Chapter 3: Shackles and Silver

Kael had been wrong.

He hadn't found her at the auction. Not really. What stood on that platform, held upright by guards who gripped her arms like she might collapse without their support, was a ghost. A shell. The *her* he needed to see was still locked somewhere deeper, and his wolf—gods, his wolf—*demanded* he find her.

But first, he had to survive the next few minutes without ripping every throat in this chamber.

The golden collar gleamed obscenely against her pale skin, catching the torchlight like a promise. Or a threat. Kael's eyes tracked lower, and his rage crystallized into something cold and surgical.

Silver manacles circled both wrists, the metal biting deep enough that he could see the raw, weeping wounds beneath. The chains connecting them were short, forcing her arms into an unnatural position that would have been agonizing for a human. For a wolf—even a latent one—silver was liquid fire against the skin, a constant burn that never healed properly, never stopped *hurting*.

How long had she worn them?

Days? Weeks?

The scars on her wrists suggested longer. Much longer.

More silver bound her ankles, the chains connecting to a ring on the platform floor. She could stand, barely, but walking would be impossible. They'd made sure of that. Made sure she couldn't run even if she somehow found the strength.

*They hurt her,* his wolf snarled. *They caged her. Chained her. OURS. They touched what was OURS.*

Kael's hands curled into fists, and he felt bone shift, trying to reshape itself into claws. He forced the change back with every ounce of willpower he possessed. Not yet. He needed to see the full picture. Needed to understand what he was dealing with before he acted.

But gods, it was hard. Harder than anything he'd ever done.

"As you can see," Grayson continued, circling her like a merchant displaying prized goods, "she's been properly subdued. The silver ensures she remains... manageable. Even if she weren't latent, she'd pose no threat in her current state."

One of the buyers, a fat merchant in expensive furs, called out: "How do we know she's really Vale blood? Could be any packless bitch you dressed up."

Grayson's smile never wavered. "An excellent question. Darius?"

One of the guards produced a knife—not silver, Kael noted, but steel—and before anyone could react, he'd grabbed her hand and drawn the blade across her palm.

She didn't scream. Didn't even flinch. Just stared straight ahead with those burning grey eyes while blood welled from the cut and dripped onto the platform.

*Don't react,* Kael commanded himself. *Don't move. Not yet.*

Grayson caught the blood in a small crystal vial, then held it up to the torchlight. For a moment, nothing happened. Then the blood began to glow—soft at first, then brighter, pulsing with an inner light that cast strange shadows across the chamber.

The room went silent.

"Old magic," someone whispered. "Gods above, it's true."

"Vale blood carries the ancient gift," Grayson confirmed, stoppping the vial and tucking it away. "Rare beyond measure. Powerful beyond estimation. And entirely *yours* if the price is right."

The bidding would start soon. Kael could feel the tension in the room shifting from curiosity to hunger. These men had come here expecting something valuable, but this—this was a prize beyond their wildest expectations.

He needed to look away, to focus on tactics, on planning his next move. But his eyes kept returning to her, cataloging every injury with the precision of a soldier assessing battle damage.

Her feet were bare, the soles blackened with dirt and dried blood. A massive bruise colored her left side from ribs to hip—a kick, probably, or a fall. Her collarbone jutted sharply beneath skin pulled too tight over bone. *Starvation*, his mind supplied clinically. *Systematic. Deliberate.*

They'd kept her weak. Kept her in silver. Kept her in a state where fighting back would be impossible.

And still, she held her head high.

Grayson grabbed her chin, forcing her face toward the crowd, and Kael saw the full extent of the damage for the first time. A fading bruise purpled her left cheekbone. Her bottom lip was split, the wound fresh. But it was her expression that stopped his heart.

*Defiance.*

Pure, undiluted, suicidal defiance.

She wasn't broken, he realized with a shock that went through him like lightning. They'd tried—gods knew they'd tried—but whatever made her *her* was still intact, still burning behind those storm-grey eyes.

"Spirited, as you can see," Grayson said, releasing her chin with enough force that her head snapped back. "But nothing a firm hand can't manage. She's been trained to obedience in most matters. Fetch, carry, serve. She knows her place."

*Lies,* Kael's wolf growled. *She knows no such thing. Look at her eyes.*

He was looking. He couldn't stop looking.

