Chapter 6

Vira's POV 

The stone steps of the West Tower were cold and slick beneath my bare feet. Every step I took sent a sharp pain straight up my ankles, but I kept my back straight as the two female guards dragged me up the narrow spiral staircase. The air grew colder the higher we climbed, smelling of old dust, damp stone, and stale winter frost.

We reached the top floor, where a thick oak door reinforced with heavy iron bars stood guarded by two male warriors carrying broad spears. One of the women pulled a massive brass key from her leather belt, jammed it into the lock, and turned it with a loud, metallic clack that sounded like a death sentence.

"Get inside," she growled, shoving my shoulder with enough force to send me stumbling over the threshold.

My bare feet slipped on the rough stone floorboards, and I fell forward onto my hands and knees. The heavy oak door slammed shut behind me instantly, the iron bolt sliding into place with a dull, final thud.

I stayed on the floor for a long moment, my chest heaving as I fought to get my breathing under control. The broken whalebone stays of my sister's dress were still poking into my side, and the cold stone floor was leaching the last bits of warmth straight out of my knees.

I slowly pushed myself up, taking in my new prison.

The room was small, dark, and freezing. A single narrow slit in the heavy stone wall served as a window, letting in the howl of the mountain wind and a dusting of white snow. A small iron cot sat in the corner, covered with a thin, scratchy wool blanket and a straw mattress that looked older than I was. Beside the cot stood a wooden washstand with a chipped clay pitcher and a small basin filled with a thick layer of solid ice.

Near the small hearth, which was completely empty of fire, sat a folded pile of coarse, heavy gray wool.

I walked over to the pile, my hands trembling as I lifted the coarse fabric. It was a simple, loose wool dress, completely devoid of any silk, lace, or embroidery. It was the kind of dress my father gave to the lowest dishwashers in our kitchen.

A quiet, bitter laugh escaped my lips. Gryfyn really meant every word he said. He wanted to strip away every piece of my dignity, throw me into gray wool, and hide me away in a dark tower like a shameful secret.

I reached behind my back, my fingers working frantically at the remaining ribbons of my ruined silk gown. The fabric was torn and tangled around my waist, but I yanked at the seams until the dress dropped off my shoulders and pooled at my bare feet. I stood there in my thin, ripped undergarments, shivering violently as the icy draft from the window hit my bare skin.

My hands moved down to my side, touching the jagged red gouge where the corset stay had cut me. The blood had dried into a crusty dark line, but the flesh around it was swollen, tender, and hot to the touch.

I picked up the heavy wool dress and pulled it over my head. The coarse fabric scratched against my skin, but it fell loosely over my full bust, my thick waist, and my heavy hips without choking the air out of my lungs. For the first time all day, I could actually expand my chest and draw in a deep breath without feeling like my ribs were snapping in half.

I sat down on the edge of the hard wooden cot, pulling the scratchy wool blanket over my legs. The room was so dark that I could barely see my own hands, but I kept my eyes wide open, staring at the thick oak door.

Hours dragged by in total silence. The storm outside howled against the stone walls, shaking the narrow window slit, but no one came to bring food, water, or firewood. The cold crept deep into my bones, making my toes and fingers go completely numb, but I refused to curl into a ball and cry.

Around midnight, the heavy iron bolt on the door rattled loudly.

I instantly sat up straighter, my hands gripping the edge of the thin mattress as the oak door swung open. A single tall silhouette stood in the doorway, blocking out the torchlight from the hallway behind him.

Gryfyn stepped into the room.

He had taken off his heavy leather coat and armor, wearing only a dark linen shirt rolled up at his elbows and dark trousers tucked into his riding boots. The thick black pack ink covered his broad forearms, spiraling up his dark skin like twisting vines. His short black hair was dry now, but his sharp, sculpted face looked just as hard and unforgiving as it had on the mountain road.

His dark golden eyes swept over the small cell, taking in the empty, cold fireplace, the frozen washbasin, and finally landing on me sitting on the edge of the cot in my coarse gray wool.

He didn't move any closer. He stood near the door frame, his massive frame filling the small room with a suffocating, heavy pressure that made my chest tighten instantly.

"You did not burn the wood in the corner," Gryfyn said, his deep, gravelly voice flat and cold.

I looked over at the small stack of dark logs sitting beside the hearth. "You did not leave any flint or tinder, My Lord. Unless you expected me to light the wood with my bare hands, I had no way to start a fire."

Gryfyn’s eyebrows pulled together into a sharp, narrow line. He turned his head toward the door, his loud, harsh voice booming into the hallway outside. "Kaelen!"

The scarred warrior immediately appeared in the doorway, bowing his head. "My King?"

"Why is there no fire in this room?" Gryfyn growled, his golden eyes flashing with a sudden, dark anger that made Kaelen stiffen.

"The elders gave orders that political hostages receive basic rations and no extra fuel, My Lord," Kaelen explained quickly, his voice tight. "Cassian said—"

"Cassian does not give orders in my keep," Gryfyn barked, his voice so loud it echoed off the narrow stone walls. "Bring a brass brazier, hot coals, and a hot meal up to this room right now. If I come back up these stairs and see this room freezing again, I will throw the guards on duty into the snow outer courtyard."

"Yes, My King," Kaelen said, turning on his heel and hurrying down the spiral stairs as fast as his heavy boots could carry him.

I stared at Gryfyn, my hazel eyes narrowing with deep suspicion. "What are you doing?"

Gryfyn turned back to face me, his face turning back into smooth, emotionless stone. "I am making sure my prisoner does not freeze to death before her father pays his border taxes."

"I do not need your pity," I said, my voice rising as I stood up from the wooden cot, stepping toward him in my bare feet. "You dragged me up here, put me in gray wool, and locked the door. Do not pretend you care if I am cold."

Gryfyn took one slow, heavy step forward, closing the distance between us until he was standing directly over me. The rich scent of pine, winter frost, and pure Alpha male hit my nose, instantly making my inner wolf stretch inside my chest.

He reached out, his thick, calloused fingers grabbing my chin with a firm, unyielding pressure that forced my face up to meet his golden glare. The moment his bare skin touched mine, the sacred mate bond fired through my veins like a hot current, making my breath hitch in my throat.

"I do not pity you, Vira," Gryfyn growled low in his chest, his thumb pressing hard against my lower lip, tracing the full, soft shape of my mouth. "And I do not care about your comfort. But you are mine now. You belong to the Iron Moon Citadel, and I will not let my elders starve or freeze what belongs to me."

"I am not a piece of furniture you own," I whispered, holding his fierce gaze despite the heat burning across my skin where his hand held me. "I am a woman with my own mind, and you will never own me."

Gryfyn’s jaw flexed, a dangerous half-smile touching the corner of his lips as his grip on my chin tightened just enough to hold me locked in place.

"We will see about that, substitute," Gryfyn murmured, his deep voice thick with a cold, possessive threat that sent a shiver straight down to my toes.