Maya's Prayer

Maya's POV

I kicked the laundry room door open with my foot, my arms full of dirty bedsheets that smelled like sweat and expensive cologne. The kind that made my stomach turn.

I barely made it inside before dumping everything on the floor. As I turned to leave, the door slammed shut behind me, and darkness swallowed the small room whole.

"Who's there?" I called out, my voice shaking.

I rushed toward the door, but my foot caught on the pile of sheets. I went down hard, my shoulder cracking against the concrete floor. Pain exploded through my body, and I couldn't stop the cry that escaped my lips.

I crawled through the dark until my hands found the door. I pounded on it with both fists.

"Please, let me out," I begged, even though I already knew who was on the other side.

High-pitched scary laughter confirmed it. Victoria and her friends.

The walls started closing in. That's how it felt anyway. Sweat dripped down my face and neck. My chest got tight. I couldn't breathe right. They knew I was claustrophobic and hated small spaces. They'd always known.

"Victoria, please," I gasped, hitting the door harder. "I can't breathe."

"Good!" her voice sang back. "Maybe you'll finally do us all a favor and die!"

More laughter. Then footsteps walking away.

I slid down to the floor, my back against the door. Each breath felt like sucking air through a straw. Black spots danced in my vision. My heart thumped so hard it hurt.

"Stop it," I told myself. "Breathe. Just breathe."

But I couldn't. The darkness pressed against me like a living thing.

"What's going on here?" A deep male voice barked from outside.

The door flew open so fast I almost fell backward. Light flooded in. Strong hands grabbed me under my arms and pulled me up. I knew those hands. That scent of whiskey and pine.

Kaiser.

He lifted me like I weighed nothing and carried me down the hallway. I wanted to fight, to tell him to put me down, but I couldn't find my voice. My lungs were still trying to remember how to work.

He pushed open his bedroom door with his shoulder and set me on his bed. The softness shocked me. I'd forgotten what soft felt like.

I tried to stand up immediately.

"Sit down," he ordered.

The command in his voice made me freeze. I sat back down slowly. He owned me, after all. Had owned me for fourteen years.

"I'm sorry," I whispered, staring at the floor. "I didn't mean to bother you."

A smile spread across his face. Not a nice one. Kaiser's smiles were never nice.

He was beautiful in the way a knife was beautiful. Dark hair, green eyes that looked almost black in certain light, and a face that could've been carved from stone. He was also the cruelest person I'd ever met, and he wore that cruelty like a crown.

He walked closer and grabbed my chin, forcing me to look at him.

"What did I tell you, Maya?" he asked.

I nodded quickly.

"Say it."

I swallowed hard. "Only you can punish me."

"That's right." He patted my head like I was a dog. "Good girl."

I felt sick. His touch made my skin crawl, but I kept my face blank. I'd learned not to show emotion around him. It only made things worse. And I refused to cry. I hadn't cried in front of him in years, and I never would. The day I cried was the day he won.

Fourteen years ago, my father, the Alpha of Silver Creek Pack, gave me to the Crescent Pack as part of a peace treaty. I was ten years old. The third child out of five. The one nobody wanted.

I remembered the way my father had pointed at me without even looking at my face. Like I was just a thing to trade away.

Kaiser was sixteen then. The treaty said I'd serve his pack until I found my mate. If I didn't find my mate by my twenty-fifth birthday, I'd become Kaiser's wife.

His property forever.

I was four months away from turning twenty-five.

Kaiser sat on the couch across from the bed, watching me with those dead eyes.

"Can I go now?" I asked quietly.

"When's your birthday again?" His eyes lit up with something dark.

I glanced at the calendar on his wall. Every single day had a red X through it. He'd been crossing off days since I was twelve years old.

"Four months," I said.

"Come here."

My heart dropped. I stood up on shaky legs and walked to him. When I got close, he pointed at the floor.

"Kneel."

I knelt in front of him. He leaned forward, his face inches from mine. His breath smelled like whiskey.

His finger traced down my neck, over my collarbone. "Four months left, sweetheart."

His hand moved lower. I stopped breathing.

"Please don't," I whispered.

His face twisted with rage. "You're mine! I'll do whatever I want!"

He grabbed the back of my head and crushed his mouth against mine. The kiss was violent, possessive. Disgusting.

I shoved him away with both hands, pushing hard against his chest.

"How dare you!" he yelled.

His hand came up to hit me. Without thinking, I caught his wrist mid-air. For a second, we both just stared at each other in shock.

Then I slapped him across the face as hard as I could.

The sound echoed in the room. A red handprint bloomed on his cheek.

I knew what came next. Kaiser’s punishments were never loud or messy, they were calculated, drawn out, and designed to remind me of my place. Just last week, he’d proven it again.

It started because I broke a glass. A stupid accident, water spilled, my hands slipped, and the crystal shattered on the kitchen floor. Before I could even bend to clean it, he’d appeared behind me, silent as a shadow.

He didn’t yell. That would’ve been easier. Instead, he smiled, that same cold, perfect smile, and told me to kneel. I obeyed, of course. He told me to pick up every shard with my bare hands.

By the second piece, my fingers were bleeding. By the fifth, I couldn’t feel them anymore. But he stood there, arms folded, watching like it was entertainment. 

“Pain teaches obedience,” he’d said softly, crouching so close I could see my reflection in his eyes. “And obedience keeps you alive.”

When I finished, blood dripping onto the tiles, he made me scrub the stains clean with salt water. “Don’t forget who owns those hands,” he whispered, pressing his thumb into one of the cuts until I flinched. Then he’d smiled again, satisfied.

I blinked back to the present, the memory clawing at my throat. My palm still hurt, faint scars stretching when I curled my fingers. He called it discipline. I called it survival training.

Now, staring at the red mark blooming across his cheek, I knew I had crossed a line that salt water couldn’t wash away.

I was dead. I knew I was dead.