The Lycan King’s Tribid Mate

Darkness swallowed the room whole.

A soft whimper echoed through the shadows, fragile and desperate, swallowed again by silence.

On the cold, bare floor lay a young girl. Bruises marred her delicate face, and her once-white shirt had turned brown with dirt and dried blood. Between her thighs, streaks of red told stories she wished she could forget.

“Ugh…”

A weak grunt escaped her lips as she tried to shift, but her fractured leg refused to obey. Pain flared—sharp, hot, merciless.

“…Get her out and cleaned.”

The low murmur of a man’s voice came from beyond the door.

“She stinks. I’ll be needing her tonight.”

Her blood turned cold. She curled into herself, dragging her injured leg closer to her chest, trembling like a cornered animal.

The door burst open with a deafening clang. Light flooded the room, slicing through the darkness that had hidden her for three long days.

Elara groaned and turned her face away. The sudden brightness stabbed at her skull, already pounding from dehydration and starvation.

“Well, well, my darling sister,” drawled a voice dripping with mock affection. Draven stood at the threshold, a sadistic smile twisting his face. He crouched beside her, brushing his fingers along her cheek with cruel tenderness.

“Did you miss me?”

Silence.

“I asked…” His voice cracked into a snarl. “did you miss me?” He yanked her by the hair, forcing her head back.

“N–no,” she gasped.

Her face met the floor with a violent crack. Blood spread across the concrete beneath her.

“No?” He chuckled darkly and turned to the men standing at the doorway. “Did you hear that? She doesn’t miss me!”

Laughter exploded around him- low, mocking, vile.

Draven gripped her chin and forced her to look at him. “You should know I have your best interests at heart, Elara. Embarrass me again, and you’ll only have yourself to blame.”

Elara spat blood in his face. “Go to hell, Draven.”

A hush fell. Then a bark of laughter came from one of the men. “Did you guys see that? The outcast’s got fire!”

Draven’s jaw flexed, fury twisting his handsome features. He wiped the spit from his cheek, then slammed his fist across her face.

Blood splattered.

“You filthy half-breed,” he growled. “You should be grateful I’m feeling generous, or I’d throw you to the rogues. They’d love a taste of a half-witch, half-werewolf abomination like you.” He stood, brushing imaginary dust from his hands. “You’re a disgrace to this pack, a monster in our midst.”

Turning back to his friends, he forced a smile. “Ignore her. I brought you here to be entertained. She’ll serve you, as I promised.”

Cheers erupted.

“Hell yeah, man!”

“Despite the bruises, she’s still a treat!”

“When do we start?”

Draven smirked. “Patience, boys. All in good time.”

When they were gone, the silence pressed in again- thick, suffocating.

Elara sat alone, tracing the scars on her body with shaking fingers. Since her foster father’s death, the Northwood pack had treated her like nothing more than filth. An outcast. A curse. She had cried until there were no tears left. Now there was only emptiness. Her head throbbed where Draven had struck her. For a moment, she could almost hear her father’s warm and gentle voice calling her his ‘darling princess.’

Flashback, Nine Years Ago

A ten-year-old Elara giggled from her perch on Hector Northwood’s lap-the Alpha, the man she called Papa.

“Papa, am I an outcast?”

He blinked in surprise. “Who told you that, honey?”

“No one,” she muttered, staring at her small hands.

“Elara,” he said softly, lifting her chin until their eyes met. “You are my daughter. My darling princess. Don’t ever forget that.”

He kissed her forehead, his warmth chasing away every shadow. “No one will ever hurt you as long as I’m alive.”

“Promise?”

“Promise.”

Present

Elara pressed her forehead to her knees as a sob broke free. “Papa… I miss you.”

The door burst open again, flooding the room with light. A woman stepped in—tall, poised, and beautiful in a cruel sort of way.

“Cierce ,” Elara whispered, blinking against the glare.

“Get up,” Cierce snapped.

Cierce and Elara used to be best friends while growing up however, things changed the moment Hector died. She began to treat Elara with venom.

“Cierce … please. Help me.”

The woman’s lips curled. “Help you? I’m the future Luna of this pack, Elara. You think I would touch something as filthy as you?”

Elara bit her lip and forced herself up, balancing on her fractured leg. Pain shot through her body and she howled, earning a disgusted scoff from Cierce.

Moments later, a bulky man entered the room.

Before Elara could retreat, he grabbed her leg. A sharp crack echoed, and agony ripped through her.

“Thank you,” Cierce said to the man, then turned to Elara. “Now, get dressed.”

They led her to the guest bathroom. She scrubbed away the blood, the dirt, and the shame though none of it truly left her skin. Makeup covered her bruises, and a short brown dress exposed more than it hid. When she entered the hall, the room was already filled with half-dressed men. Their gazes devoured her.

“Come here, angel,” one called, his grin feral.

Elara lowered her head and obeyed, her body trembling as he gripped her waist. His fingers trailed up her chest.

“My, oh my,” he drawled. “The Alpha’s pet really is a feast.”

Another man snorted. “You promised me first, dammit!”

“Too late. I called dibs.”

While they argued, Elara edged toward the half-open door, her heartbeat a drum in her ears. Freedom waited just beyond the threshold.

Then she froze.

A shadow filled the doorway.

The voice that haunted her nightmares cut through the room like a blade.

“Going somewhere, outcast?”