Silked

Silence wrapped around us, thick and stifling.

Zain didn't move, didn't even breathe as he studied me. I could feel the weight of his gaze pressing down on me, as if he were peeling back every layer of my skin, searching for something beneath.

I kept my chin high, my shoulders squared. If he wanted submission, he wouldn't find it here.

The corner of his mouth twitched. Not quite a smirk, but something close.

Then, in one swift motion, he turned his back on me.

"Bring her," he said, his voice low, sharp.

One of the guards grabbed my arm before I could react. I wrenched away instinctively, but his grip tightened, fingers like iron shackles around my wrist.

"Don't touch me," I snapped.

The room stilled.

The guard didn't loosen his grip. If anything, he tightened it, dragging me forward. I dug my heels in, but it was useless.

Zain stopped walking.

"Let her go."

The guard hesitated. Then, reluctantly, his fingers uncurled from my wrist. I yanked my arm back, rubbing the spot where his hand had been.

Zain turned his head slightly, just enough to glance at me from over his shoulder.

"Walk, then."

It wasn't a request.

I hated how my feet moved on their own, following him deeper into the chamber.

The throne loomed behind us now, its dark wood swallowing the flickering torchlight. We passed the long table, and I noticed the way the chairs were perfectly arranged, waiting. As if a meeting had been planned.

A chill skated down my spine.

Something was coming.

I didn't know what, but every instinct I had screamed that I wouldn't like it.

Zain led me through an archway at the far end of the room. The stone walls stretched high, torches mounted at even intervals. The passage narrowed, the air colder here.

Finally, he stopped.

A door stood in front of us—thick wood, reinforced with iron.

Zain pushed it open without a word.

Inside was a room.

Not a cell.

Not a dungeon.

A bedroom.

I blinked.

The space was dimly lit, a fire crackling in the hearth. A large bed sat against one wall, covered in dark sheets. There was a washbasin, a wooden table, a single chair. The window was high and narrow, barred with iron.

My stomach twisted.

"Welcome to your new quarters," Zain said, his voice unreadable.

I turned to him, heart hammering. "What is this?"

"You're no use to me half-dead and filthy." He stepped inside, his presence swallowing the space. "You'll stay here."

I clenched my jaw. "Like a prisoner."

He smiled then—cold, cruel.

"You were always a prisoner, Violet."

A shiver ran down my spine, but I refused to look away.

Zain tilted his head, as if considering something. Then, before I could react, he reached out.

His fingers ghosted over my jaw, barely a touch, but enough to send a spark of something dark and unbidden curling through me.

I froze.

"Get some rest," he murmured. "You'll need it."

Then he turned and walked out, the door clicking shut behind him.

A lock slid into place.

I exhaled slowly.

The fire crackled. The wind howled through the narrow window.

I was alone.

But not for long.

Because whatever Zain was planning…

It was only just beginning,

I don't like beginnings, it gives so much room for things to happen.

The door was locked.

I stood there for a moment, just breathing, my pulse still racing from whatever that had just been.

Zain.

The way he looked at me. The way he touched me—just the faintest ghost of his fingers against my skin, yet it lingered like a brand. I hated it.

I hated him.

Didn't I?

A sharp exhale left my lips as I turned away, forcing my thoughts onto something else.

The room.

It wasn't what I expected.

The walls were stone, rough in some places, smooth in others, but the fire burning in the hearth bathed them in a warm glow, casting flickering golden light across the space.

It should have felt cold.

But it didn't.

The bed was massive, covered in dark sheets that looked impossibly soft, the kind of thing someone important would sleep in. Not a prisoner. Not me.

I moved closer, hesitantly running my fingers over the fabric. Silk.

My stomach twisted.

There was a table, too. Simple wood, sturdy, with a single chair tucked beneath it. A washbasin sat on a smaller stand nearby, a fresh towel folded beside it. A wardrobe stood in the corner, its doors shut.

I crossed the room, reaching out. The wood was cool under my fingertips as I pulled the doors open.

Clothes.

Not rags. Not cast-offs.

Dresses in deep shades—navy, charcoal, wine-red, silver. Soft fabrics. Expensive.

A cruel joke.

I swallowed.

Nothing about this place made sense.

The room was too nice, too carefully prepared. Like I was meant to stay here. Like I was meant to… belong.

My throat tightened.

No.

This wasn't my home. This wasn't anything but another gilded cage.

A trick.

A distraction.

I forced myself to step back, to turn away before I could let my mind slip into the dangerous temptation of comfort.

Instead, I walked toward the window.

The bars were thick, but beyond them, the world stretched into darkness. The land outside was vast, endless, the shadows of trees stretching toward the sky like skeletal fingers.

No signs of civilization. No flickering lights in the distance.

Just wilderness.

I pressed my palm against the stone.

I had no idea where I was.

I had no idea how far I'd been taken.

But one thing was certain.

I was alone.

Alone in a place where wolves ruled, where their Alpha watched me like I was something breakable.

Like I was something his.

I gritted my teeth and pushed away from the window.

No.

Zain might hold the key to this cage, but that didn't mean I would sit here and wait for him to decide my fate.

He thought I would submit. That I would break.

But he had no idea who he was dealing with.

I wasn't some lost little girl.

I was Violet Hawthorne.

And I would find a way out of this place.

No matter what it took.