All Chapters of SOLD TO THE WEREWOLF KING : Chapter 1 - Chapter 10

The penthouse was a mausoleum of glass and steel, cold and silent as a tomb. My new heels clicked on the polished concrete floor, the sound echoing through the vast, open space. Floor-to-ceiling windows offered a breathtaking, dizzying view of the city lights, a kingdom spread out at my feet. A kingdom that belonged to the monster who owned me. “She is a transaction.” His words cycled in my head, a toxic mantra. A transaction. A means to an end. I wrapped my arms around myself, but nothing could ward off the chill seeping into my bones. A stern, older woman named Agnes, who I presumed was the housekeeper, had wordlessly shown me to my room. It was luxurious, with a bed bigger than my entire old apartment and an ensuite bathroom with a waterfall shower. It was also utterly impersonal. A beautifully decorated prison cell. Restlessness, sharp and anxious, clawed at me. I couldn’t just sit in that room. I had to move, to map the boundaries of my new cage. I crept out into the hallway,

Blackwood Pack’s gathering hall was a temple to primal power. It wasn’t a room; it was a territory. The air itself was different—thicker, charged with a wild, electric energy that made the fine hairs on my arms stand on end. It smelled of ancient pine, rich earth, and something else, something metallic and dangerous: the scent of dominance.The chamber was a perfect circle of polished jet stone, and at its center sat a massive round table carved from a single, gargantuan oak. It was the heart of this place, and around it sat the pack’s vital organs: the Alphas, the elders, the warriors. Their eyes, glowing embers of gold, amber, and topaz, tracked our every move as Kaelen guided me inside. His hand on the small of my back was not a comfort; it was a shackle, a brand of ownership and a warning to stay in line.We took our seats at the head of the table, two thrones slightly larger and more ornate than the rest. The silence was a physical presence, heavy and judgmental. I folded my hand

The silence that followed the night of the shattered study was different. It was no longer a wall, but a held breath. Kaelen didn’t vanish. He was present, a brooding, watchful storm contained within the penthouse’s sleek lines. He watched me over the rim of his coffee cup in the mornings, his gaze analytical, no longer just assessing a liability, but studying a complex and unpredictable equation.Three days after the storm, he broke the quiet. I was in the library, pretending to read a book on art history, when his shadow fell over me.“We’re leaving in ten minutes,” he stated, his voice devoid of its previous ice or heat. It was simply a fact. “Wear something you can move in.”My heart gave a nervous flutter. “Where are we going?”A flicker of that old intensity returned to his eyes. “Your first lesson. You declared yourself a weapon in a room full of wolves. It’s time you learned what that truly means.”Twenty minutes later, a black SUV carried us away from the glass-and-steel hear

The morning after the messenger’s visit, the penthouse transformed into a war room. Kaelen’s quiet intensity was gone, replaced by a focused, relentless energy. Maps I didn’t understand were spread across the living room floor, and he spent hours in low, tense calls, his voice a constant, gravelly murmur. The target of his fury was no longer me, or his own control, but a man named Vorian. I had become a central piece in his strategy, and the weight of that was terrifying.On the second day, he summoned me to the library. He stood before the floor-to-ceiling windows, backlit by the midday sun, a silhouette of contained power.“Vorian is not a politician. He is a sadist,” Kaelen began without preamble, his voice cold and precise. “He will not challenge you in the open. He will use subtlety, humiliation. He will try to make you flinch. He will try to make me flinch through you.”He turned, his eyes like chips of glacial ice. “The rules of the training ground do not apply. This is not abo

The silence Vorian left in his wake was a vacuum, sucking the air from the room. The low murmur of the party felt distant, muffled, as if Elara and Kaelen were trapped inside a glass bell of shared, shattered composure. The champagne flute in her hand felt like a lead weight, the bubbles inside seeming to laugh at her.She could feel the tremor running through Kaelen’s arm beneath her hand. It was not the vibration of fear, but the shuddering strain of a volcano fighting not to erupt. The gruesome bone dagger was still clutched in his other hand, his knuckles bloodless. Vorian hadn't just insulted them; he had performed a public vivisection, carving open Kaelen’s soul with surgical precision and leaving the raw, beating wound on display for the entire pack to see.Elara’s mind reeled. He knows about the bond. He knows about the memories. The violation was absolute. Their private sanctuary had been invaded, its most painful artifact—the memory of a broken child—stolen and weaponized.S