Soraya was already in the chambers when night fell.
This room was warm, Lit by dozens of candles whose flames flickered against gilded walls and heavy drapes. The scent of roses hung thick in the air, cloying, suffocating. It was the kind of room meant for pleasure.
That was what made it unbearable.
The maids moved around her in silence, their expressions carefully neutral as they guided her into the deep porcelain tub. Steam rose as warm, scented water poured over her skin—rosewater, lavender, oils that clung and soaked into her pores.
Soraya was used to baths.
In Winterfall, this had been comfort. Ritual. Care.
Here, it was preparation.
She sat stiffly as they washed her, hands efficient and impersonal, lifting her arms, turning her body as though she were an object being polished. Oil was smoothed into her skin afterward, slow and thorough, leaving her glowing—but hollow.
This wasn't for her.
It was to make her pleasing.
When they finished, she was wrapped briefly in a thin cloth and led to a chair before a tall mirror. Candlelight reflected back a version of herself she barely recognized.
Her hair—once soft, once carefully tended—hung dull and tangled down her back. Weeks in captivity had stripped it of its shine. Her skin, though freshly bathed, looked paler. Thinner.
She had lost weight.
The maids stood behind her, combs working through the knots in her blonde hair with patient persistence. Each tug stung. They murmured softly to one another as scented oils were worked into the strands, fingers smoothing, restoring what captivity had ruined.
Soraya stared at her reflection.
Her eyes were still the same.
Sharp. Alive. Burning quietly with something dangerous.
When her hair was finally braided loosely and left to fall down her back, the maids stepped away. One returned holding fabric.
Not a dress.
Barely clothing at all.
The garment was sheer—pale and almost translucent—crafted of fine silk that clung rather than concealed. A tight corset cinched her waist, lifting and shaping her body with deliberate intent, while the fabric below fell in soft, revealing layers that whispered against her thighs when she moved.
It was humiliating.
Designed to expose.
Designed to remind her what she was meant to be tonight.
They dressed her carefully, adjusting straps, fastening the corset, smoothing the fabric over her skin. Stockings were pulled up her legs, held in place with delicate garters that felt like mockery.
When they stepped back, one of them spoke quietly.
"You are ready."
Then the chains were placed around her wrists.
Cold metal bit into her skin as the maid fastened them, the links short enough to control her pace. Not tight enough to hurt.
She was led from the chamber and into the corridor.
The guards stared openly now.
Hungry eyes followed her movement, dragging over her body without shame. Some smirked. Others whispered. None looked away.
She had been reduced to nothing.
A spectacle.
A thing.
She kept her chin lifted as they dragged her through the corridor, disgust burning hot in her chest. She refused to shrink.
Soraya stood in front of the massive doors. Two guards stood in front.
Soraya barely had time to draw a breath before one of them struck the floor with his staff, announcing her presence.
The doors were pushed open.
She was guided forward.
The maids did not follow her inside. The doors closed behind her with a deep, final sound that echoed through her chest.
Soraya's heart leapt violently.
The room beyond was vast, warmer than the corridors, lit by candlelight that pooled gold across dark stone and rich fabrics. Heavy curtains framed tall windows. The space felt lived in, claimed—dangerously so.
And then she saw him.
Alpha Damien sat on the edge of the bed, relaxed in a way that made her stomach tighten. His black hair hung loose and wet around his shoulders, water still clinging to the strands, darkening the fabric of the crimson robe he wore half-open. He had clearly just bathed.
His chest was bare.
Strange markings—drawings etched in black ink—curved along the side of his torso, sharp and deliberate, disappearing beneath the robe and trailing down his arm where she couldn't fully see them. They looked ancient. Intentional. Not decoration, but declaration.
Her breath caught before she could stop it.
He was… beautiful.
Merciless, yes. Cruel, undoubtedly. But beautiful in a way that felt unnatural, almost wrong. Ethereal didn't even come close to capturing it.
His eyes lifted to her.
Blue—glacial, piercing.
And then something else flickered within them.
Orange. Red. Like embers catching beneath ice.
Cold fire.
They looked like flames pulled straight from hell itself, alive and watching her, as though one wrong step would set her ablaze. She had the sudden, irrational thought that if she stared too long, she would burn from the inside out.
Her gaze drifted helplessly—his broad shoulders, the defined lines of his chest, the straight nose carved with impossible precision, high cheekbones sharp enough to cut, lips full and red against pale skin.
He looked unreal.
Crafted.
As if someone had taken every beautiful thing and twisted it into something dangerous.
The devil, they said, was always sinfully beautiful. Designed to deceive. To draw you in before you realized you were already lost.
If that were true—
Then Alpha Damien was not merely his creation.
He was the devil himself.
"Come here," he commanded, his voice low and rough with an emotion she couldn't quite place.
Soraya hesitated for only a moment before moving forward. The chains at her wrists clinked softly with each step. She stopped just out of arm's reach, head held high, eyes burning with defiance.
Damien reached out, his fingers trailing along her jawline. His touch was cold—unnaturally so. It sent a shiver down her spine that had nothing to do with fear.
Damien's fingers tightened on her jaw, his thumb pressing down hard enough to leave a mark. "You will not look me in the eye," he said, his voice a low growl that vibrated through her. "A slave does not stare at her master. She does not meet his gaze."
His other hand came up, fingers wrapping around her throat. Not squeezing, but threatening. "If you dare to defy me in this," he continued, "I will pluck your eyes from their sockets and feed them to you."
The threat hung heavy in the air between them.
Damien released her abruptly, stepping back. His gaze raked over her body, taking in the sheer fabric that clung to her curves. "I want to see what I've acquired."
He commanded.
"Strip!"