C3

"You cost me twelve good men today," a dark, deep voice cuts through the warm air before my eyes even fully open.

I flinch, my back slamming hard against a thick, soft mattress. My chest heaves as I scramble backward until my spine hits a solid headboard. The silver burns on my wrists are wrapped in clean white bandages, but my legs buckle when I try to push myself up.

"Don't bother trying to stand," Lancelot says, turning slowly from the tall stone window frame.

The afternoon light frames his broad shoulders. He looks even bigger in this high, stone chamber that smells like iron, wild pine, and heavy alpha dominance. There are no silver chains on my wrists, no damp mud beneath my nails, but the solid iron door behind him is bolted shut from the outside.

"Where am I?" I demand, my throat raw and scraping like glass.

"My territory," Lancelot replies coldly, stepping toward the bed with slow, measured strides. "The Black Ridge. You are not a guest, Cecelia. You are a prisoner."

"I never asked you to drag me out of that fire," I snap, my hands curling into tight fists against the silk sheets. "I don't owe you anything!"

"You owe me twelve lives," he growls, stopping right at the edge of the mattress. He towers over me, his golden eyes completely void of warmth. "My warriors bled to pull you off that stake. You are property until that debt is cleared."

I stare up at him, my heart hammering against my ribs like a trapped bird. "Property?"

"Property," he repeats, his voice flat and unyielding. "You will work in my fortress. You will clean, you will follow orders, and you will not step outside these stone walls without my permission."

"I would rather burn on Lucas's pyre than be your slave!" I yell, my voice cracking from the pure rage bubbling up inside my throat.

Lancelot moves so fast my eyes can't track him. In a single breath, his large, rough hand shoots forward and grips my chin, tilting my face upward into the direct sunlight. His fingers press firmly into my jaw, locking me in place.

"Do not speak his name in my house," Lancelot commands, his golden eyes narrowing into dangerous slits.

His scent—dark earth, smoke, and wild pine—floods my senses. My wolf, battered and weak inside my mind, gives a sudden, pathetic stir, reacting to his terrifying proximity. I try to pull away, but his grip remains ironclad.

"You're lying about something," Lancelot murmurs, his thumb brushing over the bruised skin near my lip. "I saw your face on that stake. You wanted to die, but your eyes were terrified of something else."

I gather every bit of moisture in my mouth and spit directly onto his cheek.

He doesn't flinch. He doesn't strike me. He slowly lets go of my chin, reaches up with the back of his hand, and wipes the wetness away without breaking eye contact. A small, dark smirk touches the corner of his lips.

"Good," Lancelot says, his voice dangerously calm. "Liars survive longer than victims."

"Kill me now and save yourself the trouble," I growl, pulling the blanket up to my chest to hide the frantic rising and falling of my ribs. "Because the second I get a chance, I am running."

"You won't get far on those broken legs," he says, stepping back toward the iron door. "And if you try, my guards will drag you back in chains far heavier than the ones the Silver Moon gave you."

He grabs the heavy bronze handle of the door, pulling it open just enough to step into the dark hallway outside.

"The healer will see you tomorrow," Lancelot says over his shoulder, his face half-hidden in the shadows of the corridor. "If you die tonight, I'll burn your body and send the ashes back to Lucas."

The heavy iron door slams shut with a deafening boom. The outer bolt slides home with a sharp, heavy click that echoes through the quiet stone room.

I let out a shaky breath, collapsing backward onto the pillows as my strength completely evaporates. My body trembles violently, tears of pure anger and helplessness finally spilling over my eyelashes. I am trapped in the lair of the Rogue King, surrounded by enemies, with no pack, no mate, and no place to hide.

I press my shivering palm flat against my lower belly, curled up in a ball in the middle of the massive bed.

Then, deep beneath my skin, a distinct, deliberate flutter presses back against my palm.

My breath catches in my throat. The baby. It is alive, kicking softly against the cold reality of this room.

I press both hands over my stomach, my heart pounding so loud it drowns out the sound of the wind outside. I stare at the locked iron door, my jaw clenching as a dark realization hits me. Lancelot thinks I am just a broken piece of pack garbage he stole for revenge. He doesn't know what is growing inside me, and if he finds out, he could use Lucas's bloodline to destroy the Silver Moon forever—or kill my child where it lies.

I pull the blankets tight around my shoulders, staring at the keyhole in the iron door. I have to stay alive, and I have to keep this secret buried in the dirt.