CLAIMED BY THE ALPHA KING

10 : The First Cut

**(Elara’s POV)**

Lysander’s projected image hangs in the air, a masterpiece of casual arrogance and devastating charm. His voice, a silken caress that seems to bypass my ears and whisper directly into the most wounded parts of my soul, echoes in the throne room. *A gift like yours should be worshipped, not caged.*

The words are a direct assault on Ronan, a calculated strike at his pride. But they are a lifeline to me. In a world that has only ever called me runt, nothing, or prisoner, this stranger—this powerful, impossibly handsome Alpha—has called me a gift. He has called me a queen. The contrast is so stark, so potent, it leaves me breathless.

Ronan sits on his throne, his body utterly still, a statue carved from fury. But I can feel the volcanic rage radiating from him across the dais. The very air in the room crackles with it, growing heavy and thick. His hands grip the arms of his ancient oak throne, and I hear a faint splintering sound as the wood groans under the pressure. He is being challenged in his own throne room, in front of his own guards, and the battlefield is me.

The emissary, Valerius, watches the scene with the keen, interested expression of a chess master watching a brilliant opening move.

Lysander’s projection takes a step closer to me, an impossible, ghostly movement that makes the hairs on my arms stand up. His eyes, dark and intelligent, hold mine, and for the first time tonight, I feel seen not as a problem, but as a person of value.

“I am Alpha Lysander of the Shadowcrest Pack,” he says, his voice pitched in a low, intimate register, as if we are the only two people in the universe. “And I, for one, am thrilled by your awakening, my lady. It is a momentous occasion, one that should be celebrated, not hidden.”

“You are not welcome here, Lysander,” Ronan’s voice cuts through the air, a low, deadly growl that promises swift, brutal violence.

Lysander finally deigns to look at him, a slow, dismissive turn of his head. His lips curve into a smile that is all sharp edges. “Am I not? I thought it was custom to offer congratulations when an Alpha finds his mate. Especially a mate of such… significance.” He lets the word hang in the air, a clear signal that he knows everything. “Or have your customs changed in the Stormfang pack? Do you now lock away your Queens in gilded cages?”

Before Ronan can unleash the furious retort I see building in his chest, Lysander’s gaze slides back to me, his expression softening, becoming one of pure, solicitous concern. “Forgive my forwardness,” he says, his tone gentle. “But I felt it necessary to reach out. Power like yours can be frightening when it first awakens. It can feel… isolating. I want you to know that you are not alone. There are those who would see you flourish, not chain you.”

His words are a balm on a raw, festering wound. He is offering understanding, empathy—things Ronan has utterly refused me. I hate myself for the weakness, but a part of me, the part that has been starved for a single kind word for twenty years, drinks in his sympathy like a dying woman drinks water. I feel a treacherous warmth spread through my chest, a stark contrast to the cold dread Ronan inspires.

I can’t help it. I give a small, almost imperceptible nod in response. A silent acknowledgment. A thank you.

It’s a tiny gesture, but in this super-charged atmosphere, it’s the equivalent of a cannon blast.

Lysander’s smile widens, a flash of triumph in his eyes.

Ronan’s control shatters.

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**(Ronan’s POV)**

I watch her nod at him, and something inside me breaks.

A blind, possessive rage, so potent and absolute it threatens to overwhelm every shred of my control, surges through my veins. My wolf claws at the inside of my skull, roaring, screaming one word: *Mine. Mine. Mine.* He is seducing my mate right in front of me, and she is responding to it.

The armrest of the throne splinters under my grip, the sharp pain in my palm a distant, meaningless sensation compared to the fire in my gut. I want to launch myself from this dais, to tear that smug, spectral image of Lysander to shreds, to rip his smirking emissary limb from limb. I want to grab Elara, to throw her over my shoulder and lock her in the deepest, darkest room in this castle where no one, especially not him, can ever look at her again.

He called her a queen. He offered her worship. And I… I called her a threat. I called her my prisoner.

The Seer’s words echo in my mind. *Given freely and accepted fully.*

I have made a catastrophic error. I treated her like a problem to be solved, and in doing so, I have pushed her directly into the open arms of my greatest enemy. Lysander is a master of manipulation. He will twist her pain, her anger, her fear, and use it all as a weapon against me. He will promise her the world, and she, broken and betrayed by her own fated mate, will have every reason to believe him.

“Enough of this farce,” I snarl, the words ripping from my throat as I rise from the throne. The sheer force of my presence, my unrestrained Alpha power, makes the very air shudder. “You have delivered your ‘message.’ Now get out of my hall.”

“As you wish,” Lysander says, his voice still impossibly smooth. He gives Elara one last, lingering look, a look that promises more conversations to come, secrets to be shared. A look that says, *I will be back for you.* “Until we meet again, Elara.”

He knows her name. The casual intimacy of it is another knife in my gut.

His projection dissolves into a swirl of black smoke, vanishing as quickly as it appeared. But he leaves something behind. On the cold stone floor lies a single, perfect black rose, its petals the color of midnight. A symbol of his pack. A calling card. A declaration that he has laid a claim.

Valerius, his duty done, gives a slight, mocking bow. “My master thanks you for your hospitality, Alpha King.” And with that, he turns and glides out of the throne room, leaving a trail of suffocating tension in his wake.

For a long moment, the room is utterly silent. It’s just me, the guards, and her. My mate. Standing there, looking at the black rose on the floor with an expression I can’t quite read.

I descend the dais, my movements slow, deliberate. I feel like a predator stalking its own territory, sniffing out the scent of a rival. I ignore the rose. I stop directly in front of her. Her scent—rain-soaked earth and that unique, maddening sweetness—fills my lungs, doing nothing to calm the raging beast inside me.

“Did you enjoy the show?” I ask, my voice dangerously quiet.

She lifts her chin, her eyes flashing with a defiance that both infuriates and fascinates me. “He was the first person tonight who didn’t call me a threat or a prisoner.”

“He is a snake offering a poisoned apple,” I bite out. “He sees you as a weapon, nothing more. A tool to be used against me.”

“And how is that different from you?” she shoots back, her voice trembling with a rage that matches my own. “You see me as a bomb you have to defuse! A problem to be managed! At least he calls me a queen!”

“You will not speak his name in my presence,” I growl, my hands balling into fists.

“Lysander,” she says, her voice clear, the name a deliberate, targeted act of rebellion. “His name is Lysander.”

That’s it. The last thread of my control snaps.

I move faster than she can blink. My hand shoots out, cupping the back of her neck, my fingers tangling in her soft hair, forcing her head to tilt back. My other hand comes to rest on her waist, yanking her flush against my hard body. The contact is a lightning strike, a full-body jolt that makes her gasp.

My face is inches from hers, my silver eyes blazing down at her. “You are mine,” I snarl, my voice a low, guttural vibration that shakes us both. “Not his. Not a prize to be won. You are *mine*. And I am the only one who will ever cage you.”

I lower my head, my mouth hovering a breath away from hers. The bond roars between us, a desperate, hungry thing demanding release. I can feel the heat of her breath, smell the storm on her skin. Her lips part on a silent, involuntary gasp, her body aching for the kiss I have repeatedly denied her.

But I don’t kiss her.

I lean in, my voice a harsh whisper against her lips, a promise and a threat all in one.

“And I will destroy anyone who tries to take you from me.”