Draven loosened the top buttons of his suit as soon as he stepped out of the main hall, a grin stretching across his face. The sound of his polished shoes echoed in the stone corridor leading back to the dungeon. His thoughts weren’t on pack politics or warriors or even the Lycan king anymore, they were on Elara.

The image of her trembling on that dungeon floor came back vividly. Her hair sticking to her tear-streaked face, the way she’d flinched when he touched her arm. He chuckled under his breath. Ronan might be nosing around his pack, but once the Lycan King was gone, Draven intended to remind his little half-blood mate who she belonged to.

When he reached her cell, he stopped. The faint light caught her exposed leg where the brown fabric of her dress had ridden up. She’d shifted in her sleep, curling into herself, her skin pale against the stone. Draven’s grin sharpened. “No matter what that royal mutt wants here, you’re not going anywhere,” he murmured. “You’re mine.”

He didn’t notice the faint movement in the shadows behind him. Someone had seen, someone had listened.

Through the mindlink, his beta’s voice cut through his thoughts. “You headed back there again, Draven?” Rylan’s tone was cautious. Draven smirked. “She’s my mate, Rylan. Don’t start.”

“You say she’s your mate, yet you treat her like trash. You’re playing a dangerous game,” Rylan warned. “Ronan D’Aric isn’t someone you can fool. If he catches a whiff of her or what you have been doing to her, it’s over.”

“Relax,” Draven replied, dismissive. “She’s locked up. And besides, he’s only here to talk warriors, not to sniff around for women.”

Rylan sighed. “You’re too sure of yourself.”

Draven ignored him. “Get someone to move her to the servants’ quarters. I don’t want Ronan sniffing around the dungeon.”

“But…” Rylan didn’t get to finish up his statement before Draven cut him off.

“Think carefully about your next words, Beta Rylan. Don’t forget who you are talking to.”

There was a pause before Rylan answered, “…Alright, Alpha.”

The next morning, sunlight spilled across the study, catching on the glass decanters lined neatly on Draven’s shelf. The air between him and Ronan was taut-too formal to be friendly, too cautious to be comfortable. Ronan sat opposite Draven, posture straight, his cold gaze fixed on the man across from him. “Your warriors have been losing ground to the rogue attacks,” he said flatly. “Northwood’s border was breached twice this month.”

Draven forced a polite laugh. “Yes, it’s been… troublesome. I was actually hoping for your assistance in that regard, your highness.”

Ronan’s expression didn’t change. “That’s why I’m here. I’ll be sending a few of my own to strengthen your ranks.”

Draven’s eyes lit up. “Truly? That’s—”

Ronan cut him off. “On one condition.”

The Alpha blinked, his grin faltering. “A condition?”

“Yes.” Ronan leaned back slightly in his chair, voice low and deliberate. “On our way here, we came across a field of wild herbs. I want to take some back to my pack for research.”

“Oh… of course, of course,” Draven said quickly. “Although lately, that area has been crawling with rogues. It’s too dangerous to send anyone out there unguarded. But I can have the servants fetch it immediately.”

Cierce, who stood quietly beside Draven, nodded and started to mindlink someone to carry out the task.

Matthew spoke up before she could finish. “If I may, your highness… Perhaps we should see all your servants, Alpha. It would help us assess your resources properly.”

Draven chuckled uneasily, clearly missing the edge in Matthew’s tone. “I- I don’t think that would be necessary though. The lower ranked servants will do.”

Ronan’s gaze sharpened. “No.”

Draven frowned slightly. “No?”

“I want to see all the servants,” Ronan said. His words came slow, cold, and deliberate. “I’ll choose who goes. And if I find one worthy, I’ll take them back to my pack. In return, you’ll receive three additional warriors.”

The room fell quiet.

Cierce’s eyes darted nervously to Draven. Rylan stiffened from his place near the door. He could feel the tension ripple through the link between him and his brother.

Draven forced a laugh that sounded too thin. “Ah… generous, your highness. Of course. I’ll have them brought in immediately.”

He mindlinked the pack member in charge, ordering all the servants to assemble in the study. When the door opened again, they filed in-thin, frightened faces, heads bowed low. Draven stood with his hands clasped behind his back, trying to maintain the air of a confident Alpha. But the moment his eyes landed on the last figure to limp through the doorway, his blood ran cold.

Elara.

She was wearing one of the servants’ plain gray dresses. It hung loosely on her small frame, and her hair fell over one shoulder, still tangled. She tried to hide the slight limp in her step, but it was there. Her eyes, wide and anxious, scanned the room before she froze.

Right in front of her—Ronan D’Aric.

Cierce’s face drained of color. “What is she doing here?” her mind screamed. She glared at Elara, willing her to disappear.

Ronan’s gaze, sharp as frost, fell on the trembling girl and everything inside him stilled. The scent hit him faint, but unmistakable, wild rose and rain-soaked earth. His wolf stirred violently beneath his skin, snarling a single word into his mind. Mate.

Draven noticed the shift in the Lycan King’s posture, the cold, assessing look in his eyes. He forced himself to smile. “Your highness, if I may suggest, perhaps one of the stronger servants should go. That one…” He gestured toward Elara dismissively. “…she’s frail. Clumsy. Barely capable of carrying a basket without tripping. She’s sickly, and honestly, quite useless.”

Elara’s hands trembled at her sides.

Ronan turned his head slowly, eyes narrowing. “She’ll go.”

Draven blinked. “Your highness, with all due respect-”

Ronan’s tone dropped another degree colder. “Did you not hear me, Alpha?”

Draven’s throat tightened. “I only meant that she-”

The air thickened. Ronan’s aura rolled through the room like a storm, crushing and heavy. Cierce lowered her head instantly. Even Rylan flinched, his wolf submitting instinctively.

Ronan’s voice was calm, but there was steel beneath it. “Are you questioning my command?”

Draven’s knees nearly buckled under the pressure. “N-no, your highness.”

Ronan’s gaze lingered on him for a beat longer before the oppressive weight lifted. “Good. She leaves now. I only need a quarter basket. One hour.”

Elara bowed shakily. “Y-yes, your highness.” Her voice was so soft it almost broke. She turned toward the door, every movement cautious, her body stiff with fear.

Ronan’s jaw tightened as he watched her limp away. He could see it-the exhaustion, the hunger, the bruises half-hidden beneath the fabric. Rage coiled low in his chest.

When the door closed behind her, the room was silent for a long moment.

Draven tried to recover, straightening his collar and clearing his throat. “Your highness,” he began carefully, “about the rogues… they’ve been multiplying near the southern ridge. We’ve sent warriors, but the attacks have been… unpredictable.”

Ronan leaned back, expression unreadable. “That’s because you’re spread too thin,” he said coolly. “Half your warriors patrol for territory you can’t control, and the other half play guard dogs while you entertain yourself with slaves.”

Draven froze. “I—”

“Don’t waste my time, Draven,” Ronan interrupted. His eyes flicked briefly to Cierce . “Get your house in order. I’ll have your warriors trained by my men. As for that girl,” he referred to Elara, “She will come with me.”

Draven gritted his teeth forced a nod, beads of sweat forming at his temple. “Y-yes, your highness.”