Chapter 7 – Provocation

Alexei

Another day dawns, ashen and tedious through the high, barred window.

Correction. Doesn't dawn.

The light filtering into this stone box is murky. Like the sun itself is too polite to intrude on Silvercrest’s pristine gloom. Gods, I miss the mountains, the wind, the honest brutality of Redmaw territory. At least there, the cages felt like cages, not… upholstered waiting rooms.

I’ve counted the stones in the walls (1,348), cataloged the snores of the night guards (three distinct patterns, one sounds suspiciously like a suffocating badger), and considered braiding my own hair out of sheer, soul-crushing boredom.

I’d have made a break for it by now if my goal wasn’t right here, pacing his luxurious halls, pretending he’s not thinking about the sexy wolf he locked in his basement.

My wolf stretches under my skin restlessly. It wants out too. Wants to run, hunt, claim. It felt the flicker of Kieran’s interest, and it decided, with typical male arrogance, that the pretty prince belongs to us now. The fact that he’s resisting only makes the game more interesting.

The bolt scrapes outside and footsteps approach. Lighter than the guards’ heavy tread. The precise, almost soundless walk of the Alpha himself, accompanied by the solid weight of his Captain. My pulse gives a lazy kick. Showtime.

I arrange myself on the cot, deliberately casual, one ankle crossed over the other knee, arms laced behind my head. Projecting boredom, ease, and a complete lack of intimidation. Let him think I’m settling in. Let him think I’m harmless while I watch the fascinating play of tension across his fine features.

Kieran steps inside, with Marcus flanking him like a loyal, albeit grim-faced, shadow.

The pretty prince himself looks like he slept even less than I did. Faint shadows bruise the delicate skin under those ridiculously striking violet eyes, his mouth set in a line that’s trying too hard to be firm.

I’d love to kiss the bruised skin under his eyes while I fuck him until he’s so exhausted he’ll sleep for a week. He needs me.

He’s wearing dark trousers and a crisp white tunic today. It has a high collar, as if he’s trying to hide the pulse beating frantically at the base of his throat. It doesn’t work. I can practically hear it from here. His heart pumping double time as he lusts for me.

He stops just inside the room, maintaining that careful distance he seems to need.

His gaze sweeps over me, sharp and assessing, lingering for a fraction of a second longer than necessary on the way the borrowed tunic strains across my chest. Good. Let him look. I flex surreptitiously, biting back a smile when his Adam’s apple bobs.

Let him feel that inconvenient little tug low in his belly, the one that tells him his body isn't as easily commanded as his guards.

“Basov,” he says, his voice curt and deep. The Alpha voice, trying desperately to assert dominance he probably feels slipping. It’s a good attempt, for someone who likely learned command from etiquette tutors instead of life-or-death brawls in the mud.

“Alpha Arnulf,” I reply, adding a slight drawl, letting my own Alpha nature bleed into the tone just enough to rub against his control.

“Come to grace my humble abode? I was just contemplating redecorating. Perhaps some tapestries depicting thrilling hunts? A less oppressive shade of slate for the walls could be good? Something to liven up the place. Of course, your presence decorates it perfectly, so perhaps you should stay.”

Marcus shifts his weight, disapproval radiating off him like cold off stone. Kieran doesn’t react outwardly, beyond a faint tightening around his eyes and a subtle clench in his jaw that I find utterly captivating.

“I came to inquire about your… comfort.” The word sounds stiff, rehearsed.

“Oh, I’m exceedingly comfortable,” I assure him brightly, swinging my legs off the cot. “Soft bed, regular meals delivered with utmost suspicion, attentive guards who jump every time I clear my throat. It’s practically a vacation. I am a little bit lonely though. You should stay and visit for a while.”

My gaze flicks pointedly to Marcus, then back to Kieran, “Without your chaperone. I don’t mind an audience, but you strike me as the modest type. For now. Once I help you unlock your inhibitions we’ll fix all that.”

Kieran’s jaw clenches harder. There it is. That little flash of annoyance he tries so hard to smother, the crack in the ice. Delicious.

“My Captain is here to ensure protocol is followed,” Kieran says stiffly, his voice a perfect mask of neutrality.

“Ah, protocol.” I stand, moving into the center of the small room, deliberately invading the space he’s trying to maintain between us.

