Chapter 5
Selene couldn't swallow. The air sat heavy in her throat like a stone, refusing to move. She and her sisters stood side by side, rigid and gleaming under the firelight, like women at a whorehouse—except perhaps with a touch more dignity. Though right now, even that seemed threadbare.
Zerek strolled before them without hurry, his heavy boots echoing like war drums against the stone floor of the great hall. He did not look at them the way a man looks at women. He looked like a butcher sizing cuts of meat—cold, impersonal, and faintly amused. The mockery behind his gaze burned hotter than lust ever could.
Selene's chest tightened when his gaze landed on her.
It lingered.
It dragged.
She was suddenly aware of every breath, every fold of her gown, though it covered her modestly in embroidered blue. She might as well have been naked for how stripped she felt—his black eyes undressed her with indifference, not hunger. As though she were a thing, and not even a particularly interesting one.
She imagined his claws raking through her hair, down her skin, tearing delicate flesh. Her wolf growled within, hackles raised, whispering: danger. Do not move carelessly.
And then—finally—he turned away.
"I am not very good with numbers," Zerek said, reaching the steps below the throne. His voice was like iron dipped in oil, smooth and cold. He withdrew a bone pick from his coat—a toothpick—and began idly picking meat from his fangs with it, as if he hadn't just paraded along a royal bloodline. "But I believe you promised five daughters." His tone took on a mock surprise. "And I only see four."
A breathless silence fell.
Selene's eyes flicked to her father.
Torren, Alpha King of Duskari, did not so much as twitch. His face was carved from stone, every movement deliberate. "Our youngest," he said with regal calm, "is merely a babe. Hardly old enough to be married."
Zerek's lips curled. The grin was slight—barely there—but Selene saw it. And the way it passed between his men like a disease. Karl straightened in his chair. Another of them, thickset and broad-shouldered, followed, his expression almost gleeful.
Selene's spine went rigid. They weren't reaching for weapons. They didn't need to.
Wolves did not fight with blades.
They fought with teeth and claws.
Selene's heart slammed against her ribs, each beat a violent warning.
They had all agreed—Aeris could not be sent to that barbaric land. She had to remain hidden, safe. No peace treaty, no bargain, no diplomatic farce could justify selling the youngest among them into a place that would ruin her—destroy her. If the worst came to pass, they would fight.
Selene's gaze trailed the men—hulking, immovable, like stone given flesh. The warriors of Duskari carried their own power, their own disciplined pride, but none were like these. None were this utterly, suffocatingly formidable.
What did the wolves of Skaldur feast upon to grow so strong?
Zerek tilted his head, the flickering torchlight catching against his sharp features. "Too young," he mused. "Do I care about that?"
"No," the barbarian from before interjected, his smirk curling like something rotten. The sight of it made Selene's skin crawl.
"If she is too young to marry now, she will follow us," he continued, his voice easy, unbothered, yet filled with unspoken menace. "She will grow up in our land."
He turned then, his gaze settling on her father, casual, calculating. "Is that not possible? Do we not have young ones in our lands?"
A pause—brief, barely perceptible.
"We most certainly do, " the barbarians chorused.
"So… unless you are not interested in this treaty…" His voice curled like mist through the cold hall. "We needn't sign it."
The corners of his mouth stretched wider—too wide. Teeth sharpened to points, pale and predatory. A chill crept down Selene's spine; fear fluttered in her chest like startled wings. It nearly wrenched a scream from her throat. Wolves who could shift at will—especially in fragments, in pieces—were whispered myths. That he could do it so far from the full moon? Unnatural.
"Or…" he went on, the word lingering like frostbite, "I can take the head of one or two of your sons instead."
"Outrage!" Thorne roared, flinging himself to his feet. The sudden motion rattled the silver goblets on the table. Selene blinked at his foolishness—could he not feel the danger curling thick in the air like smoke?
"You can't demand such a thing!" he barked. "We have already offered you four sisters to choose from. Do you want a child, are you sick? Depraved?"
Zerek didn't answer. He didn't need to. He merely rolled his shoulders, bones popping in sharp rhythm. The sound echoed like cracking ice.
Then Karl moved—so fast it blurred—and was on the landing, snarling, after Thorne.
"No!" Selene cried, voice cracking loose from her chest, but the word was already too late. The fight was brief, clumsy. Thorne was never meant for battle—he was subdued in a blink. His face slammed into the table once. Then again. Just to be sure.
Zerek tilted his head, voice languid. "Marlik," he said. "This bores me. Let's return to our rooms. Give them time… to decide."
Marlik gave a slight nod, a smirk tugging at his mouth as Zerek strode past him. The woman beside him slipped easily into his arms, her movements fluid, almost rehearsed. Together, they swept from the hall, Zerek's men trailing in quiet formation behind like shadows given shape.
Selene stood frozen until Karl finally released Thorne. Then she rushed forward, skirts whispering over stone, the sharp scent of wine and meat thick in the air. Eiran and Lazeran remained still—stunned and insulted in equal measure.
Thorne coughed, one hand at his bruised throat, the other reaching blindly as if searching for something solid. His eyes fluttered open.
"Are you alright?" Selene asked softly, her hand moving in gentle circles on his back to ease the rattle in his chest.
"You have until tomorrow to decide," came Marlik's voice. "The youngest princess… or the heads of two of your sons."
He was the last to leave, his footsteps fading with an almost ceremonial calm.
The hall was ruin. Tables upturned, goblets shattered like bone, food and plates scattered as if a tempest had passed through. The warmth of the feast had curdled into tension.
Selene's eyes turned to her father. "What do we do?"
The King of Torren, ever composed before others, now let out a long, tired sigh. He lowered his head to his hand, fingers pressed to his brow.
"I don't know."
"Did you really think that would work?" Eiran asked, his voice full with suppressed anger.
"We should have found someone else to take Aeris's place," Thorne muttered hoarsely.
"Not when he's already seen her," Lazeran cut in, jaw clenched. "That foolish girl went and showed herself."
Karlene, fingers twisting strands of her pale hair, murmured, "We're not seriously thinking of giving Aeris to him, are we?"
Nyra's lips pressed into a tight line, giving nothing. Veyla's expression trembled with anguish, but she too said nothing, silence her only refuge.
Selene looked at them all—their fear, their indecision. And then, without meaning to, she heard her own voice.
"What if I can prove myself useful to him?"
She didn't know why she said it. Only that the words came from the same place they always did. That place inside her where duty lived—where someone had to rise when no one else would. It was no longer bravery. Only habit.