Chapter Seven.
810 Words
“Marcus.”
The name came out like a command, deep and edged with steel.
“Yes, Alpha.” Marcus stood straighter, though he could already feel the weight of what was coming.
“I want everything,” Damien said, his voice low but sharp enough to cut through stone. “Who she is. Where she came from. Why she looks like that. Every scar, every bruise—every reason she flinched when I so much as moved toward her.”
His Beta’s throat bobbed, but he nodded. “Understood.”
Damien’s wolf pressed against his skin, restless.
Find out who hurt her. Find out, so we can tear them apart.
The Alpha continued, eyes dark, glowing faintly with his wolf’s fury. “Search beyond the borders. Check the allied packs, the neutral ones, even the rogues’ whispers. I don’t care what strings you have to pull, Marcus. Bring me answers. Soon.”
Marcus dipped his head, but dared to ask, “And if she doesn’t want to talk, Alpha?”
Damien’s jaw tightened. He remembered her trembling voice, the way she whispered her name like it was a confession. Aurora. His mate. His Luna. His wolf snarled inside him at the thought that she didn’t even believe she was worthy.
“She doesn’t have to,” he said finally, his voice a cold promise. “Not yet. I’ll find out with or without her words. But make no mistake—whoever broke her will bleed for it.”
Marcus caught the shift in his Alpha’s expression—normally detached, controlled, but now layered with a dangerous mix of restraint and possessive rage. He bowed slightly. “As you command.”
Damien turned away, his storm-grey eyes still burning. His wolf whispered like a chant, a vow.
She’s ours. And no one will ever hurt her again.
–––––––
Aurora only let out the breath she’d been holding when the door clicked shut behind him. Her chest rose and fell in uneven waves, her lungs burning as though she’d been underwater too long.
She curled up on the bed, knees tucked close, clutching the blanket like it was the only shield between her and the world. Her mind raced, goiing back to that voice—low, firm, and impossibly intimate.
Mate.
She squeezed her eyes shut. No. It couldn’t be real. She didn’t even have a wolf. Wolves had mates. Not her. She was wolf-less, weak, unwanted. Maybe the knock to her head had left her hearing things. Maybe her mind was finally breaking from all the years of cruelty.
Her chest tightened at the thought. I can’t have a mate. I don’t deserve one.
The door creaked open again, and Aurora’s head snapped up, her heart thundering in panic. But it wasn’t him. It was a girl—young, maybe only a little older than Aurora herself—carrying a tray of food.
The maid froze mid-step when her eyes landed on Aurora. Her lips parted, but no words came out. She simply stared—at Aurora’s small frame wrapped in blankets, at her too-pale skin, at the sharpness of her bones under her thin dress, and finally at the startling brightness of her blue eyes.
Aurora fidgeted under the weight of it, pulling the blanket tighter to her chest. Her fingers trembled.
The girl blinked, then quickly lowered her gaze, her cheeks flushing as if ashamed. “Forgive me, ma’am,” she said softly, her voice humble. “The Alpha said to bring this for you.”
She stepped forward, careful and respectful, and placed the tray gently on the bedside table. Without another word, she bowed her head and hurried out, leaving Aurora in silence again.
Her stomach gave a faint growl at the smell of food. Aurora’s eyes drifted to the tray. A bowl of steaming chicken soup, a small loaf of bread, and a smaller bowl filled with neatly cut fruits.
She eyed it skeptically. Kindness always had strings attached. Food usually meant mockery or worse. But her body ached with hunger, the emptiness gnawing at her insides. She hesitated, then reached for the bowl of fruit.
The sweetness burst on her tongue, unfamiliar and almost painful in its richness. She ate slowly, cautious, until the bowl was empty. A little bread followed, soft and warm against her teeth. But the soup remained untouched. She couldn’t bring herself to trust it.
When she’d eaten enough to ease the ache in her belly, she curled back into the bed. Exhaustion weighed her down, pulling her into the mattress. For once, there were no voices shouting at her, no hands striking her skin, no cold floors beneath her body. Just silence, warmth, and a strange safety she didn’t quite believe in yet.
Her eyes fluttered closed, and sleep claimed her again.
- Writer
