The Lost Lycan Princess: Breeder for the King

Chapter 1 Neraml Pov The pen scratched across the parchment. It was a quiet, scraping sound in my stepmother’s office. It was the sound of my life officially ending. "There," Asya said, her voice dripping with sickly sweet satisfaction. She pushed the contract across the desk. "Signed and sealed. She’s all yours, Don Pavel." I kept my eyes glued to the scuffed toes of my hand-me-down shoes. My hands shook where they were clasped in front of my stained apron. I hadn't even been allowed to wash up after scrubbing the kitchen floors before being dragged into the office. A heavy, suffocating silence filled the room. I could feel his gaze on me. It felt like physical weight, pressing down on my shoulders, suffocating me. "This is it?" The voice was low, rough, and entirely devoid of human warmth. It didn't sound like a question. It sounded like an insult. "I know she doesn't look like much right now," my stepsister, Gabriella, chimed in from the corner. I could hear the smirk in her voice. "But she's obedient. A mute, basically. She won't give you any headaches, Pavel." "Don Pavel to you, little girl," the man snapped back. Gabriella shut up instantly. Footsteps approached me. The expensive scent of cedar, cold rain, and expensive tobacco wrapped around me. A pair of black, custom Italian leather shoes stopped inches from mine. "Look at me," Pavel commanded. I swallowed hard, my throat sandpaper dry, and slowly tilted my head up. My breath hitched. Pavel Romanov was a terrifyingly beautiful nightmare. He was tall—so tall I had to crane my neck—with a sharp jawline, dark hair swept back, and eyes that were the color of a frozen ocean. There was no soul in those icy blue depths. Just calculated, ruthless violence. He didn't look at my face. His eyes trailed down my frail body, taking in my hollow cheeks, the oversized, ragged dress, and the trembling of my hands. His lip curled in blatant disgust. "She’s too skinny," Pavel said, not even addressing me. He looked back at Asya. "Are you sure this thing can even carry a child? She looks like a stiff breeze would snap her in half." This thing. Tears pricked the back of my eyes, but I bit the inside of my cheek hard enough to taste copper. Crying only made it worse. I learned that when I was seven. "She's resilient," Asya assured him quickly, a note of panic in her voice. "The Salvatore blood is strong, Don Pavel. You wanted an heir from our line to solidify the treaty. She is a Salvatore." "She looks like a beggar," Pavel spat. He reached out and grabbed my jaw. His grip was painfully tight. His large, cold fingers dug into my cheeks, forcing my face up toward the harsh overhead light. He turned my head left, then right, inspecting me like a horse at an auction. "Stop," I whispered, the word barely a breath. Pavel’s eyes snapped to mine. His grip tightened until I let out a small whimper. "You speak when I tell you to speak," he warned, his voice a lethal whisper. "Until then, keep your mouth shut. I didn't pay fifty million for your voice." He dropped his hand abruptly, wiping his fingers on his dark tailored suit as if touching me had dirtied him. "Get your things," he ordered me. "We leave in two minutes." "She doesn't have any things," Asya said smoothly. "Whatever she needs, you can provide. We wash our hands of her." Pavel didn't even blink. He just turned on his heel and walked toward the door. "Diego," he called out. The doors swung open, and another man stepped in. He was almost as tall as Pavel, but his energy was entirely different. He had warm olive skin, dark messy hair, and striking brown eyes. When those eyes landed on me, something flickered in them. Pity. Softness. "Boss?" Diego asked. "Take the package to the car," Pavel ordered, not even looking back as he walked out into the hallway. The package. Diego stepped toward me. He didn't grab me. He didn't yell. He just stopped a few feet away and held out a hand. "Come on," he said, his voice surprisingly gentle. "Let's get you out of here." I looked from his hand to Asya. My stepmother was already pouring herself a glass of champagne, celebrating her payday. She didn't even look at me. Ten years of cleaning her house, taking her beatings, serving her daughters, and she didn't even offer a goodbye. I ignored Diego's hand and walked past him, my head down, wrapping my arms around my shivering torso. The walk to the front door was a blur. When we stepped outside, the freezing night air hit me. I gasped, my thin dress doing nothing to stop the biting wind. Before I could react, something heavy and warm was draped over my shoulders. I looked up to see Diego pulling his own suit