Belstram
The air in the great hall reeked; a blend of old blood, heavy incense and raw politics.
It clung to the stone in layers.
A hundred sharpened gazes, eyes more cunning and sharper than any animals'.
All turned toward them, standing as one. He led Layla through the giant doors made of enchanted Ironwood. And into the lair of predators that hid beneath noble civility.
He could smell her nervousness, but she withstood those gazes,measured them, and found them wanting. His hand on the nape of her neck squeezed in approval. Guiding her forward.
Perched on her luscious curls, announcing her new status, was:
A crown crafted from twisted silver and gold vines, intricately sharp, delicate, deadly and thoroughly beautiful. Tiny gemstones dotted on the surface refract the light, emeralds like new leaves, sapphires like a twilight sky, diamonds blazing like fire.
Each stone represents a season, a cycle, a promise. It was beautiful and deadly. Just like her.
His Layla.
Queen.
She stumbled on the polished marbled floor, only once,then straightened her spine, chin lifting, an issued challenge that dared the court to find her weakness.
Marks had bloomed over the sun-kissed skin of her arms and throat. It made the wolf in him giddy. His claim was presented to all.
Witnessed.
The sheer cream dress she wore clung to all her curves,her emerald eyes had blazed when he presented it. They came to an impasse when she insisted on the cloak to cover.
The murmurs began at once, the whisper of heavy silks, the loud clatter of jeweled rings against each other. A viperous hiss of poison.
Layla.
The bruises.
The crown.
He led her directly to the smaller throne beside his, hers, fussing until she was settled before taking his own.
A tense silence descended on the hall, broken only by the crackle and spit of the braziers.
All eyes were on her.
Some already craved her, their hunger starkly written on their faces. Those he marked for later.
Some feared her, sensing the iron will, the wild fire, leaping in her defiant eyes.
Good
Most, however, schemed, cunning minds already devising ways to turn her presence into a weakness, a potential weapon against him.
Let them.
Let them hunger for a taste they would never sample. He would let their ambition mount and let them choke on it.
He would tear out throats and feed them to the very wolves this court was named for, before a single treacherous seed could blossom into action against her.
His gaze swept across their faces, all beautiful, some inhumanely so. Pampered, spoiled power hungry leeches; most of them were, save a decent few.
His voice rose, scathing, cutting through the heavy air, absolute and final.
"KNEEL!" The words echoing off the glass vaulted ceiling. "Acknowledge your Queen."His eyes burned on the sea of faces before him.
A ripple of unease went through them, swiftly followed by movement. Silks whispered against marble as they kneeled, some slowly, reluctantly, others with practiced grace, sinking to their knees.
A hundred heads bowed low.
All but one.
At the far end of the hall, on the raised platform, still sprawled languidly on the throne-like chair; like a black widow spider holding court.
Riona
His mistake.
His greatest failure.
The betrayal had burned deep, into the essence of his dual soul. He had thought she was his mate. Now with his God given mate by his side, he realised how stupid he had been, falling for her ruse.
She was devastating tonight: A cruel beauty, draped in crimson silk, the color of arterial red, like fresh spilled blood that played her moon pale skin to perfection. Her hair coiled like a dark serpent down her spine. Her smile was soft red, gentle as fresh-turned earth after a spring rain.
Unmoving.
Unbowed.
He remembered her kisses, how it had tasted, tasting of lies and poisoned honey after she had f**ked Charming behind his back.
Prince Cerin Charming: The royal darling of the neighbouring kingdom, smiling liar, thief, always coveting what wasn't his. Hiding his savagery behind smiles and civility, when he was just as savage as him.
He never ever forgot the taste of that betrayal, never forgave the slight to his honor, to his trust, and to the future he had envisioned.
The court remained kneeling, a living carpet of submission, as Riona finally rose from her fake throne, slow and sinuous, a creature of dark grace.
The click-clack of her jeweled heels against the polished marble floor was the whisper of a blade being, deliberately unsheathed.
A challenge issued in sound, directed solely at Layla.
