11
832 Words
The pack hall smelled of fresh bread, smoked bacon, and the sharp tang of too many wolves in one room—excitement, curiosity, barely concealed gossip. The long oak tables were crowded with pack members still riding the high of yesterday’s ceremony. Gaius sat at the head table like a king on a throne he had only just claimed, flanked by elders on one side and visiting alphas on the other. His plate was piled high, untouched. His attention was elsewhere.
Maisie knelt at his feet.
Not beside the chair. Not behind it. Directly in front, between his boots, facing the hall. A shallow silver bowl had been placed on the floor in front of her—scraps of meat, torn bread, a few cold potatoes. No utensils. No dignity.
Gaius rested one hand casually on her shoulder, fingers curled just enough to remind her the chain was still there, hidden beneath the loose sleeve of her servant dress. The cuff bit into her wrist every time she shifted.
“Eat,” he said quietly, voice carrying only to her.
She leaned forward. The bowl was cold against her palms. She took small bites with her fingers, chewing mechanically, eyes fixed on the polished wood floor. Crumbs fell onto the hem of her dress. She didn’t brush them away.
The hall buzzed around her.
Whispers drifted like smoke.
“…did you see how the Mad King looked at her? Not angry. Curious.”
“Like he was sizing up livestock.”
“Or something he wanted to take.”
A low chuckle from somewhere down the table. “Gaius won’t like that.”
Gaius’s grip tightened on her shoulder. Not enough to bruise—yet—but enough to make her breath hitch. His thumb pressed into the muscle, a silent warning.
An elder cleared his throat—Elder Harlan, gray-bearded and fond of long speeches. He leaned toward Gaius, lowering his voice but not enough to keep it private.
“Alpha, the king’s delegation lingers. They’ve requested a private audience before departing tomorrow. Diplomatic matters, they say. Border agreements… and perhaps other interests.”
The word hung. *Interests.*
Gaius’s fingers dug deeper into Maisie’s shoulder. She felt the shift in his posture—the subtle coil of tension, the flare of possessive fury rolling off him in waves. His scent sharpened, dark and stormy, drowning out the breakfast smells.
“They can request whatever they like,” Gaius replied, tone smooth, smile razor-thin. “This pack belongs to me. What’s mine stays mine.”
He reached down with his free hand, selected a chunk of bacon from his own plate, and held it out. Maisie opened her mouth without hesitation. He placed it on her tongue, letting his fingers linger against her lips a second too long.
The elder’s eyes flicked to her, then away. “Of course, Alpha. Still… the king is not one to be denied lightly.”
Gaius laughed softly. “Let him try.”
Maisie swallowed the bacon. It tasted like ash.
The whispers continued, softer now, more speculative.
“She really walked right up to him. No fear. Just… need.”
“Desperate little thing.”
“Wonder if the king felt it too. The pull.”
Gaius’s hand slid from her shoulder to the back of her neck, fingers threading into her hair. He tugged once—sharp, possessive—tilting her head back so she had to look up at him.
“Something on your mind?” he murmured, low enough that only she could hear.
She met his gaze for half a second—blank, empty—then dropped her eyes again.
He released her hair, satisfied.
The breakfast dragged on. More food appeared in her bowl. More scraps from his fingers. More tightening of his grip every time the king’s name surfaced in conversation.
Then—inside her chest—something moved.
Not pain. Not fear.
A flicker.
Warm. Brief. Like sunlight breaking through storm clouds for one heartbeat.
Her wolf.
The voice came clearer than before, stronger than the faint whispers of the past few nights.
*Wait…*
Maisie froze mid-bite, a piece of bread halfway to her mouth.
*…stronger soon.*
The words weren’t loud. They weren’t a command. Just certainty. Quiet promise.
She felt it in her bones—a tiny pulse of heat behind her ribs, where the rejection wound still ached. Not healed. Not whole. But… stirring.
Her fingers trembled around the bread.
Gaius noticed.
He leaned down, breath warm against her ear. “What’s that look?”
She said nothing.
He studied her face—searching for defiance, for tears, for anything he could crush.
Finding nothing, he straightened again, grip loosening fractionally.
The elder droned on about trade routes.
The whispers about the king continued.
Maisie stared at the bowl.
The flicker inside her didn’t vanish.
It settled.
Deeper.
Waiting.
She took another small bite.
This time, the food tasted like something.
Not much.
But something big
- Writer
