The Wolf King's Fated Mate

Chapter 1

Sierra.

Smoke. That was the first warning.

It curled from the edges of the oven, thin and gray, smelling of ruin.

Agnes, the head cook, cursed under her breath. “No, no, no.”

Her panicked eyes darted to Sierra.

“Did you check it? I told you to check it every ten minutes.”

Sierra flinched, her hands tightening on the potato she was peeling. “I did. It was fine.”

“Fine doesn’t make smoke, girl,” Agnes hissed, yanking the heavy oven door open. A plume of blackness billowed out, choking the air.

The roast was black.

Not browned. Not even a little singed. It was a hunk of charcoal.

“Gods be damned,” Agnes whispered, her face pale. “He’s going to kill us.”

Sierra’s heart hammered against her ribs. She didn't say anything. There was nothing to say.

Footsteps thudded down the hall. Heavy, angry footsteps.

Alpha Danvers.

He filled the doorway of the kitchen, his massive frame blocking the light. His eyes, the color of chips of ice, scanned the room before landing on the smoking oven.

“What is that smell?” he asked. His voice was dangerously quiet.

Agnes bowed her head. “Alpha. There was a mishap with the roast.”

“A mishap?” He walked slowly into the kitchen, his boots echoing on the stone floor. He peered into the oven. “This is not a mishap, Agnes. This is a catastrophe.”

He turned his gaze on Sierra. She tried to make herself smaller, to disappear into the shadows of the steamy kitchen.

“You,” he said, pointing a thick finger at her. “This was your charge.”

“I watched it, Alpha,” she whispered, her voice trembling.

“You watched it burn?” he sneered. “The King arrives in less than an hour. The Alpha King of all wolves. He comes to my pack house, to my table, and you feed him cinders?”

“We have another,” Agnes said quickly, gesturing to a smaller cut of meat on the counter. “We can cook it. It won’t take long.”

Danvers ignored her. His focus was entirely on Sierra. He took another step closer, invading her space until all she could smell was his scent, pine and cold rage.

“Do you have any idea what this visit means?” he asked, his voice a low growl. “It is about respect. Power. It is about showing him that the Bloodmoon Pack is strong.”

Sierra kept her eyes on the floor. “Yes, Alpha.”

“And what does this show him?” He kicked the oven door shut with a deafening clang. “It shows him that my pack is run by incompetent, worthless slaves who cannot even manage a simple fire.”

“It was my fault,” Agnes tried again. “I should have supervised her more closely.”

“Oh, I agree,” Danvers said without looking at her. “And you will be punished for that later. But she held the responsibility.”

He reached out and grabbed Sierra’s arm. His fingers dug into her thin bicep like steel claws.

She cried out, a small, pathetic sound.

“Please, Alpha,” she begged.

“You do not beg,” he snarled, dragging her from behind the kitchen counter and into the center of the room. “You do your job. And when you fail, you take what you have earned.”

His open hand struck her across the face. The force of it sent her sprawling onto the stone floor.

Her cheek exploded with pain. The taste of blood filled her mouth.

“Get up.”

She scrambled to her knees, shaking. She could see Agnes in her peripheral vision, her face a mask of fear, her hands twisting in her apron.

“Look at me when I speak to you,” Danvers commanded.

Sierra slowly lifted her head. A bruise was already forming on her cheek, dark and ugly.

“You are a stain on this pack,” he said, his voice dripping with contempt. “A worthless scrap my father should have drowned at birth.”

He kicked her side. Not hard enough to break a rib, but hard enough to steal her breath and send a fresh wave of agony through her body.

She curled into a ball, gasping.

“The King will be here soon,” he said, more to himself now. He paced the kitchen floor like a caged animal. “He cannot see this. He cannot see you.”

His eyes narrowed as an idea formed.

“A new problem,” he muttered. “Now I have to hide your disgusting face.”

He stopped pacing and looked down at her. “I can’t have the King seeing your bruises. He’ll think I can’t control my own household.”

Sierra said nothing. She just trembled on the cold floor.

“Agnes,” he barked.

“Yes, Alpha?”

“Get that other roast cooked. Now. If it is not perfect, you will join her.”

Agnes nodded frantically and rushed to the stove, her hands shaking so badly she could barely light the fire.

