Chapter Four: Chained

Marko N. Ivanov

“How could he do this? How could he do this to me?”

Mother’s scream was audible through the halls, each question perfectly punctuated by the shattering of more hallway décor.

With a mere announcement, the most regal wolf in the kingdom was reduced to hysterics—a sight he had never witnessed before.

The butler was the first to shield Marko from the ferocious howls that followed. This act added to his tension by confirming that what was indeed wrong was diabolically irreparable.

"Is there some sort of proof that they are mates?”

His question came off with more emotion than he, as the heir to the throne, was permitted to portray.

"His-"

The butler hesitated, gazing left and right as though he was about to utter words that would endanger his life.

“His majesty was the one to proclaim that, so we must believe his words. Even the elder council remains in disarray.”

"What of mother? What becomes of her now?"

That wasn’t what he wished to ask; what he meant to ask was what would become of him. Will his father favour the child he will bear with his mate now that they selfishly decided to wed despite the protests?

If he could abandon his mother, a woman who has been by his side since his crowning, for a mate he met coincidentally, what chance did that grant him?

“Hush...your highness, not so loud; this is mere servant gossip, but one of the maids overheard whispers that the permission to wed granted to his majesty restricts him from siring children with his new wife and prohibits divorce with the queen.”

The servant whispered words that ascertained both his and mother’s positions, yet the bitterness remained.

How could father betray them in this way?

How could he be so selfish that he would subject his mother to a marriage of three with unequal love because he would quite obviously favour his so-called mate?

How can anyone excuse that?

**

The brightness in the room burned Marko’s eyes as he jolted from a bitter dream.

His mouth felt dry, and his hand still clenched last night’s glass as a throbbing pain that yielded to nothing danced around his head.

Thanks to Ace, his wolf, his office remained trashed at the realisation that rejection would be the only way his fated entanglement would end. A cruel thing for his wolf to accept, but there was no other choice.

He could not even fathom falling for the nasty little thing responsible for his mother’s life. Never! He would sooner-

Alba’s golden lust-filled eyes that met his gaze back at the restaurant flashed through his mind. The inky blackness of her hair had fallen as she bowed to him, a sight that did wonders to his wish to dominate, but the kicker had been that damned scent of wild berries and cold cream that filled the train, enticing him to devour her where she stood.

He hardened at the image of her writhing beneath him, the lovely fullness of her breasts swaying to his motion, mouth parted…calling his name, begging for his part in her release as her pride remained entirely replaced by her need for him.

His fist hit the table, and a curse left his mouth.

If word got out that his stepsister was his mate, then-

The sound of paper tearing brought his focus to his gigantified hand; flexing it a few times helped it regain its form; as for the torn documents, they needed to be redone.

A knock on the door sounded, and he ordered the party in after a quick adjustment of his trousers.

After a quick bow, Alpha Rhett settled on one of the sofas in the office and let out a low whistle.

“Love what you have done with the place, new decorator, perchance?”

“What do you want, Alpha.”

Contrary to his sister, Alpha Rhett was more easygoing.

Typically, Marko would term him as one who didn’t know his place, but his loyalty remained profound since his ascension to the throne.

"It's happened again, your majesty."

The alpha began, his expression turning sombre.

"Another oil spill? Where?"

"The coastal front."

"Who is on damage control."

"Magnolia and Gamma Brielle volunteered to manage the clean-up, but the people are growing restless. The energy that connects us to the Goddess is growing too polluted; we should cease all mining activities until-.”

"Did they take a priestess?"

Marko interrupted.

Oil mining was their main export; halting it would risk the kingdom’s financial crisis.

"None of the temple priestesses are spirit-born; there is only so much that they can do for the energy-"

"It's better than nothing."

He cut the complaining Alpha off.

The kingdom was growing restless over something he had no control over.

Spirit-borne wolf priestesses are the rarest form of wolves, so rare that their mere existence spark wars. The last ever case was fifty years ago. The pack they belonged to traded the priestess’s services expensively, ultimately leading to their demise as the less fortunate territories allied for war. Because of that, if such a wolf exists now, it would be kept under tight surveillance.

