The Obsidian Throne: Sold To The Alpha King

The collar bites into my throat every time I breathe. It is silver. It is spelled. It burns away any spark of wolf that tries to rise in my chest. Fourteen years of that burn and I have learned how to swallow screams. “Lot 47,” the auctioneer calls. “Female. Nineteen. Wolf-less. No combat training. Bed warmer quality only.” Laughter rolls through the underground hall. The air reeks of smoke, sweat, and damp stone. A single bulb swings overhead. I keep my head down. My hair hangs in my face. Matted and dull. Pretty things get bid on harder. I do not want to be wanted. “Shall we start the bidding at five thousand?” the auctioneer asks. No one speaks. My uncle Marcus shifts beside the stage. Alpha of the Frostbane Pack. The man who murdered my parents and told the world they died in a rogue attack. The man who collared me the day I turned five and my wolf never came. He wants me sold. He wants me gone. He wants no one to remember that Elira Anderson was once heir to The Obsidian Throne. “Three thousand,” a voice calls from the back. Marcus’s jaw ticks. Too low. He needs this to look legitimate. He needs the packs to believe I am worthless, so no one asks why the last daughter of the White Luna bloodline is being auctioned like livestock. “Three thousand to the gentleman in the back,” the auctioneer says. “Do I hear four?” Silence. Marcus leans toward the bars. His smile is for the crowd. His words are for me. “Pray someone buys you,” he says softly. “Because if they don’t, I’ll make sure no one ever hears your name again.” The threat settles in my bones. Then the doors at the end of the hall open. Cold air rushes in. The bulb flickers. He walks in alone. Every wolf in the room goes still. The kind of still that prey goes when a predator steps into the clearing and the forest itself holds its breath. He is tall and broad. His suit is black, his eyes darker. There is nothing in them. No heat. No pity. Damon Blackthorne. The Alpha King. The man who rules all the packs from The Obsidian Throne. The man whose wolf died ten years ago in the war that killed my parents. Marcus goes white. “Your Majesty,” the auctioneer stammers. “We were not expecting—” “I am here for Lot 47,” Damon says. His voice is quiet. The walls listen when he speaks. “Is she not for sale?” Damon asks. He looks at Marcus. Not at me. Like I am a question only he knows the answer to. “She is,” Marcus says quickly. “Current offer is three thousand.” Damon walks forward. His shoes make no sound on the stone. The crowd parts for him without being told. He stops in front of my cage. The moment his eyes met mine, something dark flashed across his face. Recognition. Then fear. His wolf was dead. Yet for one impossible second, the room filled with the scent of storm air. Of snow before dawn. Of something vast and old waking up. Only I smell it. The others choke on smoke. I choke on lightning over stone. I slam my eyes to the floor. “Open it,” Damon says. The auctioneer fumbles with the keys. The cage door screeches open. “On your feet, girl,” Marcus snaps. I do not move. I have belonged to Marcus for fourteen years. I will not belong to anyone again. Damon crouches. Now we are eye level. His eyes are not empty up close. They are furious. Like a man who buried a war and just saw it dug up. “Look at me,” he says. It is not a request. My head comes up before I can stop it. The collar burns hotter, punishing the defiance. His gaze moves over my bruised face. He sees anyway. “You are wolf-less,” he says. “Yes,” I say. My voice is scraped raw. “Why?” “Birth defect,” Marcus cuts in. “Unfortunate. But she is obedient. She can be trained for—” “Quiet,” Damon says. Marcus shuts his mouth. Damon’s eyes stay on me. “Why are you for sale?” “Because my uncle wants me dead, but he needs it to look legal,” I say. Marcus lunges. “You lying little—” Damon stands. He does not raise his hand. He does not growl. He just looks at Marcus. Marcus freezes mid-step. Sweat breaks out on his forehead. His wolf is whining. “Sit down, Frostbane,” Damon says. His voice is ice. “Before I remember why I let you keep your head.” Marcus sits. His eyes burn. “You will regret this, girl. I will find you.” The threat is for me. Only me. Damon hears it. He steps between us. His back is to Marcus. His eyes are on me. And they are not cold anymore. They are calculating. “Current bid?” Damon asks the auctioneer. “Three thousand, Your Majesty.” Damon reaches into his jacket. He pulls out a single coin. He sets it on the edge of my cage. It is a dollar. “One dollar,” Damon says. “Final offer.” The auctioneer’s mouth opens and closes. “I… Your Majesty, the minimum—” “Is she worth more?” Damon asks. He looks at Marcus. “Is the wolf-less niece of the Frostbane Alpha worth more than one dollar to you?” Marcus’s face is purple. If he says yes, he admits I have value. If he says no, he sells me for a dollar to the Alpha King. Either way, he loses. “No,” Marcus bites out. “She is not.” “Sold,” Damon says. “To me. For one dollar.” He drops the coin into the auctioneer’s hand. The metal clicks. “Get her out of the cage,” Damon says. Two guards move. They unlock the collar. Pain rips through me as the silver leaves my skin. I stumble. I do not fall. I will not fall in front of him. One guard holds out a coat. It smells like rain on mountain rock. Like him. I do not take it. “I can walk,” I say. Damon watches me. His gaze drags down my throat, to the burn left by the collar, to the torn shift that barely covers me. Something sharp moves behind his eyes. Not lust. Something older. Something he hates. “Can you?” he says. My legs shake. My feet bleed. I walk anyway. Damon falls into step beside me. He does not touch me. But the air changes around him. “You bought damaged goods, Your Majesty,” I say when we reach the doors. “Why?” “Because your uncle wanted to sell you cheap,” Damon says. His voice is controlled. Empty again. “And I wanted to know why a Frostbane would fear a wolf-less girl.” He knows my name. He does not use it. “Now you have seen,” I say. “I am nothing. Wolf-less. Worthless. You wasted a dollar.” He stops. He looks at me again. For a second, his control slips. Just enough to see the war behind it. “Worthless things are not hidden,” he says. “Who is afraid?” I ask. He glances back at the hall. Marcus is staring at the floor. His hands are fists. His knuckles are white. “Everyone in that room,” Damon says. “Including you.” “I am not afraid of you,” I lie. “No,” Damon says. He studies me like I am a puzzle with missing pieces. “You are afraid I know what your uncle tried to bury.” “Which is?” I whisper. “That,” he says, “is why you are coming with me.” The doors open. Night air hits my face. Cold. Clean. It does not smell like blood and silver. A black car waits. “Where are you taking me?” I ask. “Home,” Damon says. “I do not have a home.” “You do now,” he says. “The Obsidian Throne.” The name hits me like a fist. My parents’ throne. The seat of the Alpha King. The place Marcus stole in blood. “Why?” I whisper. “Why would you take me there?” Damon opens the car door. He does not answer. He waits. I have two choices. I can run. I can die in the streets, wolf-less and alone. Or I can get in the car with the Alpha King who looked at me like something impossible had just come back from the dead. I get in the car. The door closes. The engine moves. The auction hall disappears behind us. I do not look back. I never look back. But I feel his eyes on me in the dark. And for the first time in fourteen years, the place where my wolf should be gives a single, sharp throb. Not pain. Not the collar. Something moved inside the emptiness. It had slept for fourteen years. It should not exist. And it was waking up.