Danvers grabbed Sierra’s arm again, hauling her roughly to her feet. She stumbled, her vision swimming.

“You will be kept out of sight,” he said, dragging her out of the kitchen. “You will not make a sound. You will not even breathe too loudly, do you understand me?”

“Yes, Alpha,” she choked out.

He pulled her through the corridors of the large, drafty pack house. They passed other pack members who averted their eyes, pretending not to see the Alpha dragging the Omega slave by her hair now.

No one ever helped.

They descended a set of steep stone stairs into the damp, cold cellar.

The air was thick with the smell of earth and mildew.

He shoved her towards the back wall, where old iron manacles were bolted into the stone. They were relics from a more brutal time, but Danvers found them useful.

“This is where you belong,” he said, forcing her wrist into a rusty cuff. “With the rats and the rot.”

He snapped it shut. He did the same with her other wrist, stretching her arms wide.

“The King will be gone by morning,” Danvers said, stepping back to admire his work. “Maybe then I’ll remember you’re down here.”

He turned to leave.

“Alpha, please,” Sierra whispered, the words tearing at her raw throat. “It’s so cold.”

Danvers paused at the door. He looked back at her, a cruel smile playing on his lips.

“I know,” he said.

He pulled the heavy wooden door shut.

The bolt slid home with a loud, final click.

Darkness swallowed her whole. Utter and complete. Sierra hung from the wall, the cold seeping into her bones, and let the tears fall in silence. Hope was a foolish luxury she had learned long ago to live without.

Chapter 2

Leonard.

The air of the Bloodmoon Pack territory was thin and stale. It smelled of damp earth and something else. Resignation.

He stepped out of the black SUV, his boots crunching on the gravel drive. The pack house before him was large but poorly maintained. A few shingles were missing from the roof, and the paint was peeling near the windows. It was a house that tried to project strength but was rotting from the inside out.

Alpha Danvers was already rushing down the steps, his face a mask of nervous welcome. He was a big wolf, but he carried himself like a bully, not a true Alpha.

“Your Majesty,” Danvers said, bowing so low his nose nearly touched his knees. “Welcome to Bloodmoon. It is the greatest honor.”

Leonard gave a curt nod. “Alpha Danvers.”

His Gamma, Thorne, stepped out of the vehicle behind him, silent and watchful. Thorne’s presence alone was enough to make the Bloodmoon guards shift their feet nervously.

“We have prepared a feast for you,” Danvers said, gesturing grandly toward the open doors. “The finest our lands have to offer.”

“I am not here for a feast,” Leonard said, his voice flat. “This is a diplomatic inspection, not a social call.”

“Of course, of course,” Danvers said, his smile not quite reaching his eyes. “All the more reason to show you our hospitality. To show you how strong and prosperous we are under your rule.”

Leonard walked past him into the house. The inside was as he expected. Dark wood, faded tapestries, and the faint, lingering smell of old fear. His wolf was already on edge.

Danvers led him towards a large dining hall. A long table was laden with food. A roasted boar sat in the center, its skin glistening.

“As you can see, we are thriving,” Danvers boasted.

Leonard stopped. His head tilted slightly.

There was another scent in the air. Underneath the heavy aroma of roasted meat and spiced wine, there was something else. Something delicate.

Vanilla.

He took a slow, deliberate breath. His wolf, a beast that had been sleeping soundly within him for years, stirred.

“What is that smell?” he asked.

Danvers looked confused. “The boar, Your Majesty? It is seasoned with rosemary and thyme.”

“No,” Leonard said, his eyes scanning the room. “Something else.”

It was faint, almost undetectable. But it was there. Vanilla, and something else mixed with it. The sharp, coppery tang of distress. Of pain.

It was the scent of rain on dry earth after a long drought. It was the scent of everything he never knew he was missing.

“Perhaps you would care for a tour of the grounds?” Danvers asked, clearly trying to distract him. “I can show you our training yard. Our warriors are among the fiercest.”

“Fine,” Leonard clipped out, wanting to move, to follow the scent that was now a subtle thread pulling at his soul.

Danvers led him out of the dining hall, babbling about his pack’s accomplishments. Leonard did not listen. He was focused entirely on that scent.

As they walked down a long corridor, it grew stronger.

Vanilla. So sweet it made his teeth ache.