He doesn’t retreat, refusing to show weakness, but I see his shoulders tense, his body subtly bracing itself.

“Silvercrest seems very fond of protocol. Structure. Appearance. Is there any room for… wildness in your pristine little world, Alpha? Allowing yourself to indulge in a few wanton whims?”

“There’s room for what is necessary,” he replies, his eyes narrowing slightly, the violet deepening. “Chaos is not a luxury we can afford.”

“Chaos?” I step closer, until only a breath separates us. Close enough to see the faint lines of stress around his eyes, the almost imperceptible tremor in his hand where it rests near his side, fingers curled slightly. Close enough for him to feel the heat coming off me, the energy crackling in the small space.

“Is that what you call it when things don’t go exactly according to plan? When a wolf acts on instinct instead of orders?”

I lower my voice, letting it roughen, deliberately pitching it for intimacy. “When an Alpha takes what he wants instead of politely requesting it, hmm?”

His breath hitches. Just barely, a tiny stumble in the otherwise perfect rhythm, but I catch it. His pupils dilate, the violet darkening to a deep, bruised purple, swallowing the light. He’s fighting it. Fighting the pull, the raw energy sparking between us, the inconvenient truth that his body isn't listening to his carefully constructed commands.

And gods, watching him struggle, watching that perfect control fray at the edges, is hotter than any easy conquest I've ever had.

“Instinct without discipline leads to ruin,” he bites out, holding my gaze with sheer force of will, his voice tight. “As Redmaw has demonstrated repeatedly.” He tries to make it a general statement, but the barb aimed at my origin is clear.

“And discipline without passion?” I counter softly, letting my gaze drop deliberately to his mouth again. That beautifully shaped, likely inexperienced mouth. Perfect Cupid's bow, full lower lip, skin slightly chapped from the dry keep air. I want to taste it. I want to bite it until he makes a sound he can't control. I want to teach him how to use it for much more pleasurable activities than verbal sparring.

“What does that lead to, Kieran? A well-ordered pack ruled by a cold king? Or just… emptiness? A pretty palace full of silent, lonely rooms?”

He flinches visibly at the use of his first name. Another crack. Wider this time. I press gently, testing the fault line.

“You keep yourself leashed so tight. Afraid you’ll break? Afraid you’ll like it if you do? Afraid you'll discover there's more to life than duty and appearances?”

“Enough.” The word is sharp, an order backed by the full weight of his rank, the Alpha resonance vibrating through the stone floor. He’s rattled. Off-balance. Exactly where I want him.

Marcus takes a half-step forward, hand moving towards the hilt of his sword, his expression hardening. I ignore him, my focus entirely on Kieran. On the battle raging behind those stunning eyes. Control versus instinct. Duty versus desire. The king versus the man.

“Is it?” I murmur, letting a slow, knowing smile spread across my face. I lean in just a fraction more, almost close enough to kiss, my voice dropping to a seductive whisper meant only for him, a private challenge in front of his guard dog.

“Or are you just getting started, Alpha Arnulf? Is this the beginning of you finally letting something real touch you?”

Kieran’s face is pale now, alabaster-perfect, his lips pressed into a thin, bloodless line. He looks like he wants to hit me, or fuck me senseless against the nearest wall, or possibly both simultaneously. The internal conflict is exquisite.

He holds my gaze for another charged, breathless second, the air crackling between us like static before a storm.

Then, with visible, monumental effort, he masters himself. The icy mask slams back into place, shutters dropping over those expressive eyes.

“Your confinement continues,” he says, his voice clipped and perfectly modulated, betraying nothing.

He turns on his heel with sharp precision, motioning curtly for Marcus to follow. “See that he remains secured. And double the watch outside this door.”

He doesn’t look back as he strides out of the cell, but I feel the force of his retreat like a physical blow against my senses. He’s running. Not physically, his posture is impeccable, regal even. But emotionally. Slamming internal doors, barring them tight against the intrusion I represent.

I watch the heavy door close, the bolt sliding home with a final, definitive scrape. Then I allow myself a low chuckle, the sound rough in the sudden silence.

Oh, yes. He’s definitely feeling it. The pretty prince is fraying beautifully at the edges. The ice is cracking. And the thought of being the one to finally shatter it, to unravel him completely, thread by silken thread? It’s the most potent incentive I’ve ever known.