Princess Soraya learned the sound of chains long before she learned the rhythm of this dungeon.
They rattled softly at first—metal scraping stone—followed by heavy boots echoing through the corridor like a warning. Her spine stiffened as she lifted her head from the cold wall, vision adjusting to the dim torchlight flickering beyond the iron bars.
It had been weeks.
Weeks since Damien had dragged her from his chambers.
Weeks since he decided he could no longer stand the sight of her.
He had not locked her here because she was dangerous.
He had locked her here because she wasn't.
Because something inside him stirred every time he looked at her—something unwanted, unwelcome, unforgivable.
And he hated himself for it.
The iron door groaned open.
A guard stepped inside, chains clinking at his side as he shoved a tray through the narrow opening beneath the bars.
Soraya's stomach betrayed her immediately, growling loud in the silence.
The guard smirked.
"Here's your food, priiiincess," he drawled, stretching the word into an insult.
Laughter echoed from the shadows beyond the cell.
Soraya lifted her chin. Her posture remained straight despite the ache in her limbs, despite the hollow weakness clawing at her stomach.
Three days.
Three days without food.
In Winterfall, she had never known hunger. Zephran had made sure of that. Her brother had spoiled her shamelessly—silks, warmth, laughter, a life where she never learned how to scrape or survive. She had been loved. Protected. Revered.
Now she sat on stone floors, wrapped in torn fabric, her blonde hair tangled and dull, her body thinner—
—but her eyes were still sharp.
Still defiant.
She did not crawl toward the tray.
She did not thank them.
She only stared.
The guards shifted under her gaze.
They hated her. Her blood. Her kingdom. The way she refused to cower even now.
Iron bars lined her cell, reinforced with molten chains forged hot enough that even her strange power could not melt them. Damien had made sure of that.
She was dangerous.
But not helpless.
Not yet.
Her mind was already moving—guard patterns, weak points, escape routes.
And how she would get her brother out.
A sharp voice cut through the dungeon.
"Alpha Damien will arrive shortly. Be ready."
Her fingers curled into her palms.
She wasn't ready.
She hadn't seen Damien in a week.
Not since the screams.
Not since the silver.
Not since her hatred had finally taken shape.
Footsteps approached—steady, commanding.
The air shifted.
The dungeon no longer felt cold.
The iron doors were thrown open.
Damien stepped inside.
The air bent around him.
Every inch of him radiated power. A long crimson cloak draped over dark, fitted robes, gold embroidery catching the torchlight. Black curls brushed his shoulders like midnight silk, untamed yet commanding.
His piercing blue eyes locked onto hers—sharp enough to make even seasoned wolves hesitate. He didn't need a sword. Presence alone made the room shrink.
Soraya raised her gaze slowly.
Their eyes collided.
Once, she had looked at him with wary understanding—had seen a grieving Alpha who had lost his mate.
Now?
Now there was nothing but rage.
Raw. Burning. Undiluted.
Damien saw it—and something twisted inside him.
He hated her for that look.
Hated that she could still make him feel anything at all.
He stalked closer.
Soraya didn't move.
Didn't bow.
Didn't speak.
His hand shot out, fisting in her hair, yanking her head back until pain exploded behind her eyes.
She gasped.
"When I enter," Damien said coldly, silver flashing briefly in his gaze, "you address me."
His grip tightened.
"I would enjoy punishing you for forgetting that."
Stars danced in her vision. Her scalp burned.
"Yes," she forced out, fingers curling around his wrist. "Yes… my Alpha."
Something dangerous flickered across his face.
His grip loosened—just a fraction—before his other hand snapped up, fingers digging into her jaw.
"I am not your Alpha," he snarled. "I will never be."
He leaned in, close enough that she could feel his breath.
"I am Alpha only to my people."
His wolf growled beneath his skin.
"You are not my people," he continued. "You are my property."
The word struck harder than the pain.
"My… slave."
Even his wolf recoiled.
Damien's jaw clenched, fury flaring—not at her.
At himself.
"You will address me as your master," he said harshly. "You will serve as my servants do."
His mouth curved into a smile that never reached his eyes.
"Only more."
"And if I ever made you my Luna," he added softly, cruelly, "I would be disgusted to look at you."
Soraya's nails bit into her palms.
"But you would still kneel," he went on. "Still serve."
He stepped back, releasing her.
Her eyes burned.
Not with fear.
With hate.
"You destroyed my kingdom," she said, her voice shaking—but not breaking. "You torture my brother for a mistake. You think pain will bring your mate back?"
Her voice rose. "You have no right."
Damien froze.
For a heartbeat, something in him cracked.
Then he buried it.
He straightened, the Alpha mask slamming back into place.
"You don't get to speak of rights," he said coldly. "Not here."
He turned away.
But his wolf snarled beneath his skin.
He was supposed to hate her.
To feel nothing.
To punish her. To ruin her.
But his wolf refused.
And so did he.
No matter how fiercely he denied it, no matter how much he tried to break her—
he could not hate her fully.
He could not make himself destroy her completely.