10: Ownership

Natasha’s POV

Staring at the file in his Beta’s hands, I didn’t know what to expect.

The way he held it, firm and tight against his chest, like whatever was inside had weight—real weight. Not just paper. Like it could change something. Maybe everything. I didn’t even reach for it. Just stared. And waited.

The King said nothing. He didn’t move either. He just stood there beside me, quiet but sharp, like a sword held inches from my throat. His presence filled the entire space, and somehow, I felt even smaller in the room that already wasn’t mine.

The Beta took slow steps forward and placed the file carefully on the table in front of me. His eyes met mine for a second, and I couldn’t tell what they meant. Pity? Warning? Or just obedience?

I didn’t touch it yet.

I just kept my hands where they were, curled slightly on my lap, and stared down at the black file like it might explode if I opened it wrong.

The silence was thick now. It pressed into my skin.

Still, I didn’t reach for it.

I didn’t ask.

And then I heard him.

“Open it.”

His voice was lower this time, but the sharpness was still there. He was trying to keep it even. I could tell. Like he was trying not to scare me. But it didn’t work. Not really. My fingers trembled slightly, just before they moved.

I pulled the file closer, my nails catching on the edge. The paper inside was thick. Neat. There was more than one document. And at the very top, stamped in gold, was the seal of the Lycan King’s House.

My throat was dry.

I didn’t know why I was scared to read it. Maybe because part of me already knew this wasn’t going to be something simple like a “welcome to the palace” guide or a temporary stay form. No. That would’ve been too easy. And nothing about this man was ever easy.

Still, I asked.

“Your Majesty…” I swallowed hard and looked up at him. “What is this about?”

He didn’t look away.

“I believe you wouldn’t have gotten five awards if you were incapable of reading.”

The way he said it wasn’t harsh. But it wasn’t gentle either. It was cold. Dismissive. And still, it burned more than any scream would have.

I looked back down.

The words on the page seemed to itch my eyes. I read the title once. Then again. Trying to make sense of what it meant.

**Agreement of Ownership.**

I blinked.

Once.

Twice.

What?

I flipped through the other sheets like I wasn’t sure what I was looking at. My eyes scanned the words but couldn’t hold them. I saw things—statements about transfer, guardianship, restriction of external contact, the “right to retain.” What the hell was I reading?

It wasn’t a marriage document. I’d heard about those—the six-months terms, the conditional clauses. It wasn’t a surrogacy paper either. There was nothing about offspring or heirs. It was something else entirely. Something worse.

My hands began to feel numb. My lips were trembling again, and I didn’t even notice until I pressed them together.

In my head, the words started circling like wolves chasing each other—

*What does this mean?*

*What is this supposed to be?*

*Is he buying me? Keeping me?*

*Is that what this is?*

I looked up at him. And he was already looking at me.

The moment our eyes met, the panic in my chest doubled. Because I remembered. He could hear thoughts. Feel things. The fear. The confusion. The hundred versions of *what the hell is this* playing through my head.

His face didn’t change.

He didn’t flinch.

“Sign it,” he said.

My lips parted, but nothing came out.

I looked at the paper again.

I flipped to the last page. There were boxes waiting for initials. A full signature line. A stamped seal beside it. All official. All neat.

But my name wasn’t there yet.

Only his.

In full.

Lucien Draven. The Lycan King.

I forced myself to speak.

“What’s the need?” I asked, soft, calm as I could manage. “You already took me from my pack. I didn’t get to choose. You did that. So… why this?”

He didn’t even blink.

“Because I say so.”

I inhaled slowly. Looked away before his voice could push deeper into my chest. I didn’t want to cry. Not here. Not now.

I turned another page.

And then I saw it.

A bold line across the top—

**Consent and Confirmation of Age: Signatory Confirms She is Over the Age of 18.**

I blinked at it. The letters burned.

It was just one sentence. One line. But it made my heart skip.

Why?

Why was that important?

*Why does he care if I’m over 18?*

*What is this for?*

*What does he want from me?*

My fingers hovered over the page, but I didn’t move. I could feel the weight of his eyes. I could feel the question forming inside him before I even finished thinking it. The silence stretched again, long and stiff.

I licked my lips.

He stepped closer. Just one step. It was enough.

“You’re not a prisoner,” he said quietly, “but you don’t belong to the outside world either. This”—he pointed at the paper—“puts that on record. And keeps others from thinking they can come near you without going through me.”

“That sounds like ownership,” I replied, just as softly.

His voice stayed calm.

“It is.”

He said it like it meant nothing. Like saying it out loud wouldn’t send someone like me spiraling.

I looked back down at the form. My name would go there. My signature. My age. My consent.

All that for what? Protection? Claim? Or something else he hadn’t said yet?

The pen lay beside the file. Waiting.

I held it.

But didn’t write.

I stared at the place where the words *“I agree”* were written, bold, large, unchanging. My stomach twisted again. My mind was running in circles, trying to figure out if this was better or worse than being back in that prison cell.

At least back there, I knew I was a prisoner.

Here?

I was something else.

Something unnamed.

And in a palace like this, that was dangerous.