Alpha King Wrecked And Reclaimed

Nora

The supreme ruler of all the packs, the most powerful and dangerous wolf in existence, and the very same man I gave myself to in a dirty cave just hours ago.

He turns his head and looks down at me huddled in the dirt. A spark of recognition flashes hot and bright in his dark eyes.

He knows exactly who I am.

He does not say a single word of comfort to me. He stares at me for one long, burning moment, and then he turns his cold gaze back to Ronan, who is still weeping on the ground and cradling his broken arm.

"Whose son is this?" His deep voice carries across the silent crowd with an authority that makes even the older Alphas flinch.

One of the festival organizers steps forward on shaking legs, bowing so low his nose nearly touches the dirt. "He is the son of Alpha Gregor, my King. Of the Ashwood Pack."

"And the girl?"

"She, she is from the same pack, my King. Listed as a basic laborer for the festival."

The King is quiet for a moment and then he motions sharply with his hand to a group of heavily armed guards standing at the edge of the crowd. "Take the boy to the holding cells. Detain Alpha Gregor and the rest of his pack immediately. I want a full accounting of every female he brought to this festival."

"Yes, my King." The guards move fast, hauling a screaming Ronan to his feet and dragging him away while two more peel off toward the main encampment.

The King looks back at me. I am still on the ground, bleeding from my nose and holding my ribs, and every muscle in my body is locked tight with pain and fear and the overwhelming pull of the bond that is still dragging at the center of my chest like a fishhook.

"Bring her as well." He does not address me directly. He just turns his back and walks toward the center of the festival where a line of massive royal carriages is waiting, and two of his remaining guards step forward to gently help me to my feet.

They put me in the back of a heavily guarded ceremonial wagon. The ride is long and bumpy and my ribs ache with every jolt, but I barely notice the pain because my mind is spinning so fast I feel dizzy. The King. He is the King. I gave my virginity to the Alpha King in a cave during a rainstorm and I did not even know his name.

The royal palace is a sprawling estate made of stone and glass, more beautiful than anything I have ever seen in my life. The carriages roll through a massive iron gate, past manicured grounds with ancient trees and stone fountains, and up a long path to the front of the main building.

For the first time in my entire miserable life, a tiny spark of genuine hope flares up in my chest. He saved me from the beating. He punished my abuser. He brought me to his own home. It makes me believe, foolishly and desperately, that my life is finally about to change, that the deep pull between us meant something real to him too.

They escort me into the grand hall of the palace, a cavernous room with high ceilings and polished stone floors. The rest of his royal court is gathered along the sides, dozens of well-dressed wolves watching with sharp, curious eyes as a bleeding, dirty girl in a torn servant's tunic is brought before their King.

He sits on an elevated throne at the far end of the hall, and when I look up at him I search his face for any trace of the man who held me in the cave, any flicker of warmth or recognition, but his expression is completely blank.

"What pack are you from?" His deep voice echoes loudly through the silent hall.

I stare up at him and swallow hard, my hands trembling at my sides, because I have no way to answer him. My mouth opens out of pure reflex and nothing comes out.

The guard standing next to me quickly bows his head and speaks. "She is a mute, my King. She was listed as a basic laborer at the festival."

The King does not blink. He does not show a single ounce of surprise or recognition. He just leans back against his heavy throne and waves his hand dismissively in my direction.

"A basic laborer." He repeats it flatly, his tone casual and completely detached. "Then take her down to the servants' quarters and put her to work in the kitchen with the rest of them."

The hope in my chest goes out like a candle flame between two fingers.

Three weeks pass.

Three long, miserable, confusing weeks in the servants' quarters of the royal palace. I am assigned to the hot, crowded kitchens where I spend my days scrubbing heavy iron pots and chopping endless piles of vegetables. I keep my head down and I work, and I survive by making myself completely invisible, which is actually something I am very good at after a lifetime of practice.

It is, despite everything, a significant upgrade from the endless abuse in my old pack. The head cook is rough but not cruel. The other kitchen servants ignore me for the most part. Nobody beats me, nobody drags me around by my hair, and the food, even the servants' rations, is better than anything I have ever eaten.