To pile onto his stress, he wanted to pin his callous stepsister to the bed and make her cry his name as she tightened her flesh mercilessly around him.

A scoff escaped him, and again a knock sounded on the door.

“What?”

“Your Majesty, the prisoner is awake.”

His aide stated, and silence came down the room.

**

Alba Crane

The food is placed inconveniently at the base of the bed; I cannot reach it when the radius of the chains binding my hands is to my waist.

Only one servant has attended to me.

A room with a bed and bars. A comfortable prison cell, yet it is still a prison.

The silk gown is modest, a perfect sleeping gown for all ages; the problem comes about in my lack of undergarments.

 The essential oils on my flesh let me know that the castle servants had bathed me at some point, even when I was a princess; this was the one tradition I avoided.

It feels like a dire invasion of privacy, but I am not here as a guest.

The sound of a metallic door clanking open rings through the humid dungeon before the scent of pine, eucalyptus, and expensive scotch follow.

I lift my nose in the air, subconsciously yearning for the scent, but as it grows stronger and my skin regains its heat, I struggle for modesty, suddenly aware of the areas the gown lacked in that aspect.

"How do you like your room."

The Lycan begins as he opens the cell and steps further into my space.

"The view is ghastly."

A lie, even gruff, he looks delicious, but that is beside the point.

"This is where my mother was constrained during the trials you instigated."

My stiffness at his topic of choice must have been obvious because a scoff follows.

I do not want to recall the circumstances that led to my mother's death, even less what transpired after.

"His majesty must have a lot of disposable income to rent an entire train station."

I say to change the topic.

"I rented every last-minute means of transport out of town, ferries, train, car rentals open past eleven; they weren’t that many; thank goodness you were predictable enough to ascertain that my money did not go to waste, then again, you would run from your own shadow if it spooked you enough."

The condescension in his voice leaves him guilty of nothing; in all his narratives, he must be the victim, even if I am the one chained to a wall.

"This is kidnapping, you motherfu-!"

"Watch your mouth!”

The flickering of his gaze from human to his Lycan form tells me of his fury, which threatens to swallow my own.

The pressure in the room that rises with his anger threatens to cut off my oxygen supply.

"That was not your first turning…was it? Come to think of it; it’s almost as if you knew we were mates.”

He nears me, so I kick him, but he catches my foot with ease.

His strong hold sends delicious sparks up my spine, but all too soon, he drops it.

“Answer while I ask nicely, Alba.”

His gentle tone is unbecoming; It feels as if he is playing good cop bad cop with me; he is even audacious enough to settle next to me that his scent washes over me as the mattress sinks under his weight.

I hate this feeling.

I want to lash at him, sink my flesh into him for his selfishness, yet I know the minute I sink my teeth into his flesh, I would sink the rest of myself as well, over and over, until I reeked of nothing but him.

That I can feel that way about one who treats me as if I am so far beneath him that he can take me on his whims and corner me into self-destruction is one thing, but that he can do that and expect my cooperation is downright rude.

"Fuck off."

As the words leave my lips, my spit follows and lands under his left eye to trickle down his chin.

A mistake, I realise all too soon when his beastly hand flies to my neck and shoves me to the headrest.

I can feel the softness of his white fur beneath my chin as his hand enlarges to his Lycan form, whose fullness I have only seen once and that is held exclusively by the ruling royal family and passed on generationally.

Though his hold is tight, he does not constrict my breathing.

A sharp snap sounds and my left hand falls free from the chain’s constraint, only for his monstrous strength to fling me to my back.

My head is pressed to the wall, but my breasts rest on the bed’s head support with both hands held above my frame by his large, transformed hand.

I should have trained, if only for self-defence, but would it have helped if the damned beast could snap thick chain as if it were a rubber band?

Something painful, heavy and hard lands solely on my right buttock with a 'smack' that ignores the silk garment’s padding to send a sharp stinging pain through me, eliciting a gasp from my lips.