8
1130 Words
Kylen remained on the podium long after the doors had slammed shut behind the girl.
The hall buzzed with returning chatter—forced laughter, clinking goblets, the elders murmuring about the “unseemly interruption.” Gaius had already recovered, flashing that polished smile as he accepted congratulations, but Kylen’s gaze lingered on the spot where she had stood. Barefoot. Trembling. Eyes wide with something raw and desperate that had sliced straight through centuries of carefully cultivated detachment.
The mate bond.
He felt it still—a taut, invisible thread humming beneath his skin, pulling toward the corridor she had been dragged down. It was not gentle. It was not romantic. It was a primal demand, ancient and furious, demanding he follow, claim, protect. His beast stirred in the depths of his chest, claws scraping against ribs, a low growl building that he forced down with iron will.
Confusion flickered behind the mask of amusement he wore like armor. A broken omega. Rejected. Wolf-less, from what the scouts had whispered. How could the Moon Goddess bind him—Kylen of the Northern Storm, breaker of packs, king who had never bent—to someone so fragile she could barely stand?
He tilted his head, letting a faint, predatory smile curve his lips for the crowd’s benefit. Let them think it was mockery. Let Gaius think the girl had amused him with her foolishness. Better they saw entertainment than the storm gathering inside him.
He would not act. Not yet.
Not here.
But the thread between them pulled tighter with every second she was out of sight.
In the corridor, Matthew—Beta Matthew, her father—waited until the royal guards had retreated to their posts. Only then did he step forward.
Maisie was still on the floor, back pressed to the cold stone, knees drawn to her chest. Her dress was torn at the shoulder from struggling. A fresh bruise bloomed along her jaw where one guard’s gauntlet had caught her.
Matthew’s boots stopped inches from her face.
“Get up,” he said, voice flat.
She obeyed slowly, using the wall for support. Standing hurt—everything hurt—but she kept her eyes on the floor. Looking at him would only make it worse.
“You humiliated this pack,” he began, each word measured, deliberate. “In front of the Mad King. In front of every alpha who matters. Do you have any idea what kind of position you’ve put Gaius in? What kind of position you’ve put *me* in?”
“I didn’t mean—”
“Silence.” The word cracked like a whip. He stepped closer, towering. “You don’t get to mean anything. You don’t get to want anything. You exist to serve this pack, and today you failed. Spectacularly.”
His hand shot out, fingers wrapping around her upper arm. He squeezed until she gasped.
“I forgot your birthday once,” he continued, voice dropping lower. “I let things slide when you were younger. But this? This is beyond forgiveness. You are no daughter of mine anymore. You are a liability. A stain.”
Tears gathered, hot and unwanted. She blinked them back.
“If the king decides to make an issue of this…” Matthew released her with a shove that sent her stumbling. “You will be the one who pays the price. Not me. Not Gaius. You.”
He turned on his heel and walked away without another word.
The corridor emptied.
Maisie slid back down the wall and pressed her forehead to her knees.
She waited.
She knew what came next.
Hours later—after the feast had wound down, after the toasts had faded and the guests retired—Gaius found her exactly where the guards had left her.
He didn’t speak at first.
He simply unlocked the heavy iron cuff still dangling from one wrist—the one the guards had used to chain her to a wall sconce while they waited for orders—and dragged her down the servants’ stairs to the lower levels. To his private chambers.
The door shut with a finality that echoed.
He threw her onto the rug in the center of the room. She landed hard, palms scraping against the weave.
Gaius circled her slowly, shedding his ceremonial tunic as he went. His eyes never left her.
“You looked at him,” he said quietly. Almost conversational. “You walked toward him. In front of everyone. Like I meant nothing.”
Maisie stayed silent. Speaking never helped.
He crouched in front of her, gripped her chin, forced her face up.
“I told you once,” he murmured, thumb tracing the line of her lower lip with deceptive gentleness, “that I would break you so completely even death would reject you.” His voice hardened. “Tonight, I keep that promise.”
What followed was methodical. Brutal.
He didn’t rush. He never did when he wanted it to last.
Fists. Boots. The flat of his hand across her face until her ears rang. He pinned her wrists above her head with one hand and used the other to mark every inch of skin he could reach—reminders that she belonged to him, not some distant king. When she stopped fighting—when the numbness swallowed even the instinct to protect herself—he leaned close, breath hot against her ear.
“You think he wants you?” he whispered. “A defective little thing who can’t even shift? He saw you and he let them drag you away. He laughed. He doesn’t want you. No one does.”
The words cut deeper than the blows.
When he finally tired of it, he left her curled on the rug, blood on her lips, ribs screaming with every shallow breath.
The door locked behind him.
Maisie didn’t move for a long time.
Then the tears came—silent, unstoppable. They soaked into the rug beneath her cheek. She cried for the girl she used to be, for the hope that had flickered so briefly when Kylen’s eyes met hers, for the bond that had awakened only to be torn away again.
She cried until her throat was raw and her body shook with exhaustion.
But even as the sobs quieted, something small and stubborn refused to die inside her.
The wolf.
It was still there—weak, fractured, but awake.
And it whispered through the haze of pain, the same words it had spoken the night before.
*He comes back.*
*He always comes back.*
Maisie closed her eyes.
For the first time in a year, the numbness cracked—just a hairline fracture.
And through it, a single, dangerous thought slipped in.
Maybe… maybe he does.
- Writer
