The Locked Door

The room was quiet after Clearway and Waters left, their final words lingering like a weight: half five. Less than an hour until I was taken to him. I sat with a plate that had been brought, staring down at the dull arrangement of bread, vegetables, and thin slices of meat. It filled my stomach, but there was no pleasure in it. It was fuel, nothing more. I forced myself to chew, each bite like swallowing stones.

When the plate was empty, I drifted toward the windows, the only relief in this room - two narrow, gothic slits carved into the wall beside the bed. They were too high and too thin to climb through, but they let in enough light to paint the room in fading strokes of gold.

From here, hidden above the grand entryway, I could watch the comings and goings below - though I wasn’t supposed to. Curiosity outweighed fear, just this once.

That’s when I saw her.

She stepped through the gates like she belonged not just to this house, but to the very earth it was built on. Her stride was long, unhurried, assured. The guards straightened as she passed them, but not out of fear—the kind of reflex you give someone whose presence demands recognition.

Her skin was dark and radiant, catching the late light and holding it like polished bronze. Thick black curls framed her face and spilled around her shoulders, untamed and perfect all at once. Her dress was eloquent, yet practical, with sharp edges softening into the natural strength of her body. Beautiful didn’t feel like the right word. Beautiful was too fragile, too simple. She was… commanding.

I caught myself staring, my breath shallow, my lips parted like I might speak, though no words would come. I’d never seen anyone like her. She was nothing like her husband, the Alpha - where his cruelty was etched into every sneer, she carried a silence that was harder to read. And that, somehow, was worse.

Because if she was capable of such power and grace while standing beside him… what did that mean? Was she complicit, cruel in her own way?

Fear curled tight in my stomach. If she could be so impossibly beautiful while loving a man like him, maybe beauty meant nothing at all. I watched as she entered the building and out of my sight. I moved to the edge of my bed, sitting, hands folded in my lap, waiting. Every sound in the hall outside pricked my ears, each footstep making my heart race. The room was meant to be comfortable, even welcoming. But to me it was a stage, a holding cell, dressed up in flowers and books and blank pages until the hour came when I would have to face Alpha Cain.

The sound of footsteps in the corridor outside struck me like a blow to the chest. I knew before I saw them that it was Clearway and Waters - measured, deliberate, with that faint undertone of finality. They entered without knocking, their faces as composed as before, and with only a few words they motioned for me to rise.

My legs felt stiff, as though they belonged to someone else, but I obeyed. They flanked me on either side, guiding me through the halls of the mansion. The corridors stretched endlessly, lined with ornate portraits and heavy drapes, the walls close enough to smother me. I kept my eyes lowered, afraid of what I might see if I dared look too long.

We turned corner after corner until the air grew cooler, the carpets giving way to stone floors that echoed with each step. We were descending now - down narrower stairs, into the belly of the house where light was scarce. The silence deepened, broken only by the shuffle of our movement.

At last, we came to a stop before a great metal door. Its surface was scarred and bolted, sturdy as if it were meant to keep something dangerous in - or something helpless out. My breath caught.

Waters turned to me, her voice firm but not unkind. “Go through. Straight ahead. Do as you are told.”

I nodded, though my throat was dry, and stepped forward. The door groaned as it opened, its weight resisting me before it gave way. I entered quickly, as if speed might give me courage.

A short corridor stretched before me, painted entirely black. The walls seemed to drink the light, broken only by small candles flickering in iron holders. Their flames hissed faintly, filling the air with the waxy scent of smoke. Each step echoed, too loud, betraying the tremor in my legs.

Behind me, the heavy door closed with a resounding thud. Then came the scrape of the lock sliding into place. I froze, the sound burying itself in my bones.

There was another door straight ahead, just as Waters had instructed. My hand trembled as I reached for it, the iron handle cold beneath my skin. It opened into a large, well-furnished room. There was a double bed, with a bare mattress and two dirty pillows. On the back wall was a large cross structure, maybe a foot taller than me, with straps at each end. Hung on the same wall was a variety of whips, canes, and paddles. Another wall had a row of cabinets on top of which were a selection of ropes, chains, cuffs, and tape. From various points on the floor, ceiling, and walls were metal hoops, some with chains attached.

Feeling sick, I moved to the middle of the room, facing the door I had just entered, my hands clasped tightly before me. The silence here was absolute, pressing against my ears, amplifying the beat of my heart until it was all I could hear.

Time blurred. Minutes stretched into what felt like an hour, every flicker of candlelight on the black-painted walls making shadows twitch and shift like they were alive. My body ached from standing, but I dared not move. My mind spun with images of him—the man I was about to face.

And then, finally, the door swung open with a heavy scrape, the sound of metal against stone filling the chamber. My breath hitched as a figure stepped into the candlelight.

Alpha Cain.

He was young - no older than his thirties. His face was sharp and symmetrical, the kind of beauty people might call striking. His jaw was strong, his mouth set in a way that suggested he never smiled without reason. His dark hair was neatly kept, every strand in place, his clothes tailored to his form with precision that spoke of wealth and vanity alike.

But the handsomeness ended there.

There was no warmth in him, no spark of life behind the carefully carved features. His eyes - grey, like polished stone - swept over me with the cool detachment of a man assessing property, not a person. The precision of his movements unsettled me. He did not fidget, did not hesitate; he stepped forward as though every moment had already been planned, calculated down to the placement of his feet.

And though he was handsome, I felt nothing but dread.

No quickening of the pulse that beauty might stir, no fascination - only a cold weight pressing deeper into my chest. For all his fine features and perfect posture, he was hollow. A man without softness, without care.

When his gaze finally met mine, I felt reduced to something small and breakable beneath his scrutiny. Handsome or not, this was not a man to be admired. This was a man to be feared.

He spoke one simple word that twisted my stomach in knots and sent a cold shiver down my body.

“Strip.”