The Alpha's Claim

The Prince didn’t just walk; he colonized the space. He stormed to the foot of my bed, stopping with a suddenness that made the air recoil. He didn't look at me at first. Instead, he stared fixatedly at the whitewashed wall behind my head, his jaw working as if he were chewing on glass.

"Who did this to you?" his voice was a low, emotionless drawl that made the hair on my arms stand up. "Answer me truthfully. Do you realize that as a tribute, you are technically property of the Crown? It is a high crime to damage royal assets."

"I am not property," I snapped back. The defiance cost me; a jagged spark of pain flared in my ribs, though I could feel a strange, itchy warmth beneath my skin as Samba began to knit the bone back together. "It doesn’t matter who did it. They’re gone. And I’m not a rat."

The Prince’s head snapped toward me. His eyes, dark as charcoal and swirling with an amber fire, pinned me to the mattress. A wave of raw, Alpha terror flooded my senses. "First," he growled, the sound vibrating in the floorboards, "you will learn that when I ask a question, you answer. Properly. Without the pathetic shield of your attitude. Do you understand your place, girl?"

"Yes, sir," I whispered, my bravado vanishing. I looked down at my shaking hands, feeling small and foolish beneath his gargantuan shadow.

"Better," he grunted, though his expression remained sour. "Now. Your attackers. Tell me."

"Just... school kids," I murmured submissively. "They’ve always hated me. I'm an orphan. I'm nothing to them."

"School kids?" He ignored my background entirely, his mind already working through the logistics of vengeance. "Are they of age?"

"They turned eighteen this month. But they aren't tributes," I added with a flicker of bitter pride. "They aren't pure. You can't touch them."

The Prince leaned over the foot of the bed, his large hands gripping the rail until the metal groaned. A predatory sneer pulled at his lips. "Oh, little minnow, you underestimate me. I don't need their names from your pretty mouth. Their scent is all over you—it’s soaked into the fibers of that ruined dress. I’ll track them by dawn. We shall see how they enjoy being treated like the vermin they are."

I gulped, my throat tight with horror. Before I could look away, his hand shot out. His thick fingers caught my chin, forcing my face up.

The moment his skin touched mine, my brain exploded into a pyrotechnic display of heat and hunger. I inhaled his scent—sandalwood, rain, and something dangerously masculine—and felt Samba howl with a ferocity that nearly forced a shift. I was eighteen and had never shifted; I had spent years suppressed, denying my wolf, but here, under his touch, she was a tidal wave hitting a crumbling sea wall.

The Prince’s face contorted. He looked like he was in hideous, physical pain. His temple pulsated, and a low, pained growl rumbled in his throat as he glared at me with a mixture of loathing and fascination. He hated whatever he was feeling as much as I did.

"I can smell the wolf in you," he grunted, his grip tightening slightly. "Why didn't you fight back? A normal shifter would have torn those children apart."

"Because I haven't shifted. And I don't intend to," I said, finding a spark of my old fire. "A wolf’s immune system didn't save my parents from the White Plague. I don't need her. I don't want her."

"You would punish your own soul for the cruelty of fate? Stupidity," he spat, his eyes scanning my face. "I can see her working already. Your bruises are fading before my eyes. You are wasting a gift many would kill for."

"I didn't ask for this 'gift,'" I murmured. "If I could cut her out of me, I would."

The Prince’s face hardened into a mask of pure fury. "A waste of life. Perhaps I should just end it now. If you hate our world so much, why should I let you breathe its air?"

I froze, terror splashing across my face. I looked to Ser Criston and the nurse, but they stood like statues, heads bowed. No one was coming to save me from the Alpha’s whim.

"I’ve decided," the Prince thundered, turning to the guard. "Heal her. Then bring her to my apartments. I have enough bedmaidens who are prettier and far more willing than this broken thing. I don't need her for my bed... but I can find a use for a servant." He paused, a cruel light dancing in his eyes. "And if she fails at that, I’m sure the Shadow Wolf is looking for something to hunt."

"Your're, your're not the shadow wolf?" I stammered, confused.

"No. That's my brother."

"Please," I gasped, the nurse's earlier warning ringing in my ears. "Not the Shadow Wolf. I'll do anything. Just keep him away from me."

"Anything?" The Prince let out a dark, mocking laugh. "Bitch, please. Look at you. You turn red when I touch you; you tremble when I speak. You are so painfully innocent it’s almost cute. But 'cute' is a death sentence in this Palace."

He rubbed his stubbled chin, eyeing me like a piece of livestock. "The city brothels are always looking for fresh faces, but you wouldn't last an hour. You don't even know what to do with yourself, let alone a man. Perhaps... I should have you trained."

"Trained?" I whispered, the blood draining from my face.

"Yes," he sneered. "My senior bedmaidens will show you how things are done. If you're lucky—and very well-behaved—I might even let you watch while I fuck them into oblivion. It might give you some ideas."

My face burned with a shame so intense I thought I would go blind. Samba growled in the back of my mind—not out of fear, but out of a jealous, territorial rage that mirrored my own shock.

"Hurry up," the Prince barked at the nurse, already turning toward the door. "Scrub the filth off her and bring her to my bedroom. I shall be waiting."