Chapter 3 The Cage with Velvet Walls

Chapter Three

Elira

She woke to silence and silk sheets.

The kind that once meant safety. Now, they only made her skin crawl.

The ceiling above her was vaulted stone, not the painted dome of her childhood room. The air was too still, carrying neither the salt breeze of the coastal winds nor the warm scent of Vareth's cypress trees. Here, everything smelled of cold ash, pine smoke, and something else-something faintly metallic and raw.

She sat up slowly, biting down a wince. Her muscles ached from the march, her back sore from days of forced travel in chains. But her mind was sharp. She remembered everything: the fall of the gates, the roar of the Crimson Fang wolves, the way her brother's crown had clattered down the steps of the dais...

And the silver-eyed heir who had stared at her like she was both prey and prophecy.

Elira swung her legs over the side of the bed. Her bare feet sank into a thick rug dyed a deep, regal red. That made her pause.

It was Vareth's color. Her family's color.

Was it coincidence, or cruelty?

The room was grand in a muted, heavy way-no mirrors, but fine drapery, carved furniture, even a small hearth that had been kept alight. On a nearby table sat a tray of bread, berries, and tea. Still warm. Her stomach growled despite herself.

Don't trust it.

She crossed the room and tested the door. Locked, as expected. She pressed her ear against it. Faint footsteps shifted on the other side-two guards, neither of them speaking. Wolves, no doubt.

She didn't waste her breath demanding answers. Instead, she explored. Three windows, narrow and barred, faced a northern cliffside and distant forests. The wind howled faintly through the cracks in the stone. The fireplace was real-hot to the touch-but recessed into the wall. No escape there.

There were clothes, too. Someone had laid out a gown of simple midnight blue, along with a silver pin to fasten it. Elira ran her fingers over the fabric. High quality. Meant to fit her perfectly.

The thought made her stomach twist.

She hadn't been spared-she'd been chosen.

She leaned on the vanity, catching her reflection in the polished metal plate above the basin. She barely recognized herself. Her hair was tangled, her eyes-blue like a frozen sea-rimmed with red. But the fire in them had not dimmed.

She wasn't broken. Not yet.

A knock at the door pulled her upright. Before she could answer, it opened, and a servant stepped in.

The woman was older, her grey hair tucked under a neat linen cap. Her hands trembled only slightly as she carried a tray of fresh bandages and a bowl of clean water.

"My lady," she murmured, bowing her head.

"I'm not your lady," Elira said, stepping back instinctively.

The woman didn't look up. "You are alive. That makes you valuable. Here, that is enough."

Elira narrowed her eyes. "Valuable to whom?"

The woman hesitated, then set the tray down beside the basin. "Lord Kaelen sent these. He said your injuries were not to be ignored."

"He conquered my home," Elira hissed. "He caused them."

Still, the servant showed no reaction. "He is cursed. And he is alpha. That is all I dare say."

She bowed again and left, locking the door behind her.

Elira stood there for a long moment, heart pounding in her ears.

Cursed. Alpha.

The words stirred something in her-something ancient and buried. In Vareth, lycans had always been whispered about in hushed voices, kept to distant forests and never allowed within city walls. But the Dravens weren't ordinary wolves. They were royalty by blood and terror by nature.

And Kaelen...

His voice, that deep command, had curled into her like a hook. His scent-gods, it still lingered, dark and wild, sharp like pine and steel. She hated how her body had noticed. How a flicker of heat had risen unbidden at the sound of his voice.

She told herself it was fear. But fear didn't settle behind her ribs like a spark waiting to ignite.

Elira turned to the food tray, tore a piece of bread free, and bit into it like it owed her a debt. She needed strength. Clarity. Answers.

She also needed a plan.

This room, for all its elegance, was a prison. She began pacing again, counting steps. Seventeen from bed to the fireplace. Nine to the door. A tapestry in the far corner hid a crack in the wall-a flaw she marked for later.

Her captors believed comfort would soften her. That warmth and silence could turn rage into compliance.

They didn't know her at all.

That night, the moon rose full and red over the treetops, casting pale light through the window bars. Elira couldn't sleep. Her skin itched beneath the sheets, her breath coming in shallow bursts. A strange warmth coiled low in her belly, pulsing with every heartbeat.

She shifted, restless, frustrated by her own weakness.

And then, just as her eyes drifted shut, his voice echoed in her mind. Not words-just presence. Power. Something deep and male she shouldn't crave but did.

Her lips moved of their own accord, and a name slipped free.

"Kaelen..."

She froze.

What the hell was happening to her?