Chapter 5

Sylvia’s POV

The warmth of King Lucian’s hood engulfed me. He was gone in a heartbeat, but I knew I wasn’t alone.

I heard Alpha Marshall getting beaten and dragged out of the cottage; though, I couldn’t look. I felt a pair of warm hands on my face and then the concerned eyes of Grace leaning over me.

“I saw him entering your cottage, and I went to get the king,” she confessed. “Please don’t be upset.”

My breathing was shaky, and I could still feel the ghost of Marshall’s hand around my throat, choking me, making it impossible to breathe as he did whatever he wanted to my body.

It made me feel dirty like a cheap whore.

I felt arms wrapped around my body, and soon, I was lifted off the bed and pressed against a warm chest. I looked up to see the King staring down at me.

“Let’s go,” he said, and it wasn’t a request; it was an order. I was too shaken to argue with him, so I just nodded.

“Wait… Grace,” I managed to whisper.

“She comes,” he said simply, and Grace followed closely behind.

As we left the cottage, the feel of the cold air clung to my skin and made me curl up against him even more. I closed my eyes, trying to cast away the thoughts of Marshall’s hands on me. I felt sick to my stomach and embarrassed for letting something like that happen to me.

We ended up at the packhouse, the King’s men surrounding the place. He nodded at them as we passed, and when we entered, I realized it was empty. There were no signs of Marshall or his men anywhere in sight, and I let out a breath of relief.

We went into the front parlor, where he finally sat me down on the couch. My clothes were ripped, but he didn’t seem to care. He took off his coat and wrapped it around my body, shielding me from anyone’s view. Grace sat beside me on the couch, resting her head on my shoulder and taking my hand in hers.

“You’re okay,” she whispered. “He won’t hurt you again.”

I knew she meant well, but she couldn’t promise that. With his threat of Grace’s life hanging over my head, I feared that he would come back for vengeance, and this time take Grace down too.

“I went as fast as I could….” Grace said, tears filling her eyes. “The second I saw Marshall go to your cottage, I knew I needed to get help. I’m so sorry…”

“You did the right thing,” the King said, and the way he said it put a piece of steel under her apology.

Grace exhaled like it was the first decent breath she had taken since she ran. He turned to Grace, a reassuring look in his eyes which differed from his normally hardened expression.

“Thank you for coming to get me,” he added. “You should get yourself cleaned up. I’ve cleared the packhouse, so you shouldn’t be interrupted.”

She looked uncertain for a moment as she looked at me and then back at the King before her eyes fixed on my face for the final time.

“I’m okay,” I managed to say, giving her a small smile. “Thank you, Grace.”

She looked relieved and wrapped her arms around me to hug me tightly.

“Love you, Syl.”

“Love you too, Grace,” I murmured against her.

She released me and stood, without another look, she left the parlor, leaving me alone with the king. He stared at me for a long while, his eyes burning a hole in my face.

“There’s a cut,” he said, tipping his chin towards my forearm; I hadn’t even noticed that Marshall sliced through my skin with his claws. “It needs cleaning.”

He grabbed a basin, setting it on the table.

“I can do it,” I said quickly as I reached for the basin myself; however, my hand missed the edge, and I nearly knocked it down.

Thankfully, he had fast reflexes and managed to catch it before it made a mess.

“May I?” He asked, his gaze finding mine.

“You’re Majesty—”

“Lucian.”

“What?” I raised my brows.

“My name is Lucian Orion.”

His words were so casual that if I weren’t sitting, they would have knocked me off my feet.

“Sylvia Rowan,” I replied.

“I know.”

My cheeks heated. He started to clean my wound, and I let him, the silence stretching on for miles between us. He poured water and broke a packet of herbs against his palm; the sharp green scent filled our noses.

When the cloth touched my skin, my body flinched. He cleaned the cut in silence. The cloth moved with precision that made me think of drill fields and winter streams.

When he finished, he wrapped my arm with the same economy—salve linen, a knot neat enough to make a priestess proud.

“Why did you help me?” I found myself asking, not understanding what his motive was. There had to be some kind of motive, something he would gain, out of helping someone like me. Nobody does things for free.

“Because I made an oath,” he replied. “And I don’t break my promises.”

“An oath to whom?”

“Your father.”

The words “Your father” left me feeling sick to my stomach, and I pressed my lips together to keep the bile from rising too high into my throat.

“I don’t have a father,” I murmured, looking away from him.

“Yes, you did,” he said, dipping his head lower to capture my eyes. “He was a border warrior. He died keeping the pack’s young alive when the western rogues cut through in winter. He never settled; he wrote of no child, but he wrote of a girl with eyes like night when it’s about to snow and a mouth that told the truth to men who weren’t ready for it. Sera.”

My chest tightened at his words.

“If he didn’t know I existed, then how did you make a promise to him about me?” I wasn’t sure if I wanted to know the answer to that question, but something inside of me was itching to know.

“A few weeks ago, I received a letter from your mother. However, it was meant for your father. She mentioned her dwindling health and how she feared for your future. She didn’t know he had died young. It had a keepsake with it as well, and when I read it, I sent a prayer to my old friend and told him I would protect you. Even in death, I don’t break my promises.”

My heart broke in an instant. My mother had written to him?

A tear slid out of my eye and down my cheek; I quickly wiped it away.

“Do you still have the letter?” I asked, blinking away the tears. I needed the proof that what he was saying was true.

“Yes,” he replied.

“Can I see it?”

“It’s at my palace. You’d have to come with me in order to see it.”

“And the keepsake?” I asked. “What was it?”

“It was a hand-carved lock. It had a picture of her holding you on one side and a picture of him on the other side.”

My heart squeezed painfully in my chest. I knew my mother loved making jewelry, and the thought of the King having it and not me felt like a punch to the stomach.

I didn’t have any pictures of my mother and me. Plenty of pictures of me, and plenty of my mother, but none of us together.

“It’s yours if you come with me to the Ironclaw Pack.”

I went to pull away from him; like a typical man, he was manipulating me, and I wasn’t going to stand for it. But as I moved, a pain shot through my side, and I winced.

“You’re hurt on your side as well?” He asked, reaching for the hem of my shirt.

I pulled away.

“I’m fine,” I told him, not wanting to remember Marshall’s bruising touch.

“Let me see,” he demanded.

“I said I’m—”

Before I could finish that sentence, he wrapped his arms around me and threw me over his lap like he was about to spank me.

By every instinct, I should have been revolted. I should have leaped up and clawed the face off any man who dared. But this was different. A hot shame flooded me, followed by a strange, coiled tension low in my belly. An unfamiliar ache that was equal parts alarm and unwanted thrill.

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