Bound to the Obsidian Alpha

Elara’s POV

The fluorescent lights in the dormitory always flickered like they were dying a slow, ugly death. One of them buzzed so loud it made my teeth ache if I sat too close. I hated that sound more than almost anything else in this place. Almost.

I sat on the edge of my thin mattress, knees pulled up to my chest, arms wrapped tight around them. The mattress reeked of cheap perfume and other girls’ sweat. Someone had spilled something sticky near the foot of the bed last night and no one had bothered to clean it. The whole room smelled like desperation mixed with strawberry body spray.

Mira stood in front of the cracked mirror on the far wall, tilting her head left and right while she examined her neck. Fresh purple marks and a couple of angry red bites trailed from just under her ear down toward her collarbone. She poked one of them with her finger and winced.

“Jesus,” I muttered. “How many this time?”

She glanced at me through the mirror. Her green eyes looked tired, but she still forced a little smirk. “Four. One on the collarbone, three on the neck. The guy was… enthusiastic.”

I swallowed hard. “You don’t have to smile about it.”

“What else am I supposed to do?” She turned around and leaned against the wall, arms crossed under her chest. The cheap black silk robe she wore barely covered anything. “This is the life now, Elara. You keep fighting it and you’re just going to get hurt worse.”

I looked down at my own hands. They were still soft. Still clean. Still untouched. I hated how proud that made me feel. Pride was dangerous here. Pride got girls locked in the basement for “attitude adjustments.”

Three weeks. That was how long we had been at The Gilded Cage. Three weeks since the matron at St. Agnes Orphanage had smiled her fake sweet smile, signed a bunch of papers, and watched us climb into a black van like we were being sent to summer camp. “You’ll be taken care of,” she had said. “Good food. Nice clothes. Opportunity.”

Opportunity my ass.

They dumped six of us into this place. Six girls who had nowhere else to go. The boys went somewhere else. I never found out where. I didn’t want to know.

The first night, two girls were taken upstairs. One of them came back crying so hard she threw up. The other came back with cash stuffed into her bra and a dazed, empty look in her eyes. By the end of the week, only Mira and I were still untouched. Then Mira stopped fighting. She said it was easier that way.

I still fought.

Twice I faked a stomach bug so bad they left me alone. Once I “fainted” right in front of Madame Vesper. She bought it for two days. Then she stopped buying it.

I could feel the clock running out.

Mira walked over and sat on the mattress next to me. She took my hand. Her fingers were cold.

“They’re going to pick you soon,” she said quietly. “You know that, right? Madame’s been looking at you funny for days. That rich bastard who came last night asked specifically for a virgin. They don’t have many left.”

My stomach twisted. “I’m not doing it.”

“You don’t have a choice.”

“There’s always a choice.”

She gave me a sad little smile. “Not for girls like us.”

Before I could answer, the heavy door at the end of the room slammed open so hard the walls rattled.

Rourke filled the doorway.

He was built like a damn fridge. Thick neck, thick arms, dead eyes. He always smelled like cigarettes and cheap cologne. His gaze swept across the room, past the other girls who immediately looked down at the floor, and landed on me.

“Elara Quinn.” His voice was flat. “Get up. Now.”

My heart stopped for a second. Then it started slamming so hard I could hear it in my ears.

I stood slowly. My legs felt like they didn’t belong to me. “I’m not feeling well.”

Rourke barked a short, ugly laugh. “Save the bullshit. Madame already said no more games. You’ve got a special client tonight. High roller. Paid triple the usual rate and requested the untouched girl. That’s you, princess.”

Mira’s hand tightened around mine for half a second before she let go. Her face had gone pale.

I tried one last time. “I can work the floor. I can clean rooms. I can—”

“You can shut your mouth and walk,” he snarled. He was already crossing the room. His huge hand closed around my upper arm hard enough to bruise. “Or I can carry you. Your choice.”

I walked.

The hallway outside smelled like expensive perfume, cigar smoke, and something darker underneath. Money and fear mixed together until you couldn’t tell them apart. Soft jazz floated up from the main lounge downstairs. I could hear men laughing. Glasses clinking. The low murmur of people who bought other people like they bought cars.

Rourke shoved me into a small preparation room off the main corridor. A woman with cold eyes and a clipboard waited inside. She looked me up and down like she was inspecting meat.

“Strip,” she ordered. “Shower. Then put this on.” She tossed a scrap of black lace onto the wooden bench. “Client wants you clean and ready. No perfume. No makeup. He said he wants to smell the fear.”

My hands shook so badly I almost couldn’t undo the buttons of my worn nightshirt. I turned my back to her and stepped into the tiny shower. The water came out ice cold. I stood under it until my skin burned and my teeth chattered. When I stepped out, she forced the tiny black lace bodysuit onto my body. It left almost nothing to the imagination. My long dark hair hung damp and heavy down my back. The crescent-shaped scar on my inner left wrist pulsed with a strange heat, the way it always did when I was terrified.

She shoved me back out into the hallway. Rourke was waiting.

He marched me down another corridor, past closed doors that muffled moans and the occasional cry. At the end of the hall stood a heavy black door with a gold number: 7.

The private VIP suite.

Rourke knocked once, then pushed the door open without waiting for an answer.

“She’s here,” he announced, and shoved me inside.

The door clicked shut behind me.

The suite was dark except for a single lamp casting warm golden light across a massive bed and a seating area. Heavy black curtains covered the floor-to-ceiling windows. A tall figure stood with his back to me near those windows, looking out at the glittering city lights of Raven’s Hollow. Broad shoulders. Black suit that looked like it cost more than the entire brothel. Dark hair cut short. Even from behind, power rolled off him in waves so thick I could barely breathe.

He turned.

My first clear look at Kael Draven stole the air from my lungs.

He was devastating. Tall. Built like he could break a man in half without trying. Sharp cheekbones. A thin white scar cutting through one dark eyebrow. Eyes the color of midnight ice — cold, assessing, utterly merciless. He looked like the kind of man who ordered deaths the way other men ordered coffee.

Those eyes locked onto me.

Something ancient and electric slammed through my body so hard my knees almost buckled. Heat exploded low in my stomach and raced up my spine like wildfire. The scar on my wrist burned so hot I gasped and clutched it with my other hand. My heart tried to claw its way out of my chest.

His entire body went rigid.

The cold mask cracked for one terrifying second. His pupils blew wide. His lips parted. A low, guttural sound — half growl, half snarl — tore from his chest.

He took one step toward me… then stopped as if he had hit an invisible wall.

“Mate.”

The word came out raw and shocked and absolute.

The world tilted sideways.

I staggered back until my shoulders hit the door. My heart hammered so hard I thought it would break free of my ribs. Mate. I didn’t understand. I only knew that every cell in my body was screaming his even as pure terror flooded my veins.

Kael Draven stared at me like I was both salvation and damnation.

Then his expression hardened into something lethal.

“Get your clothes off,” he ordered, voice low and deadly calm again. “Turn around. Hands and knees on the bed. Face the headboard. Ass toward me.”

I stared at him, lips parted in pure shock. My mouth opened but no sound came out.

He took another step closer. The air between us tightened until it hurt to breathe.

“I said,” he repeated, softer now but infinitely more dangerous, “get your clothes off.”

But his eyes never left mine.

And deep inside them, something wild and broken and hungry was waking up.

Something that looked a lot like the same thing currently clawing at the inside of my own chest.

I didn’t move.

I couldn’t.

Because for the first time in my entire life, the scar on my wrist wasn’t just burning.

It was glowing.

And Kael Draven’s eyes dropped to it like it was a loaded gun.