"And... suddenly, going to the motel didn’t seem so bad."
— Seyra
010.
Seyra’s eyes fluttered open, and the first thing that greeted her was a burning pain in her back, coupled with another terrifying ache all over her body.
She figured she was still on the ground. There was distant chatter, but she couldn’t make out the voices. How could she? She barely knew anyone here anyway.
She struggled to stand to her feet, but her body protested, and she fell face-first onto the floor again. She groaned, her head pounding.
"She’s awake."
Seyra heard Ophelia say.
"Finish the punishment."
"Can you just give me a break?" Seyra said, her voice barely audible.
She couldn’t believe how cruel they were around here.
Not only did they leave her on this cold floor and just watch her, they actually waited for her to regain consciousness so they could continue the punishment.
How sick.
Her eyes filled with tears, and she couldn’t help but wonder.
If she had chosen the motel, would she have been punished this way? Would it have been as cruel as this place?
Sure, she would have to use her body to entertain horny male wolves. But would it have been this bad?
"I said, finish the punishment!" Ophelia snapped, jerking Seyra out of her thoughts.
She heard footsteps approaching where she lay and shut her eyes tightly. But then, the air seemed to change in a terrifying way.
The temperature dropped, and she shuddered. The chatter stopped as the footsteps approached her. It was almost as if everything and everyone had gone still, like the whole courtyard had held its breath.
And then she caught the scent—that dark, spicy scent—and her wolf whimpered, retreating into the back of her mind like it had witnessed a predator more dangerous than anything.
She wasn’t wrong.
Seyra knew Orin had stepped into the courtyard. His aura was unmistakable.
Fear and panic clawed at her chest. He was finally going to end her. If Ophelia told him about what happened, she was doomed.
She felt him stop in front of her. She lowered her head further toward the ground, not daring to look up at him. She didn’t even have the energy.
She heard a rustling, and before she knew it, her hair was being pulled.
Her scalp screamed as her head was wrenched back, forcing her face up toward him.
Seyra’s breath caught.
Orin stood over her, his mask catching what little light filtered into the courtyard. She could feel pure fury radiating off him. His grip on her hair didn’t loosen. If anything, it tightened, forcing tears to spring into her eyes.
"Look at me," he said, his voice low and dangerous, "when I’m speaking to you."
She hadn’t even realized her eyes had drifted shut against the pain. She forced them open, meeting the dark eyeholes of his mask despite every instinct screaming at her to look away.
Even without seeing his face, she could feel the weight of his stare. It pressed into her like something physical.
"Who," Orin said slowly, each word deliberate, "gave the order to touch you?"
Seyra’s lips parted, but no sound came out. Her throat had gone dry.
Behind him, she heard Ophelia step forward.
"I did, Alpha," Ophelia said, though her voice had lost all the sharpness from before. "She defied a direct order. She questioned—"
"I wasn’t talking to you."
The courtyard went silent again.
Orin’s eyes hadn’t left Seyra’s face. His grip on her hair eased, just slightly, though he didn’t let go.
"Tell me," he said, quieter now, though somehow it felt more dangerous than when he’d been loud. "Did you defy an order?"
Seyra swallowed hard, her whole body trembling. "I asked a question," she managed. "That’s all I did."
For a moment, he said nothing. She couldn’t read him behind the mask, but something in the way his shoulders shifted told her the answer had landed.
He straightened, finally releasing her hair, and turned to face Ophelia fully.
"Thirty lashes," he said, "for a question."
Ophelia opened her mouth to explain herself, but he raised a single hand, and she fell silent instantly.
"I don’t recall giving you the authority to decide what happens to what belongs to me."
Seyra’s stomach twisted at the word.
Belongs.
Like she was property. Like she was something he owned rather than someone standing in front of him.
And maybe she was.
Maybe that was exactly what she’d become the moment she stepped through those palace gates.
"Alpha, I only meant to enforce the rules—"
"Enough."
Ophelia’s mouth snapped shut.
Orin looked back down at Seyra, still slumped on the ground, blood soaking through the back of her white gown, her body barely holding itself upright.
She couldn’t see his expression, but his voice, when it came, had lost some of its earlier edge. It was flat now.
"Get her to the healer. Now," he said finally. "Ophelia, come with me."
Orin’s chambers were colder than the rest of the palace, or maybe it only felt that way with the tension still simmering off him.
Ophelia stood near the door, her hands clasped tightly in front of her, careful not to look directly at him.
"Sit," he said, though it didn’t sound like an invitation.
She sat.
Orin remained standing, his back to her as he stared out the window overlooking the garden below it.
"Let me make something clear," he said, his voice calm. "Seyra is my property. She was sold to me to settle a debt. That means only I decide what happens to her."
"Alpha, I only—"
"I’m not finished."
Ophelia fell silent.
"Whatever happens within your jurisdiction—the kitchens, the grounds, the rest of the maids—that is your business. I don’t concern myself with how you run things there."
He finally faced her fully.
"But she is not within your jurisdiction. I assigned her to my personal quarters. My affairs. Which means she belongs to me, and only me, in every sense that matters."
Ophelia’s throat tightened.
"I like my things flawless," Orin continued, his tone almost conversational now, which somehow made it worse. "No wrinkles. No blemishes. No scars." He paused. "No blood that I didn’t put there myself."
He studied her.
"I am very particular about what I allow into my inner chambers, Ophelia. If I find even a scratch on her skin that I didn’t cause, I won’t remember the years you’ve spent as head maid. I won’t remember your loyalty, or your service, or anything else you think should protect you."
His eyes darkened.
"I’ll simply add your head to the collection in my hall."
Ophelia’s face paled.
"She’s a reject," she said quickly, desperately, the words tumbling out before she could stop them. "She isn’t even worthy to work for someone like you. She’s ugly, she’s weak, her wolf is nothing, she’s—"
She didn’t get to finish.
Blood suddenly dripped from her neck, warm and fast, and her hand flew up to find the source. A thin line had opened across her throat, precise and clean, though Orin hadn’t moved from where he stood.
Ophelia’s eyes widened in horror.
"You dare," Orin’s voice turned icy, "question me?"
Ophelia dropped to her knees immediately, pressing her hand harder against the cut, blood seeping between her fingers.
"I apologize, Alpha. I spoke out of turn. It won’t happen again."
He watched her for a long moment, unmoving, before he finally waved a hand toward the door.
"Leave."
Ophelia scrambled to her feet and hurried out without another word, her hand still clamped over her bleeding neck.
As the door shut behind her, one thing had settled deep in her chest, more severe than the wound Orin had left on her skin.
She hated Seyra.
To the bone.