Savage Vows: Claimed by the Lycan King

Sold to the Beast

The collar itched like it was laced with fire.

Elira Cole stood barefoot on the cold marble, her wrists bound behind her back, throat raw from screaming hours ago. Her white dress — if it could even be called that — was little more than a torn slip of silk that clung to her like shame.

She wasn’t supposed to be here.

Not her. Not a girl with a name, with blood too dangerous to spill.

But the auctioneer didn’t care about that.

“All the way from the Lower Quadrant,” he bellowed to the crowd. “A rare find! Human. Untouched. No records. No family.”

Lies. All of it.

Except the last part.

Her family had died the moment they found out what she was.

The crowd below the platform swelled with power and money. Lycans. Vampires. Witches. And a few corrupted humans who fed off blood-soaked gold. They sipped wine like it wasn’t laced with spellroot. Their eyes glowed red, silver, emerald.

None of them saw a girl.

They saw property.

The auctioneer’s voice dropped into a growl. “Starting at one hundred thousand dracs. Who wants the fire-eyed little vixen?”

A hand lifted in the far back. The figure was cloaked, masked in black from head to toe, standing motionless as the room buzzed around him.

He didn’t speak.

He didn’t move.

But the room shifted the moment he lifted his hand.

“Ah, a shadow bidder,” the auctioneer sneered. “Dangerous taste.”

“Two hundred thousand,” growled a vampire lord from the side.

“Three-fifty!” barked a Lycan warrior.

The shadow bidder raised two fingers.

The auctioneer stilled. His grin faded for just a breath. Then he snapped back to life.

“Half a million dracs! Going once…”

Elira’s heart slammed against her ribs. No, no, no—

“Going twice…”

Fight.

She twisted her hands behind her, fingernails digging into the ropes.

“Sold!”

The hammer dropped.

The crowd erupted.

But Elira didn’t scream this time.

She ran.

Bare feet pounded across the marble, her shoulder crashing into a tray of spiced wine. Bottles shattered. A guard lunged — she ducked. Another reached for her — she spun under him, grabbing a shard of glass on her way down.

Her wrists tore free. Blood bloomed across her skin.

She didn’t feel it.

Only the cold rush of air as she sprinted toward the back exit.

Ten more steps.

A blur of black.

A hand caught her by the throat mid-sprint and slammed her against a pillar.

She gasped. Air fled her lungs. The glass dropped from her grip.

And she looked up into eyes the color of burning winter.

Silver. Brutal. Hungry.

“Little human,” the voice was low, cruel. “You run well.”

He didn’t wear a mask anymore.

His face was carved from fire and war. A scar ran from his temple to his jaw. His mouth twisted in a smirk that wasn’t amusement — it was a warning.

“You’re him,” she breathed. “The Lycan king.”

He said nothing.

Just leaned in, nose grazing her throat.

“You smell like old blood,” he murmured. “And secrets.”

She spat in his face.

He didn’t flinch.

Just dragged his tongue across his lips like he’d tasted something sweet.

“I like you already.”

He dropped her. She hit the ground, coughing, grabbing her torn wrists.

“I won’t marry you,” she hissed.

He crouched beside her, gripping her chin.

“Oh, but you will,” he whispered. “Because now you belong to me.”

She jerked back. “I’d rather die.”

The king rose, towering over her. He turned to the guards.

“Prepare the rites. Tonight, she becomes my queen.”

She froze. “No—”

“And if she tries to run again…” his gaze flicked back to her, cold as steel.

“…cut off her feet.”