"Belstram," she purred, voice sweet and poisonous as oleander, laced with a mocking lilt that carried through the silent hall.
"You brought us... such an exotic prize. How generous of you, to share your... latest acquisition."
Layla stiffened beside him , her body going rigid, a small, bright spark of fury igniting in her eyes, a flash of the same fire that had branded him.
His wolf growled at the insult to their mate, hand tightening on the arm of the throne, his knuckles popping as he tried to keep the beast in check, he kept his voice civil as he replied.
"She is not an acquisition, Riona. She is your Queen." His hand covered Layla's,squeezing gently.
Not yet little Queen he willed.
Learn from your enemy first. Learn patience.
Riona drifted closer, her sapphire blue eyes glittering, the light catching the cold cruelty lurking beneath the painted-on smile.
She circled at the base of the thrones, her movement fluid, sinuous, like a hungry cat assessing prey.
She let the court drink in every visible mark, every bruise. Layla shivered imperceptibly, her defiant body turning rampod straight at the insult.
Riona's gaze lingered on the vivid marks of his claim, twisting them into a spectacle of shame.
She smiled wider then, a slow, chilling blossom of malicious intent, directed not at him but at his mate..
"A feral thing," she said, pitching her voice perfectly for the court's avid ears, making the kneeling figures her audience. "Untamed. Unworthy of this place."
"Unworthy of you, My king."
" A temporary distraction, no doubt," she said, " you can deck a mutt in jewels, but you'll never wash out the filth," she finished, smiling cattily.
The murmurs sharpened again among the kneeling figures, turning darker, fueled by her words, by the visible evidence. By the disdain in Riona's.
He smiled too then—slow and cold, a wolf''s smile, sharp fangs displayed, promising swift, brutal death to any who dared believe her words.
"And yet," he said, voice cutting through the air like cold steel against bone, silencing the whispers instantly.
"She wears more honor on her skin, more truth in her bruises than any wh*re who bent the knee and opened her legs to a Charming."
The court gasped, a collective intake of horrified breath. Riona's smile vanished, eyes glittering like sapphires, blue-hot rage, promising immediate violence, then instantly simmering down into something colder.
More calculating, more dangerous.
Like a viper biding it's time.
She had not expected him to gut her in front of the court.
Had not expected him to expose her deepest shame, her political failure, her personal betrayal, in such a brutal, public manner.
She knelt, a graceful folding of limbs, neck bare.
Good.
Let her remember who he was. To always remember the cost of betrayal in his court.
He leaned forward, pulling Layla's smaller throne closer to his, his hand flattening over the soft curve of her stomach in a possessive hold, a deliberate, physical display of ownership that dared any soul in the court to look and think she was vulnerable.
Or that her marks were shameful.
And not the brand that they were meant to be.
Marked her well.
His will bled out, into the very stones beneath their knees, into the air itself, a silent command to every kneeling figure.
Look at her.
See her bruises.
See my claim. She was his. His queen.
His future.
"She stands at my right hand now," he said, voice graveled and low, a command that settled over the court like a shroud of unbreakable law.
"Any who touches her, any who whisper against her, any who plots her harm." He smiled then, and this time there was nothing remotely human in it, only the ancient, cursed soul of the king of wolves.
"Will be gutted and fed to the wolves before the next moon rises."
The new High Priestess, Isolde, a woman whose power ran deep and silent, dipped her head lower on the cold stone in solemn acknowledgement, the gold chains on her robes whispering against the marble.
She understood the weight of his word, the finality of decree.
Around the edges of the great hall, the whispers began again among the kneeling figures, softer now, laced with fear, with speculation, with the chilling understanding of their new reality:
The Queen… Layla…
He claimed her… in blood…
Riona… disgraced…
Fed to… the wolves…
He heard it all. Every rustle, every hushed word, every tremor of fear and burgeoning, foolish ambition.
He let it build like storm clouds on the horizon. Let them plot in the shadows.
Let them try.
He would break them open one by one and salt the ruins when their hopes die.
All for her.
All for Layla.
All for his Queen.