The Wolf King's Fated Mate

Sierra.

Smoke. That was the first warning.

It curled from the edges of the oven, thin and gray, smelling of ruin.

Agnes, the head cook, cursed under her breath. “No, no, no.”

Her panicked eyes darted to Sierra.

“Did you check it? I told you to check it every ten minutes.”

Sierra flinched, her hands tightening on the potato she was peeling. “I did. It was fine.”

“Fine doesn’t make smoke, girl,” Agnes hissed, yanking the heavy oven door open. A plume of blackness billowed out, choking the air.

The roast was black.

Not browned. Not even a little singed. It was a hunk of charcoal.

“Gods be damned,” Agnes whispered, her face pale. “He’s going to kill us.”

Sierra’s heart hammered against her ribs. She didn't say anything. There was nothing to say.

Footsteps thudded down the hall. Heavy, angry footsteps.

Alpha Danvers.

He filled the doorway of the kitchen, his massive frame blocking the light. His eyes, the color of chips of ice, scanned the room before landing on the smoking oven.

“What is that smell?” he asked. His voice was dangerously quiet.

Agnes bowed her head. “Alpha. There was a mishap with the roast.”

“A mishap?” He walked slowly into the kitchen, his boots echoing on the stone floor. He peered into the oven. “This is not a mishap, Agnes. This is a catastrophe.”

He turned his gaze on Sierra. She tried to make herself smaller, to disappear into the shadows of the steamy kitchen.

“You,” he said, pointing a thick finger at her. “This was your charge.”

“I watched it, Alpha,” she whispered, her voice trembling.

“You watched it burn?” he sneered. “The King arrives in less than an hour. The Alpha King of all wolves. He comes to my pack house, to my table, and you feed him cinders?”

“We have another,” Agnes said quickly, gesturing to a smaller cut of meat on the counter. “We can cook it. It won’t take long.”

Danvers ignored her. His focus was entirely on Sierra. He took another step closer, invading her space until all she could smell was his scent, pine and cold rage.

“Do you have any idea what this visit means?” he asked, his voice a low growl. “It is about respect. Power. It is about showing him that the Bloodmoon Pack is strong.”

Sierra kept her eyes on the floor. “Yes, Alpha.”

“And what does this show him?” He kicked the oven door shut with a deafening clang. “It shows him that my pack is run by incompetent, worthless slaves who cannot even manage a simple fire.”

“It was my fault,” Agnes tried again. “I should have supervised her more closely.”

“Oh, I agree,” Danvers said without looking at her. “And you will be punished for that later. But she held the responsibility.”

He reached out and grabbed Sierra’s arm. His fingers dug into her thin bicep like steel claws.

She cried out, a small, pathetic sound.

“Please, Alpha,” she begged.

“You do not beg,” he snarled, dragging her from behind the kitchen counter and into the center of the room. “You do your job. And when you fail, you take what you have earned.”

His open hand struck her across the face. The force of it sent her sprawling onto the stone floor.

Her cheek exploded with pain. The taste of blood filled her mouth.

“Get up.”

She scrambled to her knees, shaking. She could see Agnes in her peripheral vision, her face a mask of fear, her hands twisting in her apron.

“Look at me when I speak to you,” Danvers commanded.

Sierra slowly lifted her head. A bruise was already forming on her cheek, dark and ugly.

“You are a stain on this pack,” he said, his voice dripping with contempt. “A worthless scrap my father should have drowned at birth.”

He kicked her side. Not hard enough to break a rib, but hard enough to steal her breath and send a fresh wave of agony through her body.

She curled into a ball, gasping.

“The King will be here soon,” he said, more to himself now. He paced the kitchen floor like a caged animal. “He cannot see this. He cannot see you.”

His eyes narrowed as an idea formed.

“A new problem,” he muttered. “Now I have to hide your disgusting face.”

He stopped pacing and looked down at her. “I can’t have the King seeing your bruises. He’ll think I can’t control my own household.”

Sierra said nothing. She just trembled on the cold floor.

“Agnes,” he barked.

“Yes, Alpha?”

“Get that other roast cooked. Now. If it is not perfect, you will join her.”

Agnes nodded frantically and rushed to the stove, her hands shaking so badly she could barely light the fire.

Danvers grabbed Sierra’s arm again, hauling her roughly to her feet. She stumbled, her vision swimming.

“You will be kept out of sight,” he said, dragging her out of the kitchen. “You will not make a sound. You will not even breathe too loudly, do you understand me?”

“Yes, Alpha,” she choked out.

He pulled her through the corridors of the large, drafty pack house. They passed other pack members who averted their eyes, pretending not to see the Alpha dragging the Omega slave by her hair now.

No one ever helped.

They descended a set of steep stone stairs into the damp, cold cellar.

The air was thick with the smell of earth and mildew.

He shoved her towards the back wall, where old iron manacles were bolted into the stone. They were relics from a more brutal time, but Danvers found them useful.

“This is where you belong,” he said, forcing her wrist into a rusty cuff. “With the rats and the rot.”

He snapped it shut. He did the same with her other wrist, stretching her arms wide.

“The King will be gone by morning,” Danvers said, stepping back to admire his work. “Maybe then I’ll remember you’re down here.”

He turned to leave.

“Alpha, please,” Sierra whispered, the words tearing at her raw throat. “It’s so cold.”

Danvers paused at the door. He looked back at her, a cruel smile playing on his lips.

“I know,” he said.

He pulled the heavy wooden door shut.

The bolt slid home with a loud, final click.

Darkness swallowed her whole. Utter and complete. Sierra hung from the wall, the cold seeping into her bones, and let the tears fall in silence. Hope was a foolish luxury she had learned long ago to live without.