To Cage a Silver Wolf

Chapter2

Gunnar didn't slow his pace. His iron grip remained clamped like a vice around my bare wrist, hauling me behind him like a stray hound pulled from the gutters. My bare feet skidded painfully against the polished marble floor of the Grand Palace.

"Please," I gasped, my throat raw as I struggled to match his massive, predatory strides. "You’re hurting me."

Gunnar didn't reply, his blood-splattered armor radiating a terrifying, suffocating heat. He was still riding the high of the auction house brawl. We tore around a sharp corner toward the heavy double doors of his private wing, but the path was already blocked.

The air in the corridor instantly turned to ice.

Standing before the threshold, flanked by four elite royal guards, was Queen Lilith. She stood like a statuesque nightmare draped in heavy, pale gold silks. Her face was a flawless mask of aristocratic cruelty, her dark eyes pinning me with a look of pure, unadulterated disgust.

"Stop right there, Gunnar," the Queen Mother commanded. Her voice wasn't loud, but it possessed an absolute, suffocating authority.

Gunnar didn't even pause. He marched forward until his towering frame cast a massive shadow directly over his mother. "Move, Mother," he growled, the dangerous rumble vibrating in his chest.

"You dare bring this parasite into the royal wing?" Lilith’s voice dripped with venom, her ruby ringed finger pointing at my trembling frame. "You publicly humiliated your brother and threw away a fortune of royal bullion for a wolfless piece of stable trash! I will not allow her to defile these chambers. Guards, take the slave back to the lower pits."

Two guards stepped forward, iron spears clattering sharply against the floor. Panic seized my throat. If I went back to the pits, the alchemists would find me. No. Externally, I shrank back, I was vibrating with fear. But internally, my claws came out. If they touched me, I would tear their throats out with my teeth before I let them drag me back to those cages.

"Touch her," Gunnar whispered, his voice dropping into a register so quiet, that the guards instantly froze in their tracks, "and I will paint this corridor with your blood."

Lilith gasped, her hand flying to her throat. "Gunnar! I am your Queen!"

"And I am the commander of the Northern Legion," Gunnar sneered, leaning down until his face was level with hers. "I bought her. She belongs to me. If the High Lords have an issue with how I spend my gold, tell them to meet me on the training grounds and argue it with my blade."

Without waiting for a response, Gunnar violently shoved past his mother's golden robes, dragging me into his private chambers and slamming the heavy oak door. The deadbolt slid into place with a definitive, echoing thud.

I collapsed against the wall, my chest heaving as I tried to ground myself.

"Sit," Gunnar commanded flatly.

I sank onto the edge of a massive, velvet-draped bed. The room was overwhelming, thick fur rugs, gold trimmed furniture, and a massive window overlooking the misty northern mountains. The air smelled of expensive leather, and the intoxicating, heavy musk of Gunnar himself.

Gunnar ignored me, walking over to a wooden stand. With a harsh grunt, he unbuckled his heavy chest armor, letting the blood-stained metal crash violently against the stone floor.

My breath caught.

Beneath the armor, his loose white linen shirt hung completely open to his waist. His chest was massive, carved from unyielding, battle-hardened muscle that heaved in a deep, animalistic rhythm. Droplets of sweat glistened on his sun bronzed collarbone, tracing a slow, agonizingly slow path down his six-pack before disappearing into the low dip of his leather trousers.

A sudden, sinful heat pooled deep in my stomach. My heart hammered against my ribs, not from fear, but from a treacherous, suffocating attraction. What is wrong with you, Lena? I scolded myself, my cheeks burning with a sudden flush. He is a monster. He is your captor. Yet, my eyes wouldn't move, entirely caught in the raw masculinity radiating from him. I couldn’t stop imagining things, I swallowed hard.

"Are you finished staring, scrap piece?" Gunnar’s raspy voice shattered the silence.

My head snapped up. Gunnar had turned around, holding a silver chalice of wine. A dark, knowing smirk danced on his lips, his piercing gaze catching the exact second my eyes tried to dart away.

"I... I wasn't…"

"Save it," Gunnar growled, his smirk vanishing as he took a heavy gulp of wine. He walked over, looming over me like a shadow that felt entirely too warm. "Let's get one thing clear, Lena. I didn't buy you out of mercy. My brother Arlo's kindness is a calculated trap. If he had taken you, you would be dead on an alchemist's table by morning. You are here to serve a purpose. You will act as my submissive, perfect bride to quiet the rumors in the High Court. Do exactly as I say, and I will keep you alive."

He snapped his fingers sharply toward the servant’s entrance. "Come out."

The hidden door clicked open, and a young man in a crisp, high-tier uniform stepped inside. He was remarkably handsome, with sharp features and light, calculating eyes that immediately locked onto mine. He bowed low.

"Good evening, My Lady," he said, his voice a smooth, mellow purr that lingered a second too long in the quiet room. "My name is Elian. I have been assigned as your high-tier manservant. It is an absolute honor to serve you."

I scrambled backward on the mattress in sheer shock. My Lady?

"No, stop, please," I stammered, waving my hands frantically, feeling utterly naked under his intense gaze. "Don't kneel to me. I'm not a lady. I am a slave. Just call me Lena."

Elian straightened up slowly. A flash of gentle sympathy crossed his eyes, but beneath it, his gaze ran down my face and the line of my throat with a strange, feverish intensity that made my skin crawl. "I cannot do that, My Lady Lena. The Prince has declared you his intended bride. In this wing, your word is law."

He gestured toward the bathing chamber, his hand brushing my shoulder as he guided me forward, a touch that lingered just a beat past professional courtesy.

The porcelain tub was massive, filled with hot water that smelled of crushed white roses and mint. Elian remained efficient, but his eyes constantly tracked my movements as he prepared the linens. He was a court mage; his magic acted like a soothing anchor, draining the frantic panic from my chest.

He wrapped my body in a plush towel before slipping out to fetch a fresh tunic, his parting glance heavy with unsaid things.

Left entirely alone, I stepped closer to the ornate silver mirror. I wiped the steam from the glass, took a deep breath, and looked up at my reflection.

I froze. My heart violently stopped beating.

The dirt was gone, revealing skin that bloomed like warm honey and rich cream. But it wasn't my skin that made my blood run cold.

It was my eyes.

For a terrifying, fleeting second, my normal brown irises vanished, flashing a sharp, supernatural violet. An ancient, predatory heat flared deep in my chest.

Panicked, I squeezed my eyes shut, rubbing them aggressively with the towel. No. I'm seeing things. The alchemists' needles played tricks on my mind.

I took a shaky breath, lowered the towel, and forced myself to look again. My eyes were normal brown. I let out a ragged sigh of relief but as my gaze shifted upward in the glass, the breath was knocked entirely out of my lungs.

Reflected in the silver mirror, standing directly behind my bare, towel-clad shoulders, was Prince Arlo.

He was inside the locked room. He was close enough to touch my damp hair, a slow, deeply sadistic smile spreading across his handsome face.

A sharp, breathless scream caught in the very back of my throat.