Sierra.
The world was a blur of motion and scent. Strong arms held her, but they were not Danvers’s. They were different. They held her with a firmness that spoke of power, not cruelty.
The man carrying her smelled of pine and winter storms. It was a clean scent, a wild scent. It was the scent of the Alpha King.
He was moving, carrying her up the stairs. Out of the darkness. Light stabbed at her eyes, and she squeezed them shut with a whimper.
“Shh,” a low voice rumbled, the vibration traveling from his chest into her own. “I have you.”
The words meant nothing. She had been had before. It always ended in pain.
He emerged from the cellar, and a wave of sound washed over her. Gasps. Whispers. The shocked silence of the entire Bloodmoon pack.
She risked opening her eyes a slit. Faces stared back at her. Wolves she had spent her life avoiding, their expressions a mixture of disbelief and contempt.
“Is that… the kitchen slave?” someone whispered loudly.
“He called her his mate,” another voice hissed back.
“Impossible. She’s a worthless Omega.”
The King did not slow his stride. He walked through the corridor as if he were parting the sea, every wolf scrambling to get out of his path. His large body was a shield, protecting her from their stares.
But she could still feel them. Hundreds of eyes on her, burning into her ragged tunic, her bruised skin, her dirty feet.
She tried to curl into a smaller ball, to hide her face in his shoulder, but she was too afraid to move that much. What if he thought she was being familiar? What if he dropped her?
“Thorne,” the King said. His voice was calm, but it held an edge of steel.
“Majesty,” a second voice replied, this one coming from just behind them.
“Clear a path to the vehicle. No one is to come within ten feet of us.”
“It is done.”
They entered the great hall. Sierra could see Agnes, the head cook, standing near the back. Her face was white with shock, her hands pressed to her mouth.
Danvers appeared at the edge of the crowd, his face purple with rage. “You cannot do this, Leonard!” he roared. The use of the King’s first name was a shocking breach of protocol.
The King stopped. He did not turn to face Danvers fully, merely angled his head slightly. “I can. And I have.”
“She is my property! You are stealing from my pack!” Danvers’s voice cracked with desperation.
“If she was your property, you failed to care for her,” the King said, his voice dropping to a deadly low temperature. “I am not a thief. I am a rescuer.”
“She is a broken thing! Useless! What could you possibly want with her?”
“That is the concern of a King, not a disgraced Alpha who abuses his own,” Leonard replied coldly. He started walking again.
“You will regret this!” Danvers screamed after them. “The Council will hear of this! Taking a slave as a mate. They will strip you of your crown!”
The King did not respond. He simply kept walking, his steps even and sure. He pushed through the main doors of the pack house and into the cold evening air.
Sierra shivered. The wind cut through her thin rags.
The King seemed to notice. He adjusted his hold, pulling her more securely against the warmth of his body. The simple movement sent a new wave of terror through her.
Kindness was a weapon she did not understand. It was always a trick. A prelude to a far greater cruelty.
A sleek black vehicle was waiting, its engine humming softly. It was like no carriage she had ever seen. It was long and dark and intimidating.
The man named Thorne opened a back door.
“Stay back,” the King ordered him, his voice sharp.
Thorne immediately took three steps backward, his head bowed. “Forgive me, Your Majesty.”
The King moved to the open door himself. He ducked his head, maneuvering her inside with a gentleness that made her bones ache with suspicion. He set her down on a seat that was softer than any bed she had ever slept on.
For a moment, his hands lingered on her arms. His eyes, the color of molten gold, met hers. She saw a storm of emotions in them she could not name. Rage, yes, but something else. Something fiercely protective. Something that terrified her more than the rage ever could.
He said nothing more. He simply backed out and shut the door. The sound was a soft click, not the harsh clang of a dungeon bolt, but it felt just as final.
She was trapped.
The King walked around the front of the vehicle. Danvers was standing on the steps of the pack house, his fists clenched, his face a mask of utter humiliation and hatred.
His eyes met Sierra’s through the dark glass. He gave a small, almost imperceptible shake of his head. It was a promise. This was not over.
Then the King was getting into the front seat, and the vehicle began to move. It pulled away from the gravel drive, smooth and silent.
Sierra watched the Bloodmoon pack house shrink in the window. She watched the only home she had ever known, the only prison she had ever known, disappear behind a line of dark trees.
She had not been rescued. She understood that with a chilling certainty.
She had just been acquired by a new master. A stronger one. A more powerful one.
And she had no doubt that her punishment was only just beginning.
