Claimed By Fire And Crown

The house was too quiet. Not the kind that came with early mornings or late nights, when everyone was asleep and the world felt soft around the edges. This quiet pressed in, heavy and wrong, settling against my skin like something waiting. I stood at the bottom of the staircase, one hand wrapped around the wooden banister, the edge biting faintly into my palm. The wood was cool, worn smooth in places from years of use, but tonight it felt unfamiliar, like I didn’t belong here anymore. My gaze drifted toward the closed doors lining the hallway, then toward the faint glow slipping out from beneath my father’s study door. Voices carried through the crack. Low. Careful. I stilled, my fingers tightening slightly as I tilted my head, listening. They weren’t arguing—not yet—but there was something in the way they spoke, measured and quiet, that made my stomach twist. They didn’t want to be heard. Which meant I wasn’t supposed to know. I moved before I could think better of it, stepping lightly across the floor. The old boards creaked if you weren’t careful, but I’d learned where to place my weight years ago. My bare feet made no sound as I crossed the hall, stopping just short of the door. It was slightly ajar, just enough to let the light spill out in a narrow line across the floor. “…we can’t keep pretending this is fine,” my stepmother said. Her voice was smooth, controlled, like she was discussing something trivial. I felt my shoulders stiffen as I leaned closer to the doorframe, my breath slowing without me meaning to. Of course she was talking about me. “She’s eighteen,” she continued, and I could hear the faint clink of glass as she poured herself a drink. “The rest of the pack shifted years ago. Even the late bloomers have something by now.” There was a pause, long enough that I glanced toward the gap in the door, half-expecting my father to interrupt her. He didn’t. The silence stretched, and something in my chest tightened before he finally spoke. “She’s my daughter.” The words landed flat. Not sharp. Not protective. Just… tired. I swallowed, my grip on the wall shifting as I leaned in slightly, careful not to let the door move. “She’s a liability,” my stepmother replied, as if he hadn’t said anything at all. I could picture her without seeing her—one hand resting lightly against the desk, the other holding her glass, her posture relaxed. “Everyone sees it. They’re starting to talk.” “I don’t care what they say.” “You should.” Glass touched wood with a soft, deliberate sound. I imagined her setting it down slowly, letting the moment settle before she continued. “She reflects on you,” she said, her voice quieter now, edged with something sharper. “On your bloodline. On your leadership.” I shifted my weight, my shoulder brushing the wall as I tried to steady myself. My father didn’t answer, and I could almost see him the way he always looked when things got uncomfortable—jaw tight, eyes turned away, as if ignoring it might make it disappear. “With all due respect,” she went on, “your real problem isn’t the pack.” Another pause. “It’s her.” The words didn’t hit all at once. They sank in slowly, heavy and deliberate, until my chest tightened and my fingers curled against the wall. “She can’t fight. She can’t shift. She can barely keep up with basic training,” my stepmother continued, her tone even. “And you expect the others to respect that?” “I said enough.” His voice came out sharper this time, but it didn’t carry weight. It never really did when it came to me. I closed my eyes briefly, pressing my lips together before leaning closer again. “There’s a solution,” she said. Something about the way she said it made my stomach drop. Of course there was. There always was, as long as it didn’t involve me staying. “What solution?” my father asked, and there was something cautious in his voice now. She didn’t answer right away. I could hear the faint movement of fabric, the soft shift of her stepping away from the desk, letting the silence stretch just long enough. “There’s an offer,” she said finally. “From outside the territory.” My pulse stuttered, my hand slipping slightly on the wall before I caught myself. “An offer for what?” A beat. “For her.” The hallway seemed to tilt. I pressed my palm flat against the wood beside the door, grounding myself as my fingers dug into the grain. “You’re not serious,” my father said. “I am.” The certainty in her voice left no room for doubt. “He’s willing to pay well,” she continued. “More than enough to strengthen our position. And in return…” She paused, and I found myself holding my breath without realizing it. “…he takes her off our hands.” My father exhaled sharply. “You’re talking about him.” “Yes.” “No.” But it wasn’t final. It wasn’t even firm. It sounded more like instinct than decision, like he already knew he was losing the argument. “You know his reputation,” he added, quieter now. “I do.” “He’s killed every she-wolf he’s taken.” My throat tightened as I stared at the narrow strip of light on the floor, my vision blurring at the edges. “And yet they keep offering daughters to him,” she replied, almost lightly. “Funny how that works.” The silence that followed felt different. Heavier. “She’s useless to you,” my stepmother said, her voice softening in a way that made it worse. Each word was measured, deliberate. “She will never strengthen this pack. She will never give you heirs worth anything. She will never be more than a burden.” I swallowed hard, my chest tightening as something burned low in my throat. “And my daughter?” she continued. “She’s strong. Beautiful. Already drawing attention.” I didn’t need to see her to know she was smiling. “Imagine what happens when the Alpha takes her as a mate.” There it was. The trade. My father didn’t answer, but I could feel it—the shift, subtle but undeniable. The hesitation bleeding into something else. Something colder. “I don’t know what went wrong with her,” he said finally, his voice quieter now. The words landed harder than anything else. “I tried,” he added, and I let out a slow breath through my nose, my head lowering slightly. “I did everything I could.” You didn’t. “You think I wanted this?” he went on, frustration creeping in. “You think I wanted a daughter who can’t even shift?” My vision blurred, and I blinked hard, forcing it back. “Then stop pretending you still do,” my stepmother said. The silence that followed was different this time. Not hesitant. Not uncertain. Final. “…when?” he asked. I felt the ground drop out from under me. “Tomorrow,” she said. “The Butcher will collect her tomorrow night.” My heart stuttered, then slammed hard against my ribs. “Good,” my father muttered after a moment. “Then it’s done.” Done. Just like that. I stepped back slowly, my shoulder brushing the wall as I forced myself to move without making a sound. The hallway felt narrower now, the air colder against my skin as I put distance between myself and the door. Sold. The word settled in my chest, heavy and immovable. They hadn’t sent me away. Hadn’t cast me out. They’d sold me. My hand came up to cover my mouth as a shaky breath slipped out, my body trembling in a way I couldn’t control. I pressed my palm harder against my lips, swallowing the sound before it could escape. Not here. Not where they could hear. Not where they could see. I forced myself to keep moving, taking another step, then another, until the door was out of sight. My gaze dropped to my hands, fingers curling slowly into fists as I stared at them. Weak. Useless. That’s what they thought. That’s what they’d always thought. Something shifted deep in my chest, sudden and sharp. Heat flickered there, wrong and unfamiliar, spreading too quickly for me to understand. I sucked in a breath, stumbling slightly as my back hit the wall, the warmth curling through me before vanishing just as fast. I stood there for a second, breathing hard, waiting for it to come back. It didn’t. The cold rushed in to replace it. Empty. Broken. …right? My jaw tightened. No. If I stayed, I knew exactly how this ended. Tomorrow. Alone. Unwanted. Forgotten. I pushed off the wall before I could think too much about it, turning toward the back of the house. My steps were quicker now, less careful, the quiet no longer something I was trying to preserve. I didn’t stop. I didn’t look back. I ran.