Serve to the king

Selene’s POV

The iron door groaned open, two guards stepped in, flanking a stern-looking woman with sharp eyes and a braid of silver-streaked black hair tied so tightly. Without a word, they unlocked my chains, hauled me to my feet, and began marching me down the dim corridor.

My legs trembled beneath me from the sick churn in my stomach. I knew exactly where I was going.

The visit from the king earlier had confirmed it.

Still, after a week in that cold, rat-infested cage, the air outside the dungeon felt almost heavenly. I could finally be able to breathe.

We arrived in a room—elegant, warm, lit by golden candelabras with rose oil filling the air. A large wooden tub steamed gently in the center, already filled. Silken towels, oils, and strange silver combs lay beside it.

I blinked at the absurdity. A bath?

“Strip her,” the older woman commanded.

I flinched, my hands instinctively wrapping around myself. The two younger maids moved with quiet precision. One loosened my hair. The other tugged my rags away.

They placed me into the tub. It was scalding and soothing all at once. Three of them worked around me, their hands scrubbing, oiling, brushing.

I couldn’t help the bitter laugh that bubbled up in my throat.

Maids bathing a slave.

How poetic.

But then again, I wasn’t just a slave. I was his—a prize carved from his hatred. This ritual wasn’t about cleanliness. It was preparation. Like painting a lamb before the slaughter.

“I'm Maela,” the older woman finally said, her hands firm as she massaged something fragrant into my scalp. “I served in the royal palace before your father raided our lands. Now I serve him.”

When they were done bathing me, they dried me with slow, practiced care. One of the younger girls rubbed oil along my thighs and arms while the other dusted my shoulders with a fine golden shimmer that made my skin glow.

Then they brought the dress.

If it could be called that.

It was sheer silk, nearly transparent, colored in soft wine red and gold thread. It hung low on the hips and lower still on the chest, held together by delicate strings and nothing else.

I turned away, but they dressed me anyway.

“There,” Maela said after a moment. “The king wishes his gift presented… beautifully.”

I didn’t answer. My gaze was fixed on the full-length mirror behind her.

I didn’t recognize the girl staring back.

My skin was clean, glowing, my dark hair cascading in glossy waves down my back. My lips, painted faint red, looked soft and kissable.

I looked so beautiful.

A single tear slid down my cheek.

So this is it.

Once upon a time, I used to imagine my wedding night. My husband would be kind. Strong. Gentle. I would give him all of me.

I had dreamed of falling in love before surrendering my body.

Now, I was walking into a nightmare with no escape.

I would lose my virginity to the man I hated most in this world.

“Don’t keep the king waiting,” Maela’s voice snapped me out of it. “It’s not wise.”

I nodded once, lips trembling, and turned away from the mirror.

As I walked toward the heavy double doors that led to his chamber, I couldn’t help but think of the others.

My people.

Were they locked away like I had been? Beaten? Starved? Or worse sold off to the highest bidder, scattered across the kingdom? Perhaps now serving nobles who once bowed to my father?

Or maybe Kael had given them as gifts to his loyal wolves—slaves offered like wine and bread at his victory feast.

The thought made bile rise in my throat.

The heavy wooden door creaked open, groaning like it shared in my dread. My bare feet met cold stone again, but this time I wasn’t dragged. I wasn’t shackled. I walked.

And yet—I had never felt more bound.

Inside, the chamber was dimly lit by flickering torches embedded in the stone walls, casting long shadows over Kael’s silhouette. He sat behind a massive desk, his back straight, one arm resting elegantly as his hand worked with methodical grace. A long scroll stretched across the surface before him, his quill dipping occasionally into an ink pot, its movements elegant and sharp.

I paused, heart in my throat.

He was writing.

With the steady precision of a man who owned power. The gold-accented inkwell gleamed beside him, and with each stroke, the ink bled into the parchment in perfect old runic script.

I blinked. My thoughts spun.

He didn’t even look up at first. My hands tightened around the robe draped over me, barely holding my trembling form together.

Finally, he raised his head.

His eyes met mine and I stilled.

They were sharp. His gaze dropped slowly, unapologetically trailing from my face to my feet and back again, as though memorizing the new shape of his possession.

He idly rolled the inkwell between his fingers.

“You clean up well,” he murmured.

I couldn’t speak.

He stood without rush, pushing the chair back with a quiet scrape, the weight of his presence doubling as he approached the front of the table. His stare remained fixed.

“Remove the robe.”

The words hit me like ice.

I hesitated, clutching the fabric tighter against my chest, though it barely covered anything.

With shaking fingers, I loosened the knot and let the robe fall.

The dress beneath was sheer, clinging, humiliating.

He didn’t blink.

“Let’s get something straight,” he said, voice turning sharp. “Next time I give an order and you hesitate, I will take the whip… and carve twenty strokes across your back. Understand?”

I flinched.

My lips trembled. I looked down, tears burning the corners of my eyes.

“…Yes, Master.”

The words left me like ash. Bitter.

Kael stepped away from the desk, leisurely closing the distance between us. He leaned against the edge of the table, arms folded.

“Strip,” he said.

Just that.

One word. And yet it weighed like a mountain.

My breath caught. My arms instinctively wrapped around myself as though I could disappear inside them.

“Please…” I whispered, my voice cracking. I swallowed my pride again, suffocating on it. “Please… don’t make me do this.”

He pushed off the table.

One step.

Two.

He stopped just in front of me. Too close. I could smell the leather of his belt, the ink on his hands, the faint spice on his breath. His nearness burned more than the cell ever had.

He didn’t touch me.

I took a step back.

A small one.

And still—it felt like I was falling.

Kael tilted his head, his expression unreadable. A man made of ice and vengeance, wearing the mask of a king.