Damien did not wait for her answer.
Before leaving the room, he spoke as though discussing the weather—calm, assured, cruel. The maids would come for her at nightfall. They would bathe her, dress her, and bring her to his chambers. She would please him tonight.
Then he was gone.
The door closed with a final, hollow sound, and Soraya stood frozen in the center of the room, her breath trapped somewhere between her chest and her throat.
The meaning of his words settled slowly, like poison seeping through her veins.
She had never been touched by a man.
The thought struck her harder than fear. Her first night would belong to Damien—the man who kept her caged, the man who tortured her brother as a reminder of what happened to those who defied him. The man who had looked at her not as a person, but as something owned.
For the first time since her capture, Soraya felt truly weak.
Her knees gave way, and she sank onto the cold stone floor. Anger burned in her chest, sharp and helpless, but beneath it lay something worse—grief so deep it hollowed her out. She pressed her fist against her mouth, willing herself not to cry. Tears were a luxury she could not afford.
Like a slave pleases her master, Damien had said.
She squeezed her eyes shut.
With trembling fingers, Soraya reached beneath the folds of her dress and drew out the one thing she had managed to keep hidden from them all. A book—small, worn, its leather cover cracked with age. She had sewn it into her clothing days ago, carrying it against her skin, terrified it would be discovered and taken from her like everything else.
The book was her escape.
Not from the dungeon, not from Damien—but from her own mind. She did not understand many of the words written inside. Some were strange, unfamiliar, written in a language she barely recognized. But the diagrams fascinated her—symbols, circles, figures that seemed almost alive when she stared at them too long.
...…
Lady Althea Kaine stood before the mirror, the tall mirror, head tilted slightly as she assessed her reflection.
Royal blue clung to her like entitlement.
The corset dress cinched her waist to perfection, the bodice embroidered with silver thread that caught the candlelight each time she moved. Layers of fabric fell elegantly to the floor, rich and heavy, the kind worn by women who expected to be seen—and obeyed.
She smiled.
Slow. Satisfied.
With a practiced flick of her wrist, she snapped open the blue hand fan she held, wafting the air toward her face as if cooling a triumph only she could feel. Her dark hair was pinned high, curls arranged with deliberate care.
Finally.
She looked like a queen.
Finally, Luna Cordelia was dead.
And Althea had not shed a single drop of blood.
No plotting.
No schemes gone wrong.
No punishment.
Just fate—delivered by a foolish brother and an accident soaked in grief.
Her dream had come true quietly. Effortlessly.
Cordelia had been a monster in silk.
When she was chosen as Luna, she had ordered every Alpha's mistress dragged from their chambers and stripped of status. Women who had once dined beside nobles were reduced to slaves overnight—paraded as examples of obedience.
Even Althea.
The Alpha King's favorite.
She remembered standing in chains, humiliation burning hotter than rage, watching the King avert his gaze. He never came for them. Never asked for them again. Never even touched them.
Cordelia had taken everything and called it order.
Althea's fan snapped shut.
Now Cordelia was ash.
And Althea was still here.
A knock interrupted her thoughts.
She did not turn.
"Enter."
The door opened, and a slender figure slipped inside, bowing low.
Nina.
The palace's most talkative silence.
"What do you want?" Althea asked coolly.
Nina lowered her head further. "Milady."
Althea finally faced her, eyes sharp. "Speak."
"Alpha Damien has taken the one responsible for Luna Cordelia's death captive."
Althea blinked once.
Then waved her hand dismissively.
"And?" she said. "Why should that interest me?"
Nina hesitated—just a breath too long.
A slow, calculating smile spread across Althea's lips.
Interesting, yes. Bad, yes. But deliciously exploitable.
She leaned back in her chair, letting the fan fall open in her lap. Every detail mattered now. Every whispered secret, every act of cruelty or desire, could be twisted to her advantage.
A plan was already forming in her mind.
And it started with the girl Damien had chosen.