And pain. So sharp it made his wolf want to howl.

“The west wing houses our senior pack members,” Danvers was saying, pointing to the left.

Leonard ignored him. He turned right, heading down a darker, narrower hallway.

The scent was a siren’s call now, pulling him forward. He could feel it in his bones.

“Your Majesty?” Danvers called, hurrying to catch up. “There is nothing of interest down this way. Just storage and service passages.”

“Is that so?” Leonard said without stopping.

The air grew colder here. The stone walls felt damp. The scent was thick, intoxicating. It was coming from the end of the hall.

He stopped in front of a heavy wooden door bound with iron straps.

A cellar door.

His wolf was clawing at the inside of his chest, roaring with a sudden, violent possessiveness.

*Mine.*

The word echoed in his mind, primal and absolute.

Leonard placed his hand on the rough wood of the door. The scent was pouring through the cracks.

“What is in here, Danvers?” he asked, his voice dangerously low.

Danvers had started to sweat. “Nothing, Your Majesty. Truly. Just old wine racks and preserved goods. It is hardly a sight for a King.”

“It smells of mildew,” Leonard observed. “And blood.”

Danvers’s face went pale. “Rats, perhaps. We have had a problem with them. I will have it dealt with immediately.”

“Open the door,” Leonard commanded.

Danvers swallowed hard. “Your Majesty, I must insist. The great hall is much more accommodating. We can discuss the border tributes…”

Leonard turned to face him fully. He did not raise his voice. He did not have to. He let a fraction of his Alpha power loose, and the air in the corridor crackled with it.

Danvers flinched back as if he had been struck.

“You are a guest in my house,” Danvers stammered, trying to cling to some shred of authority.

“I am the King in your house,” Leonard corrected him, his voice like stones grinding together. “And you will do as you are told. Or I will remove you as Alpha of this pack before the sun sets.”

The threat hung in the air, heavy and undeniable.

“Do not make me ask you again.”

Danvers’s bravado shattered. He fumbled at his belt, his hands shaking as he produced a large, rusty iron key.

“There is no need for such… unpleasantness,” he muttered, his eyes darting from Leonard to the door.

“Then open it,” Leonard growled.

His patience was gone. His wolf wanted out. It wanted whatever, whoever, was the source of that scent. It wanted to protect. It wanted to claim.

Danvers’s trembling hands finally managed to fit the key into the lock. The mechanism protested with a loud, grating screech.

He turned the key.

The bolt slid back with a heavy thud that echoed in the stone passageway.

Danvers pulled his hand away from the door as if it were hot iron. He looked at Leonard, his eyes pleading.

Leonard ignored him. He gripped the iron ring on the door and pulled.

The heavy door creaked open on protesting hinges, revealing a flight of stone steps leading down into absolute darkness.

And from that darkness, the scent washed over him in a wave. Vanilla and tears. Wildflowers and fear. Home.

His eyes adjusted to the gloom. At the bottom of the stairs, chained to the far wall, was a small, slumped figure. A girl, covered in dirt and dressed in rags. Her head was bowed, her dark hair hiding her face.

But he could feel her. He could feel her brokenness and her fight. He could feel her soul calling to his.

The world narrowed to this single point. To this dungeon. To her.

*Mine.*

Chapter 3

Leonard.

The world narrowed to the bottom of those stairs. The scent was a physical thing, a storm of vanilla and rain that crashed into him, breaking down every wall he had ever built around his heart. His wolf, a creature of iron control and ancient power, rose up and howled in his soul. It was a sound of pure, unadulterated triumph.

He started down the stone steps, his movements slow and deliberate. He did not want to frighten her more than she already was.

The girl on the floor stirred. She lifted her head, and even in the near total darkness, he could see her eyes. They were wide, full of a terror so profound it made his blood boil.

Then those eyes met his.

A jolt, white hot and electric, shot through him. It was the mate bond, slamming into place with the force of a tidal wave. It was not a choice. It was not a thought. It was a fact as solid as the stone beneath his feet. She was the other half of his soul.

His gaze dropped to the fresh bruise darkening her cheek, to the split in her lip. He saw the way her thin tunic, little more than rags, was torn at the shoulder, revealing older scars. He saw the iron manacles digging into her slender wrists, pinning her to the wall like a broken butterfly.

