CHAPTER 4: The Whispers

They watched me like I was dirt tracked across polished stone.

I walked between two guards — tall, stoic, silent — but their presence offered no protection. Not from the way the servants glanced up as I passed. Not from the way their eyes slid down my robe, resting on the burn mark at my throat where the silver collar still clung.

Not from the smirks.

Not from the whispers.

They didn't speak loud.

They didn't need to.

"That's her?"

"The little Vale girl?"

"God, he really did collar her."

"I heard she moaned."

"Slut."

I kept walking.

Barefoot, bruised, and so exposed I might as well have been naked. The robe Kael had given me was thin. Purposefully sheer. It didn't hide anything. Not the bite on my neck. Not the fading bruises between my thighs. Not the heat still lingering low in my stomach that I hated myself for.

Every footstep echoed.

Every glance felt like a knife.

But worse than the stares… were the eyes that looked away.

The ones that pretended I wasn't real.

The ones that heard what Kael did to me and still called him Alpha.

My legs ached. My shoulders burned from tension. But I held my head high.

I don't know why.

Maybe because it was all I had left.

A shred of spine Kael hadn't broken yet.

A flicker of defiance no one else could see.

The guards led me past the open archway to the main courtyard. A few Blackthorn warriors trained there, sparring shirtless under the morning sun. Laughter drifted through the open air like it belonged to a different world.

One of them paused mid-swing when he saw me.

He said nothing.

But he licked his lips.

And grinned.

My stomach twisted.

I looked away.

The collar pulsed faintly, silver biting against my throat as if it wanted me to remember what I was — not a guest.

Not a wife.

Not even a prisoner.

Just owned.

The guards stopped outside a large double door carved with a blackened wolf sigil — Kael's. One of them knocked.

"Alpha's orders," the other muttered to me, eyes forward. "Wait inside. Don't speak unless spoken to."

And then they left me there.

Alone.

In the echo of my own humiliation.

The dining hall was grand, but it wasn't beautiful.

Stone walls lined with trophies — swords, antlers, bones. A long darkwood table stretched through the center of the chamber, set with iron plates and goblets carved with sigils of the Blackthorn bloodline. Torches cast flickering shadows across the floor, making the wolves carved into the pillars look like they were moving.

There were a dozen men seated already — all dressed in military blacks or heavy robes stitched with silver thread. Betas, captains, advisors. They spoke in low tones, laughing, drinking, tearing into roasted meat like predators who hadn't fed in days.

Kael sat at the head of the table.

Not a crown on his head. He didn't need one.

He didn't look at me.

A servant pulled out a small stool — not a chair — at a second, lower table across the room. It sat alone, unadorned. No place setting. No utensils. No wine.

I was to eat like a pet. Or not eat at all.

I sat.

The silver collar pinched slightly as I leaned forward.

I kept my eyes on my hands, clenched tightly in my lap.

Kael was speaking to a Beta on his left, voice low, tone cool. Something about supply lines. Territory. Patrol strategy. His voice was perfectly calm. Perfectly disinterested. It was as if I didn't exist.

He never once looked at me.

Not even when a plate of plain bread was dropped in front of me.

Not even when the silence broke.

A man across the table — younger, maybe only a few years older than me, with a sharp smile and eyes that never stopped moving — leaned toward Kael and spoke just loud enough to carry.

"She's smaller than I imagined, Alpha."

Kael didn't respond.

"I was expecting… more."

A few chuckles from the others. Goblets clinked.

Someone muttered the word "delicate."

Someone else said "breakable."

Heat climbed my neck. I didn't move. I didn't speak.

Kael lifted his goblet.

Still silent.

Still smiling.

And then—

"She screams beautifully," he said.

The room went still.

My heart stopped.

Kael took a slow sip from his cup and added, almost conversationally, "Not during pain. During pleasure."

The chuckles stopped.

He set the goblet down.

"I've heard rumors," he continued, "that she's here for peace. That she's a sacrifice."

He finally turned his head toward me — not to meet my eyes, but to study my throat, my collar, the line of my exposed shoulder where the robe had slipped again.

"But let me make this clear for everyone seated here," Kael said, voice calm as ice. "She's not here to make peace."

A pause.

"She's here to be used."

My stomach twisted.

A few of the men shifted uncomfortably. Others nodded.

And Kael turned back to his meal as if the conversation had ended.

As if I hadn't been gutted.

As if I hadn't died right there on that stool with my legs clenched, my face flushed, and the fire of humiliation crawling across my skin like it had teeth.

I wanted to run.

I wanted to scream.

But I sat still. Silent. Exactly the way he'd trained me to.

I didn't remember standing.

I didn't remember walking back through the halls.

I just remembered the sound of Kael's voice in that room, and how he said it like it was nothing—like it was the truth carved in stone:

She's here to be used.

The guards brought me to a small antechamber near the east wing. No windows. No fire. Just a basin of cold water and a cracked mirror on the wall.

"Wait," one of them said.

And then they left.

I sat on a bench and tried not to think. Tried not to feel the sweat dried to my skin. The way the collar still pressed against my throat, silver threading warming to my pulse.

I didn't cry.

I wanted to.

But I didn't.

The door creaked open.

Not Kael.

A girl entered — younger than me, maybe. Thin but not frail. Pale brown hair pulled into a tight braid. She wore the standard maid uniform, but without the stiffness the others wore like armor.

She carried a folded robe in her arms and a cloth draped over one shoulder.

When she saw me, she didn't stop.

She didn't freeze.

She walked straight to the basin and dipped the cloth in water like this was just another room.

Just another girl.

Just another wound to wipe.

"I'm Mira," she said quietly.

Her voice was soft, but not afraid.

I watched her wring out the cloth.

"You don't have to—"

"You have blood on your thigh."

I looked down.

She was right.

The dried stain made my stomach twist.

She knelt in front of me, gently took my knee, and began to clean it.

The water was cold. The cloth was softer than anything I'd felt since arriving.

"I don't need pity," I whispered.

"This isn't pity," she said, still focused on the cloth. "It's hygiene."

I almost laughed. It caught in my throat.

She moved with a kind of practiced quiet — not rushed, not hesitant. Like she'd done this before. Too many times.

When she was done, she dipped the cloth again and reached for my arm, dabbing at the faint bruise just above the elbow.

"He likes to break people slowly," she said under her breath.

My chest tightened.

"I'm fine," I said.

She gave me a long, quiet look.

"No. You're not."

I blinked.

She stood and brought over the fresh robe. This one was thicker, darker — still sheer in the wrong places, but warmer. She helped me into it without a word. Her fingers brushed mine as she fastened the ties.

Then she leaned close and whispered, "Don't let him break your mind. That's what he wants most."

I swallowed hard.

My throat burned.

"Why are you helping me?" I asked.

Mira's eyes met mine, calm and direct.

"Because one day," she said, "you might remember how it felt. And you'll do the same for someone else."

Before I could speak, the door slammed open.

Kael stood in the frame.

And Mira went still.