallowed it.

She didn't drop dead.

“I’m Elspeth,” the woman said, setting the tray on the bedside table. She began to fluff the pillows, her movements jerky and efficient. “I’ve seen a lot of girls sit where you’re sitting. Most of them had more meat on their bones. Most of them had louder voices.”

Lyra reached for the porridge, the warmth of the bowl seeping into her cold fingers. “Most of them? You mean the King has had others… Wards?”

Elspeth stopped mid-fluff. She looked at the door, then back at Lyra, her voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper that made the hair on Lyra’s neck stand up.

“Wards. Mates. Distractions. Call them what you like,” Elspeth muttered. “This spire has seen many ‘stars’ come through those doors. Xerxes likes things that are rare. He likes things that defy the odds.”

“What happened to them?” Lyra asked, her appetite vanishing.

Elspeth moved to the hearth, beginning to sweep the soot from the previous night’s fire. “The same thing that happens to a candle in a hurricane, dearie. They burn bright for a week, maybe two. They think they’re special because the King sits in that chair and watches them sleep. They think they’re the one to tame the Beast of the Mountains.”

She turned, the soot-stained broom clutched in her gnarled hands. “But the King doesn't want to be tamed. He wants to be filled. He’s looking for something he lost a long time ago, and he’ll go through a hundred Omegas to find it.”

“He saved me,” Lyra argued, though her voice sounded thin even to her own ears. “He brought me here when my own pack threw me away.”

“Aye, he brought you to a high-end pantry,” Elspeth hissed, stepping closer. The smell of lye and old rosewater rolled off her. “Look at this room, girl. Look at the glass. You think that’s to keep the monsters out? It’s to keep the scent in. He’s marinating you. Waiting for that seal of yours to break so he can drink whatever it is you’re hiding in your blood.”

Lyra felt a cold shiver trace her spine. Subject 0: Kill on Sight. The words from the King’s ledger flashed in her mind.

“He has a collection, doesn't he?” Lyra whispered, the paranoia finally taking root. “Kael mentioned a Duchess. And others.”

Elspeth leaned in, her eyes wide and watery. “There’s a wing in the lower crypts. The 'Gallery of the Fallen.' No names on the stones, just dates. All Omegas. All brought here with great fanfare. All ‘lost’ to accidents, sickness, or… madness.”

The old woman grabbed Lyra’s wrist, her grip surprisingly strong. “He isn't a protector, Lyra. He’s a curator. And once you stop being a curiosity, you’ll find out why the mountains are made of black bone.”

A heavy thud sounded on the door. Elspeth scrambled back, instantly resuming her hunched, subservient posture.

The door opened, and Kael stepped in. He looked exhausted, his silver hair messy, but his eyes were sharp. He looked at Elspeth, his brow furrowing.

“Is there a problem here?”

“No, Master Kael,” Elspeth squeaked, grabbing her cart. “Just making sure the little lady had enough sugar for her oats.”

She hurried out of the room, her cart rattling like a frantic heartbeat.

Kael watched her go, then turned to Lyra. He noticed the way she was huddled against the headboard, the untouched porridge cooling on the tray.

“You look like you’ve seen a ghost,” Kael said, leaning against the bedpost. “Or did Elspeth tell you the one about the King eating babies? She’s a bit of a local legend when it comes to grim fairytales.”

“She said he has a collection,” Lyra said, her voice trembling. “She said, I’m just the latest one.”

Kael’s playful expression didn't vanish, but it shifted into something more guarded. He walked to the window, looking out at the jagged horizon. “Elspeth has been in this Citadel since Xerxes’ father was on the throne. She’s seen a lot of things. Sometimes, she sees things that aren't there because the silence of this place makes her mind rot.”

“Is there a Gallery of the Fallen?” Lyra pressed.

Kael went still. The silence stretched, filled only by the crackle of the blue flames in the hearth.

“There is a memorial,” Kael said softly. “But it isn't what she thinks. Xerxes isn't a monster, Lyra. He’s a man who has had to make monstrous choices to keep the thirteen packs from tearing each other’s throats out.”

“That didn't answer my question,” Lyra snapped.

Kael turned, his face uncharacteristically solemn. “The girls who came before you… they weren't like you. They were pawns sent by Alphas to seduce him, to spy on him, to poison him. He didn't kill them. The world they came from did.”

He stepped toward the bed, reaching out as if to touch her shoulder, then thought better of it. “Xerxes is obsessed with you because you are the first thing in a century that wasn't sent to him with a hidden blade. You’re a miracle he doesn't know how to handle.”

“A miracle or a subject?”

“In this mountain, there isn't much difference,” Kael admitted. He sighed, rubbing his face. “Look, I’m supposed to take you to the solarium. The King wants you to get some actual sun, not this gloom. It’s supposed to help with the Wolfsbane recovery.”

Lyra looked at the door. “He said I wasn't to leave the spire.”

“He’s the King. He changed his mind. Or rather, I convinced him that keeping you in a stone box was a great way to make sure you actually did go mad.”

Kael held out a hand. “Trust me, Lyra. If I wanted to kill you, I’d have done it when you were unconscious in the carriage. It’s much less paperwork.”

Lyra hesitated, then took his hand. His skin was warm, his grip steady. It was the first bit of normalcy she’d felt in days.

The walk to the solarium was a blur of dizzying heights and oppressive stone. They passed through hallways lined with tapestries that seemed to watch them, and past guards who didn't even blink as they passed.

