Chapter 14

I groaned, my body heavy and unresponsive, as if I were waking from a dream that clung to my bones like tar. My fingers twitched, brushing against something impossibly soft—velvet, silk, something luxurious and cold.

My brows furrowed as I forced my eyes open, blinking against the dim light. Above me, the ceiling stretched high, adorned with intricate carvings of angels. Their stone eyes seemed to follow me, their wings frozen mid-beat, as if they had been caught in a moment of divine judgment.

Am I dead?

The thought flitted through my mind, but the sharp ache in my body told me otherwise. Dead people don’t feel pain.

Dead people don’t feel fear.

And then, like a blade slicing through the haze, sunlight poured into the room as the curtains were ripped open. I flinched, throwing up a hand to shield my eyes, the sudden brightness burning into my retinas. My vision blurred, and when it cleared, I saw my hand—bandaged, pale, trembling.

Wait… what?

The memories came crashing back, a tidal wave of blood and terror.

The chase. The blood trail. The sound of his footsteps, steady and unhurried, as if he knew I couldn’t escape.

The way his eyes had gleamed in the moonlight, feral and unrelenting. The way he had smirked when I stumbled, when I fell, when I realized there was no way out.

“Good morning, little mouse.”

That voice.

Low, smooth, and dripping with a menace that made my blood run cold. My head snapped up, my body locking in place as if his presence alone had turned my limbs to stone.

There he stood, silhouetted against the blinding light, his massive frame blocking the sun.

The Werewolf King.

His hands were clasped behind his back, his posture relaxed, as if he hadn’t just pulled open the curtains to blind me. As if he hadn’t spent last night hunting me like an animal.

His steel-gray eyes pinned me to the bed, unblinking, calculating.

He was dressed impeccably in a tailored suit, the fabric straining against the sheer size of him. He looked like he belonged in a boardroom, not standing over me like a predator savoring its catch.

My first instinct was to reach for my shawl.

It was always there, wrapped around me like a shield, hiding the scar that marked me as different. My fingers scrambled across the bed, searching for the familiar fabric, but it was gone.

And my heart dropped.

“I got rid of that hideous shawl for you,” he said, his voice a low purr that sent a shiver down my spine.

“You won’t be needing it anymore.”

I froze, my heart pounding so loudly I was sure he could hear it.

“What?” The word came out as a whisper, barely audible.

He tilted his head, his gaze never leaving mine.

“You heard me, little mouse. That shawl was a crutch. A weakness. And I don’t tolerate weaknesses.”

Panic surged through me, sharp and suffocating. I threw off the covers, ignoring the pain that shot through my bandaged foot, and stumbled to my feet. My eyes darted around the room, searching for the shawl, for anything that could make me feel safe again.

“Where is it?” My voice cracked, desperation clawing at my throat. “Give it back!”

The shawl wasn't there for cold. The shawl had a purpose. It hid my scar. It made me feel normal, like others. But now without it? I felt naked, bare, vulnerable.

And I hated this feeling.

It’s not normal.

I know.

I have this obsession with that shawl. Its like it was a part of me all these years, my shield and now it got ripped from me.

He didn’t move, didn’t even flinch. He just watched me with that same infuriating calm, as if my panic amused him.

“You’re wasting your energy, little mouse. It’s gone.”

I lunged for the wardrobe, yanking open the doors with trembling hands. Empty. Another wardrobe.

Empty.

My breath came in short, frantic gasps as I tore through the room, throwing aside clothes, overturning furniture, my mind spiraling into chaos.

“Little mouse,” he said, his voice cutting through the noise like a knife. “Calm down.”

“Calm down?” I whirled on him, my chest heaving, my eyes burning with unshed tears.

“You have no right—no right to take it from me! It’s mine!”

He moved then, so fast I barely saw him. One moment he was by the window, and the next he was in front of me, trapping me in a corner.

My palms rest on the wall behind as I try to breathe.

Pressing my cheek to the wall.

He was so close to me yet he wasn’t touching me, not even an inch. And I find myself pinned under his cold gaze.

“Look at me,” he commanded, his voice a low growl that brooked no argument.

I tried to look away, to shut him out, but his free hand gripped my chin, forcing my gaze to meet his.

His eyes were like molten silver, burning with an intensity that made my stomach twist.

There was something so dark… almost evil.

“These are the eyes you’ll see every morning when you wake up,” he said, his breath hot against my skin.

“The only eyes you’ll ever lower yourself to. The only eyes that will see you—all of you. Your scars. Your fears. Your weaknesses. And I will burn them all away until there’s nothing left but what I want you to be.”

I shuddered, my mind screaming at me to fight, to run, to do something. But my body betrayed me, frozen in place by the sheer force of his presence.

“You’re mine, little mouse,” he murmured, his lips brushing against my ear.

“Whether you like it or not. And soon you are going to accept it.”