Before the Queen: 3

Lira (POV)

The door groans open, grinding against the stone floor, and the torchlight spills in with a piss-colored yellow hue that slices across the room like a blade. I don’t lift my head; instead, I let them look. Let them see what they made.

“Still breathing,” one of them mutters, his voice thick with something between awe and disgust. “This bitch doesn’t die easy.”

“She’s not supposed to,” the other replies, his tone casual, like this is just another tedious chore. “Alpha wants her to remember, wants her to feel it. Over and over until she submits.”

They step closer, and I can smell them—sweat, unwashed leather, and the reek of men who get hard from hurting things.

The first kick lands in my ribs, a bone cracks sharply, and pain flares in my lungs. I grunt, but I don’t scream as my head jerks to the side, causing the silver collar to dig deeper into my skin as a new trickle of blood slithers down my neck, leaving a warm, thin trail.

The second kick hits me right in my gut; the chains rattle as my body swings forward, then back, and the cuffs grind against the bone of my wrists. Blood splatters against the floor, merging into the pool with a soft slap.

I laugh. It’s a low, broken gurgle—but it’s real. I spit blood onto the boot of the one closest through torn lips.

“Missed a spot,” I rasp with a sinister chuckle. His fist slams across my face hard enough to make the world explode in white. My jaw shifts wrong. Blood fills my mouth like wine. Tears burn the edges of my vision, but I refuse to let them fall.

“Still got a mouth on her,” one sneers. “Maybe it’s time for another cleansing.”

I snort, a wet, snarling sound, and spit thick, red-streaked saliva onto his boot. It lands with a wet slap, gleaming like rust in the low torchlight. “Better hurry,” I rasp, voice raw but laced with mockery. “I’m starting to like it down here.”

My words are met with another kick, but this time to the thigh. I barely feel it anymore, though; it’s just background noise like the distant drip of blood over the hum of the wolfsbane in the air.

“Get her up,” the second one grunts, his voice cold and bored.

A loud clunk follows as they unhook the chains from the stone wall, and my arms fall limply to my side. One of them grabs the chain to my collar and yanks with a fierce tug, jolting my body forward. I stumble and fall to my knees. He gives another sharp tug that sends me sprawling, limbs collapsing like a puppet with its strings cut.

“Don’t worry, sweetheart,” he breathes against my ear, fingers fisting in my hair. “You’ll be brand new when we’re done.”

“You think you’re tough guys now?” I hiss with a crooked smile.

One of them slams my head into the wall, and my vision flashes a bright white while my ears ring loudly. Warmth. Blood.

I laugh again, loud and unhinged. It bubbles from my throat like madness, sharp and manic, mixing with the blood I half-swallow. One of them raises his fist again, fury darkening his face, but the other catches his wrist before it lands.

“Later,” the quiet one mouths, nodding toward the corridor.

The furious one doesn’t look away. His eyes bore into me like he wanted to rip me apart molecule by molecule. Instead, he yanks the chain so hard my head jerks to the side, my neck snapping with force. We move.

The corridor is narrow and lined with old runes. Some are worn away, but some are still slick with fresh offerings. The stench of iron and incense curls through the air like a thick fog. The cleansing room is close now; I can practically feel it making my skin crawl. Of course, they would have their favorite subject in the closet to the room.

They slam me down onto the altar like I’m meat at a butcher shop, and I stare at the ceiling. There’s a rune etched above the altar—ancient, pulsing, watching. I’ve seen it in my dreams, soaked in fire. It’s always been there. I just forgot.

The slab is freezing against my bare back, the stone slick with old blood that they don’t bother to clean after each session. They attach my chains to the side of the slab, locking my arms above my head, and my bones grind, but I smile through clenched teeth.

“Ready for round three?” One of them taunts, picking up a blade. It’s ritually carved but dull; it’s not meant for precision but more for pain. Just the sight of it would’ve had me begging weeks ago. Now?

I raise my chin. “Better start carving,” I spit.

I brace myself, ready for the blade to make contact with my skin, but the door creaks open. Then the scent hits me—familiar, intoxicating, and wrong. The smell of amber and cold ash follows a power that presses into the room, making my stomach turn. Something claws deep within me, not my wolf. Worse, something wounded that still knows his scent like a curse; it never finished whispering.

Draven.