The solarium was at the very top of a southern wing. It was a massive dome of clear glass, filled with exotic plants that shouldn't have been able to grow in the alpine cold. There were orange trees heavy with fruit, and vines of jasmine that filled the air with a cloying, sweet scent.

In the center of the room, bathed in a shaft of golden afternoon light, sat King Xerxes.

He was at a small wrought-iron table, a mountain of scrolls spread out before him. He looked up as they entered, his golden eyes flaring.

“You’re late,” he said to Kael.

“The stairs didn't get any shorter since breakfast, Sire,” Kael retorted, gesturing for Lyra to sit in a plush velvet chair opposite the King.

Xerxes watched her sit. He looked at her pale face, the dark circles under her eyes, and the way she flinched when a nearby bird chirped.

“You’ve been listening to the servants,” Xerxes said. It wasn't a question.

“They have interesting stories,” Lyra said, her heart hammering. “They say you’re a collector.”

Xerxes went back to his scrolls, his pen scratching loudly on the parchment. “The people of this Citadel need a monster to fear so they don’t turn on each other. If they think I’m a vampire who keeps Omegas in jars, they tend to be more polite to my face.”

“And what if I don’t find it funny?”

Xerxes stopped writing. He looked at her, and the intensity of his gaze was like a physical weight. “I don't expect you to find it funny, Lyra. I expect you to survive it.”

He stood up, walking to a nearby orange tree. He plucked a piece of fruit, peeled it with a small silver knife, and held a slice out to her.

Lyra stared at the fruit. Is it poisoned? Is this how it starts?

“Eat it,” Xerxes said. “The vitamin C will help clear the last of the Wolfsbane. Unless you prefer the taste of Elspeth’s lies.”

Lyra took the orange. It was sweet, bursting with juice, and felt like a spark of life in her parched throat.

“Kael, leave us,” Xerxes commanded.

Kael bowed and retreated to the far end of the solarium, though he kept his hand on his sword.

Xerxes sat on the edge of the table, looking down at Lyra. “I know what they say about me. I know what the ledger in the carriage said. You think I’m waiting for you to shift so I can kill you.”

“Aren't you?”

“If I wanted you dead, Lyra, I would have let Jax have you. Exile is a much more efficient execution than anything I could devise.” He leaned in, his scent cedar and storm overpowering the jasmine. “I am keeping you here because you are a hole in the world. You shouldn't exist. An Omega with the mark of an Alpha? A girl who can shatter Moonstone? You are a threat to everything the High Alphas believe in.”

He reached out, his hand hovering near her neck. He didn't touch her, but the mark throbbed in response.

“They want me to kill you. Every scroll on this table is a demand for your head. They call you an abomination.”

“Am I?”

Xerxes’ fingers finally brushed the skin of her throat. The contact was electric. A jolt of pure, white-hot energy shot through Lyra, and for a second, the solarium vanished.

She saw a field of white snow. She saw a wolf with wings of shadow, and another, a massive black wolf with golden eyes standing guard over her.

Then the vision snapped.

Xerxes pulled his hand back as if he’d been burned. He was breathing heavily, his eyes wide with a shock that mirrored her own.

“You are not an abomination,” he whispered, his voice rough. “You are the key. And the reason I’m so terrifying, Lyra, is because I’m the only one who can keep you from being turned into a lock.”

He stood up abruptly, gathering his scrolls. “Kael will take you back to the spire. We have the Gala tonight. You will wear the black silk. And you will not speak to anyone.”

He walked away without looking back, his footsteps echoing on the marble.

Lyra sat in the sunlight, the taste of the orange lingering on her tongue. She wanted to believe him. She wanted to believe Kael. But as she looked down at the wrought-iron table, she saw a single piece of parchment that Xerxes had forgotten.

It was a list.

1. Elara - Failed.

2. Selene - Failed.

3. Mirra - Failed.

4. Lyra - Pending.

Underneath the names was a drawing of a cage.

Lyra’s blood turned to ice. Paranoia, sharp and jagged, pierced through the warmth of the sun. Xerxes wasn't protecting her from the High Alphas. He was protecting his investment.

She stood up, her legs shaking. She had to get out. She had to find Toby. She had to find a way back to the world where she was just a runt, because being a miracle was starting to feel like a death sentence.

As she turned to find Kael, she noticed something she hadn't seen before.

At the far end of the solarium, behind a thick curtain of ivy, was a door. It was small, made of heavy iron, and lacked the deadbolts of her spire.

She glanced at Kael. He was talking to a guard near the entrance, his back turned.

Lyra slipped behind the ivy. Her heart was a drum in her ears. She grabbed the handle and pulled.

It was open.

She stepped through, expecting a hallway or a staircase.

Instead, she found herself in a small, cold room with no windows. The walls were lined with shelves, and on those shelves were jars.

Hundreds of them.

Inside the jars, preserved in a clear, glowing fluid, were wolves’ hearts. Each one was labeled with a name.

Elara.

Selene.

Mirra.

And at the very end of the shelf, next to a jar filled with fresh, empty fluid, was a label that hadn't been finished yet.

Ly...

A shadow fell across the doorway.

“I told you not to touch the art, little bird.”

Kael stood there, his playful grin completely gone. In his hand was a silver needle, dripping with the same green liquid that had been in her venison.

Kael stepped into the room, the heavy iron door slamming shut behind him with a finality that made the jars on the shelves rattle. “The King doesn't like it when his subjects go wandering,” he said, his voice as cold as the stone walls. “It makes the harvest… messy.” He raised the needle, and as Lyra backed away, her heel hit a loose stone in the floor, sending her tumbling into a hidden pit that smelled of ancient blood and damp fur.