The woods were silent except for Lyra’s heavy breathing and the crunch of dead leaves under her feet and every step sent little knives of pain shooting through her shaking body but she didn’t stop she knew she couldn’t stop.

She kept moving deeper into the trees, the stolen cloak wrapped tightly around her shoulders. Her stomach growled, her throat burned from thirst and the silver burns on her wrists and ankles throbbed like open wounds.

She didn’t know how long she ran, hours or maybe days.

At some point, her knees gave out and she collapsed into the underbrush, the world swam around her fading in and out as her eyelids drooped.

That was when they found her.

The scent hit her first… the scent of foreign wolves, not Silver Moon and not Damon’s.

And then rough hands grabbed her, yanking her to her feet.

“Well, well,” a deep voice sneered. “What do we have here?”

Lyra tried to fight but her strength was gone which made them laugh.

“Look at her. She’s pretty enough. The king’s been asking for a gift to entertain him. Maybe we found one.”

The king?

She didn’t even have the strength to ask what they meant.

They bound her wrists behind her and dragged her through the forest, ignoring her hoarse protests. When she tripped, they didn’t pick her up, they just hauled her by the arms until her feet moved again.

By the time they reached their pack grounds the sky was streaked with pale gray , she noticed their territory was larger, more fortified than Silver Moon. Tall black walls surrounded the area, warriors stationed at every corner. The gates creaked open, and Lyra was shoved through like livestock.

She stumbled into the main courtyard, dizzy and disoriented.

“Where’s the king?” one of the captors called out.

Another pointed toward a massive building at the far end.

They dragged her up marble steps and through heavy double doors.

Inside was quiet. Too quiet.

At the far end of the room sat a man on a throne-like chair, leaning lazily against one armrest with a goblet of wine in his hand.

The Alpha King.

His dark eyes landed on Lyra the moment they pushed her forward, He was beautiful in a terrifying way, sharp cheekbones, black hair falling into his eyes, and a smile that didn’t fully reach his face. He set his goblet down and rose slowly, his presence filling the room like smoke.

“What is this?” he asked, voice smooth and low.

One of the wolves behind her bowed. “A gift, my king, we caught her near the northern border. She’s unmarked but spirited. We thought she might… entertain you.”

The king circled her like a predator, gaze sliding over her in a way that made her skin crawl.

His fingers lifted her chin, forcing her to face him.

“This is what you bring me?” he murmured.

“She fought us,” another captor added quickly. “Even in her condition. She’s strong. Could make a fine… plaything.”

The king tilted his head, studying her.

Then, without looking at them, he said, “Prepare her for tonight.”

Lyra’s stomach dropped.

“No,” she whispered.

But they didn’t hear her or didn’t care.

The king flicked his fingers. “Go.”

They dragged her from the throne room, down another long corridor. She dug her heels into the floor, but it didn’t matter they were stronger.

They stopped at a heavy wooden door and shoved her inside, steam filled the room, fragrant oils drifted from the baths.

Two women were waiting, one looked bored while the other looked almost sympathetic but neither spoke.

They stripped the cloak from Lyra’s shoulders despite her protests and began undressing her like she was a doll, humiliation burned her skin as they scrubbed her raw, washing away dirt and blood.

Then they dressed her in a sheer, silken gown that clung to her body so closely it made her want to tear it off.

When they finished one left the room and returned with a small wooden box, Lyra stared at it, dread twisting in her gut.

“What… is that?” she croaked.

The woman holding it offered a sad smile. “The king’s order.”

Before Lyra could react, they forced her into a chair and pinned her head back.

“No…. stop! Don’t…!”

They pried her eyelids open and pressed a cold metal device to her temple, Lyra screamed as white-hot pain shot through her skull and the world went black.

When it was over she trembled violently and blinked but nothing, she couldn’t see which made panic claw her chest.

“Why… why can’t I…”

The more sympathetic woman whispered, “The king prefers his toys obedient. Helpless.”

Lyra froze.

Tears leaked down her cheeks, but no one cared, they finished dressing her, then chained her hands in front of her and led her out of the room.

The hallways were a blur of sound just footsteps, whispers, the metallic tang of blood, She couldn’t see where they were taking her but she could feel it, she could feel him waiting.

When they stopped, Lyra heard the creak of a door opening and a low voice murmur, “Bring her in.”

They guided her forward though every instinct screamed to run but she knew there was nowhere she could go.

A hand gripped her shoulder, easing her down onto soft furs, the room smelled of expensive wine, warm firewood, It made her chest tighten.

The women retreated as they shut the door softly then She heard his footsteps, slow and deliberate.

He spoke in a voice low and controlled, but with something restrained beneath it danger, maybe.

“Do you know why you’re here?”

Lyra swallowed hard. “Because your wolves dragged me here.”

He didn’t respond right away.

Instead, he crouched beside the bed. The mattress dipped under his weight, warmth radiating between them.

That scent hit her again.

Stronger.

Lyra held her breath as her stomach twisted violently.

No.

No. No. No.

Not again.

He froze at the same moment she did.

A sharp inhale. A low, strangled curse.

Lyra could hear his heartbeat. Or maybe it was hers.

His hand gripped her chin, lifting her face toward where he was. His thumb brushed her cheek, his breath ghosting her skin.

“You,” he growled, disbelief thick in his tone. “It’s you.”

And then, barely above a whisper, like it was a curse he couldn’t swallow.

“Mate.”

Lyra froze, lips parting before the word escaped her too soft, broken and defiant.

“Mate.”