She swayed on her feet, the movement barely perceptible, and Kael realized she was about to collapse. The guards holding her arms tightened their grip, hauling her upright with casual brutality that made his vision haze red again.

How much blood had she lost? How long since she'd eaten? Slept? Been allowed a moment without pain?

*Focus,* he commanded himself. *You need a plan.*

But planning required logic, and logic was becoming increasingly difficult when every instinct he possessed was screaming at him to *move*, to *act*, to *kill* everyone between him and his mate.

*His mate.*

The words settled over him like a cloak, heavy and inescapable. He'd been sent here to eliminate a threat. Instead, he'd found the one person in all the realms whose life was bound to his by forces older than kingdoms, deeper than duty.

The mate bond was sacred among their kind. Rare. Precious. When a wolf found their fated mate, nothing—*nothing*—took precedence. Not crown, not kingdom, not even life itself.

And his mate was standing on that platform in silver chains, being sold like cattle.

The irony was almost funny. Almost.

*Father,* Kael thought with dark humor, *you sent me to kill her. Instead, you've just destroyed your perfect weapon.*

Because he knew, with absolute certainty, that he couldn't harm her. Wouldn't harm her. Would burn the world to ash before he let anyone else harm her.

"Now then," Grayson announced, and the room's attention sharpened. "Let's begin. Opening bid is one hundred gold. Do I hear—"

"Five hundred."

The voice came from Kael's left—a nobleman in dark green silk with the bearing of minor royalty. The room stirred at the bold opening offer.

"Five hundred gold," Grayson repeated, clearly pleased. "Do I hear six?"

"Six hundred," called another voice.

"Seven."

"Eight hundred!"

The numbers climbed while she stood there, bleeding, dying on her feet. Her eyes had glazed over slightly, and Kael knew she was going into shock. The blood loss, the pain, the silver—it was too much. Her body was shutting down.

*How long does she have?*

Hours, maybe. If she was lucky. If someone got the silver off her and tended her wounds. If she wasn't subjected to any further trauma.

*If. If. If.*

The bidding hit twelve hundred gold, and the crowd was starting to thin. Only the serious buyers remained now, the ones with deep pockets and darker purposes.

Kael calculated rapidly. He had funds, plenty of them, but if he entered the bidding, he'd draw attention. Questions would be asked. His presence here would be noted, reported, traced back to the palace.

His father would know he'd disobeyed orders.

*Let him know,* his wolf snarled. *Let them all know. She's OURS.*

But some part of Kael's tactical mind was still functioning, still planning. If he bought her legally, she'd be registered as property. The sale would be recorded. Anyone could challenge his claim, take her from him through legal channels or outright theft.

If he *stole* her, though—if he destroyed this place and everyone in it—there'd be no record. No trail. No proof she'd ever been here.

The decision crystallized with perfect clarity.

He wasn't going to buy her.

He was going to *take* her.

And gods help anyone who got in his way.

"Fifteen hundred gold," someone called out, and Kael recognized the voice this time. Lord Petyr Marsden, a noble from the western territories with known sympathies for the old bloodlines. A man who would absolutely use a Vale heir to destabilize the crown.

Over Kael's dead body.

"Fifteen hundred," Grayson confirmed. "Going once—"

On the platform, she finally collapsed. Her legs simply gave out, and the guards let her fall, her body hitting the wood with a sickening thud. The chains rattled as she lay there, unmoving except for the shallow rise and fall of her chest.

*Dying,* his wolf howled. *She's dying. NOW. WE MOVE NOW.*

"Going twice—"

Kael stepped forward out of the shadows, and the temperature in the room dropped ten degrees.

His wolf was done waiting. His wolf was done with *control*.

And Crown Prince Kael Dravenhart was done pretending to be anything other than what he was: a predator, an apex wolf, a male who had just found his mate bleeding on a slaver's platform.

"Stop," he said, and his voice carried the weight of absolute command.

Every head in the room turned toward him.

Grayson's smile faltered. "Sir, if you wish to bid, you'll need to—"

"I said *stop*." Kael's eyes flashed gold, his wolf surging so close to the surface that his human form was barely holding. "The auction is over."

On the platform, lying in a pool of her own blood, his mate opened her eyes.

And even dying, even broken beyond what most could survive, she *smiled*.

It was small. Barely there. But it said everything he needed to hear:

*Finally.*