Chapter 5 Wolves, Thrones, and the Tyrant’s Favorite Pastime (Me)
5: Wolves, Thrones, and the Tyrant’s Favorite Pastime (Me)
If I had a dollar for every time I got dragged into something against my will, I could probably afford a decent therapist for when I wake up from this nightmare—or, you know, never wake up, because apparently that’s my brand now.
Case in point: Lucian didn’t just keep me locked in the gloomy stone chamber of doom from last night. No, he decided today was “field trip day.” Lucky me.
“Up,” he ordered at dawn, voice like black coffee—strong, bitter, and guaranteed to keep you awake even if you begged for five more minutes.
I blinked at him from my spot on the cot, hair resembling an electrocuted haystack. “Define ‘up.’ Because my version involves staying horizontal for another six hours.”
His silver eyes narrowed, and, yeah, apparently sarcasm wasn’t the answer he wanted. Next thing I knew, his wolves —the two hulking guards with permanent murder-face expressions—unclipped my shackles and ushered me out like I was an inconveniently noisy cat being kicked off the counter.
Thus began my grand tour of Dravenmoor Castle, also known as: Gothic Pinterest Board from Hell.
The fortress wasn’t just a castle. It was a freaking ecosystem. High stone towers speared the sky, their tips lost in the mist. Courtyards bustled with warriors sparring, servants scurrying, blacksmiths hammering steel until sparks flew. Wolves—actual wolves, not just people-with-wolf-mode—roamed freely, their golden eyes following me with unnerving focus.
Everywhere I looked, people bowed as Lucian passed. They bowed low, some practically folding themselves in half like origami. No one made eye contact. Not one.
And then there was me.
I waved nervously at a maid who curtsied so fast I thought her knees might pop. “Uh, h-hi.”
Her eyes widened at the sound of my voice, and she nearly dropped the basket of linens she carried. I swear I heard someone whisper 'the marked one' as we passed.
Oh, perfect. I’d gone from nobody-in-my-world to reluctant celebrity-in-this-one.
Lucian never loosened his hold on me—not my wrist this time, but the small of my back, like I might bolt at any second. Fair assumption. I totally would.
We entered what looked like a throne room, except calling it a “room” was underselling it. It was an aircraft hangar with mood lighting. A dais at the far end held a black throne carved with snarling wolves, its back spiking higher than any chair had the right to. Around us, advisors and warriors bent low, waiting for Lucian to acknowledge them.
He didn’t sit. He didn’t even slow. He marched me up the steps and turned, addressing the hall with the casual menace of someone who knew he was the scariest guy in a hundred-mile radius.
“This is Aria Quinn,” he said simply.
Every head dropped lower.
Correction, scarier than a hundred-mile radius.
My throat went dry. “Um. Hi. Please don’t murder me?”
No one laughed. Tough crowd.
Lucian’s hand flexed against my back, steady, possessive. “She is mine. She will be treated as such.”
I swear the temperature in the room dropped. The words weren’t just an introduction. They were a warning. A death sentence disguised as a love letter.
Somewhere in the crowd, a tall man stepped forward. Dark-haired, broad-shouldered, scarred along the jaw like he’d headbutted destiny and won. His gaze flicked to me, sharp but not unkind.
“This is Darius,” Lucian said. “My second.”
Darius bowed, not to Lucian—but to me.
“My lady.”
Oh no. Oh no, no, no. I was getting knighted into a werewolf marriage cult, wasn’t I?
The tour didn’t end there. Oh no. Lucian made sure I saw everything: the training fields where warriors clashed like living weapons, the strategy rooms cluttered with maps and bloodied tokens, even the kitchens which, honestly, smelled amazing—10/10, would risk kidnapping again if it meant free roast boar.
Everywhere we went, people stared. Not openly—they weren’t suicidal—but sideways, cautious glances. The kind that said: Who is she, and why does our terrifying Alpha look at her like she’s both a weapon and a weakness?
At lunch, Lucian seated me beside him at a long table piled with enough food to feed a small nation. The entire hall went dead silent as we sat.
He served me first. With his own hands.
I nearly choked on my water.
Oh wow. Is this, like, a cultural thing, or did I just get the medieval equivalent of a boyfriend soft launch?
Darius, seated across from us, nearly smirked. Nearly. But one look from Lucian wiped that trace of amusement clean.
The rest of the meal was awkward silence broken only by cutlery and the occasional growl from someone further down the hall. My attempts at conversation died faster than a candle in a hurricane.
“So… anyone here into knitting? Or, like, interpretive dance?”
Crickets.
Afterward, Lucian dragged me into what I assumed was his office. Imagine the most intimidating workspace possible—mahogany desk, wolf pelts, shelves groaning with tomes that probably contained spells for “How to Intimidate Guests 101.”
Stacks of parchment covered the desk. Lucian sank into the chair, already scribbling, sealing, signing.
It hit me then—he wasn’t just an Alpha. He was a king. Every line he drew probably decided someone’s life. Taxes, alliances, wars.
I slumped into the chair opposite, shackled wrist still aching, brain spiraling. This man ran an empire and still found time to tour me. Multitasking goals.
“Do you ever, I don’t know, take a day off?” I asked.
Lucian didn’t look up. “A king does not rest.”
“Cool. Maybe pencil in a nap, Your Majesty. Self-care is important.”
His quill paused. His eyes flicked to mine, silver and sharp. Then—unbelievably—he leaned back, considering.
“Perhaps,” he murmured.
And just like that, the scariest man alive contemplated scheduling a rest day by next week because I said so.
Terrifying. Absolutely terrifying.
Later, Lucian had to meet with emissaries from some allied pack. He didn’t want to leave me alone, so naturally, he tossed me at Darius like a babysitting gig.
Darius didn’t chain me, didn’t loom, didn’t even glower. He just walked beside me as we strolled through one of the quieter courtyards.
“You think this is madness,” he said after a long silence.
I blinked. “That obvious, huh?”
His mouth twitched in something that might’ve been amusement. “To us, it is not madness. He has never looked at anyone as he looks at you. It unsettles the pack. But it also shields you. They will not dare touch what he has claimed.”
“Oh, yay. Protected by fear. My favorite safety blanket.”
He glanced at me, eyes thoughtful. “You jest. But you do not understand. The Alpha’s obsession is law. It binds us as surely as his command.”
Great. Translation: everyone in this fortress treated me like nuclear waste in a pretty dress—not because they liked me, but because they feared him.
I wanted to laugh, cry, and throw up, all at once.
By nightfall, I was exhausted. Not just from being paraded like a prize goat, but from the weight of all those stares, all that whispered fear.
Lucian returned to me in the chamber he’d assigned—bigger than the cell, but still more dungeon-chic than I preferred. He dismissed the guards with a flick of his hand and approached me slowly, like I was something fragile.
“You saw today,” he said. Not a question.
I hugged my knees on the bed. “Yeah. You’re busy. And terrifying. And possibly running a castle-wide intimidation cult.”
He knelt in front of me, eyes level with mine. “Do you fear me?”
“Yes,” I admitted, because lying felt useless. “And I hate that part of me doesn’t.”
His hand lifted, brushing a thumb across my cheekbone with devastating gentleness. Sparks flared, traitorous and warm.
“You will learn,” he said softly. “That fear is not always an enemy. Sometimes it is what keeps you alive.”
I swallowed hard, heart thundering.
Because in that moment, with his touch burning against my skin and his world closing around me like iron bars, I realized two terrifying truths:
First, I was already part of his world, whether I wanted to be or not. Second, some small, treacherous part of me didn’t want to leave.
