BOUND TO THE THORN KING

The Mark Beneath

Monnalissa's POV

Three days pass like a slow death.

I count the cracks in the ceiling. I listen to the household move on without me—footsteps in the hall, muffled voices, the distant clang of pots from the kitchen. No one comes except a silent servant who pushes bread and water through the slot at the bottom of my door. The bread tastes like ash. I eat it anyway.

On the third morning, I discover something that makes my blood run cold.

The mark has healed.

I stand before the cracked mirror, my nightshirt pulled away from my shoulder. The silver spirals that once glowed on my skin are gone. Not faded—sealed beneath the surface, invisible to the naked eye. I touch the smooth skin in disbelief. It still pulses, a warm second heartbeat under my fingers, but no one looking at me would see anything except unmarked flesh.

Normal claiming marks take weeks to heal. Months, sometimes. They leave scars.

This is not normal.

Before I can think further, the key turns in the lock.

Lyra slips inside, an Ash-marked servant with tired eyes and the only kind face in this house. She carries a tray with thin stew and a hunk of bread.

"Eat," she whispers. "You look like a ghost."

I take the bread mechanically. "Has my father said anything?"

Lyra's face tightens. "He met with traders from the Gutter Market yesterday. I heard them discussing... prices."

The bread turns to dust in my mouth. "He is really going to sell me."

"There is talk in the servants' quarters," Lyra continues, dropping her voice even lower. "The Remnant whispers that something changed on Mating Day. The Soul-Thorns bloomed silver. The Bone Mother wept blood." She pauses, her eyes searching my face. "They say the Marked Woman of prophecy has finally been seen. The one who will break the curse or drown the world in darkness."

My hand drifts unconsciously to my neck. "What does that have to do with me?"

"You were at the Heart that night. You saw the thorns bloom. And now you carry a mark that heals faster than any claiming mark should." Lyra's voice is barely a breath. "The Remnant believes the Marked Woman is here, in the Iron Den. Hidden. Waiting to rise."

I open my mouth to deny it, but the words stick in my throat. Because I did see something in the Soul-Thorns—a silver light that pulsed when the stranger touched me. And my mark is not normal. And somewhere deep in my bones, I have felt different since that night. Like something dormant has woken up.

Before I can answer, heavy footsteps thunder up the stairs.

Lyra springs back from me, her face going blank and servile. The door swings open.

Anah stands in the doorway, a pile of fine fabric draped over her arms. Her expression is a strange mixture of annoyance and something that looks almost like jealousy.

"Lucky you," she announces, dumping the fabric onto my bed. Silk the color of midnight spills across my thin blanket. Silver slippers. A delicate chain for my hair. "You get to live a little longer. Your marriage has been decided."

I stay seated on the mattress. "What?"

"The ceremony is tonight." Anah crosses her arms and leans against the doorframe. "They found someone willing to take damaged goods. Try not to embarrass us again."

My heart lurches. "Who is it?"

Anah's smirk sharpens into something almost vicious. "You will find out at the ceremony. Let us just say he is above your station. Far above."

She turns to leave, then pauses at the threshold. For a heartbeat, her mask slips, and I see something flicker in her cold green eyes. Not pity. Something closer to fear.

"Brace yourself, sister," she says quietly. "This one is not what you expect."

The door slams. The key turns.

I sit frozen on the bed, the silk pooling around me like spilled night. Lyra stares at me with wide eyes.

"Do you know who it is?" I ask her.

Lyra shakes her head slowly. "No one in the lower houses would accept a marked woman. Your father tried every Thorn-blooded family. They all refused. Publicly." She hesitates, licking her lips. "But there are rumors in the servants' quarters. The Iron Guard has been seen near the Heart of Thorns. The Thorn King himself has been... restless."

Alpha Alphonso. The most powerful wolf in the Verge. The cursed king who wears the Crown of Briars and is slowly dying under its weight. A man wrapped in shadows and cold silence. He has never taken a bride. He has never shown interest in any woman, Thorn-blooded or otherwise.

I think of the stranger in the dark—his impossible speed, the way the rogues fled from him, the silver fire in his eyes.

No. It cannot be.

"You are wrong," I whisper. "It cannot be him. Why would the Thorn King want me?"

Lyra does not answer. She just looks at me with something that might be hope and might be dread, and in the silence, the mark under my skin pulses once.

Warm. Steady. Waiting.