jacket over me. "It's cold," Diego murmured, offering a small, tight smile. "Keep it on." "Take it off her." Pavel’s voice made Diego stiffen. He was standing by the open door of a sleek, black SUV. His eyes were fixed on the jacket Diego had placed on me, and he looked furious. "Boss, she's freezing—" Diego started. "I said, take it off her, Diego," Pavel interrupted, his tone deadly. "She doesn't wear other men's clothes. She’s mine. Take it off, or I’ll burn it while she’s still wearing it." Diego’s jaw clenched, but he didn't argue. He stepped forward and gently pulled the jacket off my shoulders. The freezing wind hit me again, making my teeth chatter, but I forced myself to stand perfectly still. Pavel stalked toward me, grabbed my upper arm in a bruising grip, and practically threw me into the back seat of the SUV. I hit the leather seats hard, scrambling to sit up as he climbed in beside me. Diego closed the door, shutting us inside the dark, soundproof cabin. The engine roared to life, and the privacy divider rolled up, separating us from Diego and the driver. We were entirely alone. I pressed myself against the door, trying to put as much distance between us as possible. Pavel took up all the oxygen in the car. He poured himself a drink from the mini-bar, completely ignoring my existence for the first ten minutes of the ride. Finally, he set the glass down and turned his head to look at me. The streetlights flashed through the tinted windows, illuminating the sharp, cruel angles of his face. "Let's get one thing straight." "You are not a wife. You are not a partner. You are a breeder. Do you understand that word?" I stared at him, my heartbeat suddenly increasing. I didn't answer. Before I could blink, his hand shot out, his large fingers wrapping around my throat. He didn't squeeze hard enough to choke me, but the threat was crystal clear. He pinned me back against the window. "I asked you a question," he growled, leaning in so close I could feel the heat radiating off him. "Do you understand what you are?" "Yes," I choked out, my hands flying up to grip his thick wrist. It felt like trying to move a steel beam. "Good," Pavel sneered. He let go of my throat but leaned his arm heavily against the seat right beside my head, trapping me. "You eat what my staff gives you. You sleep in the room you are assigned. You don't speak unless I ask you a direct question. Your only job is to get pregnant. The second you give me a son, you're out on the street. Until then, you belong to me. Body, breath, and blood. Am I clear?" Anger, hot and sudden, flared up inside my chest. For ten years, I had taken the abuse because I had nowhere else to go. But hearing this man—this stranger—reduce me to an incubator snapped something deep inside my soul. "I'm not an animal," I whispered, my voice shaking with a rage I didn't know I had. Pavel’s eyes darkened. A muscle feathered in his jaw. "You're whatever I tell you you are." He suddenly grabbed the collar of my ragged dress, yanking me forward so my face was inches from his. I gasped, trying to pull back, but the cheap, thin fabric of my dress caught on his heavy silver watch. With a loud RIIIIP, the entire right shoulder of my dress tore open, exposing my bare skin to the cool air of the car. I gasped in humiliation, instantly bringing my hands up to cover myself. But Pavel wasn't looking at my chest. He wasn't looking at my face. He froze completely, his entire body going terrifyingly rigid. His eyes were locked on the top of my right shoulder. I knew what he was looking at. It was a birthmark. A strange, intricate birthmark I had had since I was a baby—shaped like a jagged, burning crown. Asya always hated it. She used to make me cover it with makeup. Pavel slowly reached out. His fingers, trembling for the first time since I met him, brushed against the exposed skin of my shoulder. "Where did you get this?" his voice dropped to a hoarse, hollow whisper. All the cold arrogance had vanished, replaced by pure, unadulterated shock. "It's... it's just a birthmark," I stammered, terrified by the sudden shift in his demeanor. "Liar," Pavel snarled. Suddenly, both of his hands shot out, pinning my shoulders to the seat. His face was twisted in a mixture of rage and disbelief. His icy eyes searched my face frantically, looking for something he seemed terrified to find. "That is the mark of the Volkovs," Pavel breathed, his chest heaving. "The First Family. The royal bloodline that was massacred twenty years ago." He leaned in closer, his breath fanning across my trembling lips, his eyes wild and dark. "Who the hell are you?" he demanded, his fingers digging into my skin. "Tell me! Who are you?!"