I learn through whispered conversations I overhear in the kitchens that my old pack was completely disbanded. Alpha Gregor and his son Ronan were stripped of all their positions and thrown into the royal lockups to face punishment from the King and his council. The rest of the pack members were scattered to different packs across the territories.

The news warms my heart, because at least he cared enough to get me justice, even if he did not care enough to acknowledge me.

Then one evening, the head cook shoves a heavy silver tray into my hands.

"The King's evening meal," she says without looking up from the pot she is stirring. "Take it up to his private chambers. Through the main corridor, up the grand staircase, last door at the end of the hall. Do not knock, just go in, set it down, and leave. He does not like being disturbed."

My heart hammers against my ribs so hard I am sure the other servants can hear it as I carry the tray up the grand staircase. The corridors up here are wide and silent and lined with oil paintings and heavy tapestries. My bare feet make no sound on the thick carpet.

I push open the heavy oak doors and step inside.

He is completely alone.

He is standing near the large stone fireplace with one hand resting on the mantel, staring into the flames, and the second the heavy doors click shut behind me his dark eyes snap to mine. He just stares at me. The silence in the massive room is suffocating, charged with the memory of the storm and the cave and his hands on my skin.

I keep my eyes glued to the floor. I quickly set the heavy tray down on the table and turn to leave.

"Wait."

His deep voice echoes through the room and I freeze instantly, my bare feet rooted to the thick carpet.

I hear his footsteps crossing the floor, heavy and deliberate, and he walks right up to me and stops so close that I can feel the heat radiating off his body through the thin fabric of my uniform. He reaches out and grabs my chin firmly, tilting my face up so I have no choice but to look directly into his dark eyes.

The physical contact sends a wild electric shock straight down my spine.

He leans in close and his voice is low and rough. "You used that scent-masking potion to hide your true rank and bewitch me into touching you."

My eyes go wide and I try to shake my head, but his grip on my chin holds me still.

"Cheap tactics like that will never work on me again." He stares down at my lips and his expression hardens. "And I only stepped in at the festival because I cannot stand seeing women being abused and exploited, not because you mean anything to me."

The words feel like a fist to my chest. I quickly pull my face back and he lets go, his hand dropping to his side.

He takes a step back and looks down at me with cold indifference. "Whatever happened between us in the woods stays in the woods. Remember your place and stay out of my way."

My eyes are burning. I know he can see the tears building because his jaw flexes once and then he looks away from me, turning back toward the fireplace. I swallow the painful lump in my throat, give him a single jerky nod, and practically run out of the room.

I hurry down the dimly lit corridor, desperate to get back to the kitchens, but a woman suddenly steps right out of the shadows and blocks my path.

She is beautiful in the way a knife is beautiful, all sharp lines and cold glitter. She wears expensive silk that shimmers when she moves and looks down at me like I am something stuck to the bottom of her shoe.

"Why is a filthy servant coming out of the King's private wing at this hour?" Her voice is low and dangerous and her eyes rake over my plain uniform with open disgust.

I open my mouth but nothing comes out. I just stand there trembling because I cannot answer her.

"Did you not hear me?" She steps closer and her perfectly manicured hand shoots out, grabbing my jaw with brutal force, her sharp nails digging painfully into my skin. "Basic servants are only allowed to use the back service doors. You are never to walk these corridors, and you are never to enter the King's wing again. Am I making myself clear?"

She does not wait for an answer that she knows I cannot give. She just shoves me backward so hard that I stumble and fall against the stone wall, and then she turns and walks away, her silk skirts swishing behind her.

I slide down the wall and sit on the cold floor, pressing my palm against my bruised jaw. A kitchen boy rounds the corner carrying a stack of clean linens and nearly trips over my legs. He looks down at me, then glances back in the direction Selene disappeared.

"You should not have been up here," he whispers, shifting the linens nervously in his arms. "That is Selene. She is the King's chosen mate.