And something inside him snapped.

Reason fled. The King vanished. All that remained was the beast, a feral Alpha seeing his mate in chains, hurt, and terrified.

A low growl rumbled in his chest, a promise of death to whoever was responsible.

She flinched at the sound, a tiny, almost imperceptible movement. She tried to press herself further into the stone wall, to disappear.

The sight of her fear, directed at him, was a blade twisting in his gut. He reached her in two long strides.

“What are you doing?” Danvers’s voice echoed from the top of the stairs, laced with panic. “Stay away from her.”

Leonard ignored him. He crouched down, trying to make himself seem smaller. “I am not going to hurt you,” he said, his voice a raw rasp he barely recognized as his own.

She squeezed her eyes shut, trembling violently.

His rage turned its full focus on the chains. He wrapped his hands around the cold iron links attached to her right wrist. He pulled.

The metal groaned. The stone around the bolt cracked and splintered.

“Stop!” Danvers shouted, scrambling down the stairs. “That is pack property! You have no right!”

With a final, guttural roar, Leonard ripped the manacle and a chunk of the wall clean off. The sound of tearing stone and screaming metal was deafening in the small space.

He moved to the other chain.

“I command you to stop!” Danvers grabbed his shoulder. “She is a slave. She is being punished for her incompetence.”

Leonard rose to his full height, turning so quickly that Danvers stumbled back. Leonard let his power flood the room, the raw, untamed aura of an Alpha King. The air grew thick, heavy with menace. Danvers paled, choking on the sudden pressure.

“You will never touch her again,” Leonard snarled, each word dripping with venom.

“She is nothing,” Danvers spat, trying to regain some footing. “A worthless Omega runt. She burned the feast I prepared for you.”

“You chained her in the dark for burning a meal?” Leonard asked, his voice deceptively soft now.

The softness was more terrifying than the rage.

“She required discipline,” Danvers insisted.

Leonard turned back to the girl, grabbing the second chain. He tore it from the wall as easily as he had the first.

She slumped forward, free but exhausted. She would have collapsed onto the floor if he had not caught her.

“Let go of her,” Danvers demanded. “She is my property.”

“She is not property,” Leonard said, his voice a low growl. He gently cradled the girl against his chest. She was impossibly light, like a bird with broken wings.

He looked directly at Danvers, at the other Bloodmoon wolves who had gathered at the top of the stairs, their faces a mixture of confusion and fear.

“She is my mate,” Leonard announced.

A collective gasp echoed in the cellar.

Thorne, who had been standing silent and watchful at the top of the stairs, took a single step forward, his hand resting on the hilt of his sword. His loyalty was clear.

Danvers stared, his mouth agape. “Your mate? That is impossible. The Goddess would not pair you with… with that.”

“The Goddess does not make mistakes,” Leonard said coldly. “But you have.”

“You cannot do this,” Danvers said, his voice rising in desperation. “You cannot just walk into my house and claim my slave. There are laws. Pack laws.”

“There are,” Leonard agreed. “But my law is older. My law is absolute.”

He held Danvers’s terrified gaze.

“I, King Leonard of the Obsidian Crown, invoke the King’s Right of Claim. This wolf is my fated mate, and I claim her now before you all as my own.”

Silence. Absolute, stunned silence.

The King’s Right was an ancient, unbreakable law. It superseded any pack law, any Alpha’s command. It was a power no King had used in centuries, a right reserved for the most sacred of bonds.

Danvers’s face crumpled. His authority had been stripped from him in his own dungeon. His entire pack had just witnessed his complete and utter humiliation.

Leonard felt no satisfaction in the man’s defeat. All he felt was an overwhelming, primal need to get his mate out of this cold, dark place. To get her somewhere safe. Somewhere warm.

He adjusted her in his arms. She whimpered softly, a sound of pure fear that broke his heart.

He looked down at the top of her head, her dark hair smelling of dirt and vanilla.

“It’s alright,” he whispered, the words meant only for her. “I have you.”

He turned his back on Danvers, his focus solely on the fragile woman in his arms. He looked at the assembled wolves of Bloodmoon, his expression hard as granite, daring any of them to challenge him.

No one moved. No one breathed.

Leonard held his mate close and started for the stairs, his every instinct screaming a single, possessive, undeniable word.

Mine.