HIS MALE SLAVE IS A WOMAN

Nicolette's point of view

The first time I tasted the scent of death, it came with roses. My mother always kept fresh ones in the hallway, their soft petals pressed against the windowsill, basking in sunlight. I used to think they smelled like comfort. Safety.

That night, they smelled like burning.

"Get in the cellar. Now."

My mother shoved Nicolina and me through the wooden hatch in the pantry floor. Her hands were shaking,she never shook. Not even when father returned home bloodied from his patrols. Not even when the howling got too close to the borders. But that night... she trembled.

I gripped Nicolina's hand as the hatch slammed shut above us. My younger sister whimpered beside me, clutching my cloak. I could feel the air go still, then the walls began to shudder. The pounding of boots above us grew louder,an army tearing through our home.

Glass shattered. Furniture overturned. Screams. And then-

Gunfire.

My heart stopped. Nicolina let out a choked sob, and I pressed my hand to her mouth, whispering, "Shh... they can't hear us. You have to be quiet."

But it was too late.

A low growl echoed through the boards above. The scent of ash and fur and blood seeped into the cellar like poison. I knew what it meant. Lycans.

Then I heard her scream.

"Mama!" Nicolina cried, pushing upward, trying to lift the hatch. I held her down, fighting her tears with my own.

My mother's scream was short. My father's yell followed, raw and desperate. Another shot. Silence.

And then... boots. On the hatch.

The wood creaked.

I froze.

A hand reached down, wrenched it open, and the light blinded me. They grabbed Nicolina first.

"Let her go!" I screamed, lunging forward, but the butt of a rifle slammed into my head, and everything went dark.

When I woke, she was gone. And I was alone.

The years since blurred together like blood in water. I wandered the outskirts of the Borderlands, hiding beneath different names, different faces. But one thing never changed:

Revenge.

I had made a promise in that cellar. And I intended to keep it.

---

The caravan rattled down the forest path, heading toward the Northern gates. The sky was gray with the promise of snow, and the scent of fur lingered in the air. Wolves. Always watching. Always listening.

I crouched behind a ridge, fingers clenched around the dagger strapped to my thigh. The caravan was transporting a fresh batch of tributes,humans offered to the Lycan court in exchange for peace treaties, land, or simply favor. No one asked them if they wanted to go. No one cared.

I saw her then-Nicolina.

She sat near the rear, head bowed, her blonde hair matted with sweat and dirt. Even from this distance, I could see the fear in her shoulders. The guards barked orders, laughing, one of them kicking her when she didn't move fast enough.

Something inside me snapped.

I didn't have a plan. Only rage.

I stepped out onto the path, cloak billowing, hood pulled low. The guards spotted me instantly.

"Halt!" one of them barked, raising his rifle.

"I'm not here to fight," I said, raising my hands. "I'm here to trade."

They exchanged looks, then burst out laughing.

"Trade?" one scoffed. "What the hell do you think this is? A market?"

"Take me instead," I said, louder this time. "Let the girl go. I'll go in her place."

They looked me up and down. I saw it in their eyes-the curiosity, the hesitation. And then the doubt.

"She's my sister," I added, voice low. "She won't survive their court. I will."

"She?" one of them repeated, narrowing his gaze. "Wait a damn minute..."

I yanked the hood back. My long hair spilled out around my shoulders.

"Oh," one grinned. "She's pretty."

Another guard walked up, cocked his head. "You want to take her place?" he asked. "You know what they do to tributes like you?"

"I know," I said. "I'm counting on it."

He paused, then shrugged. "Fine. But you're not going as her."

A knife appeared in his hand so fast I didn't have time to flinch. In one swift motion, he grabbed a fistful of my hair and hacked it off, the strands falling to the ground like dead leaves.

"You're one of the boys now," he smirked.

They bound my chest tightly with rough bandages, bruising my ribs. Gave me trousers and a worn jacket. No name, no identity.

Except the one they gave me.

"Nicholas."

It tasted wrong on my tongue. But if it got Nicolina out, I'd wear it like armor.

I found her that night, huddled near the fire, arms around her knees. Her eyes widened when she saw me.

"Lettie?" she breathed. "No, no-what are you doing here?"

"Shh," I whispered, kneeling beside her. "Listen to me. I told them I was you. I'm going in your place."

Her face twisted with panic. "No. No, you can't. They'll kill you."

"I'll be fine," I lied. "You have to go. Now. Tonight. When the guards change, slip away. Run south. Find the woman at the red mill near Dagen's pass. She owes me."

She shook her head, tears streaking her cheeks. "Don't do this. Please, Lettie."

"This is how I protect you now," I said softly. "It's always been you and me. I can't lose you."

"But I'll lose you."

I held her hand tight. "Then promise me one thing," I whispered. "Live. Live for both of us."

The next morning, she was gone.

And I was still there, cloaked in cold and false names.

The caravan moved north, the landscape growing crueler with every mile. Trees thinned. Snow kissed the ground. We were close. I could smell it.

The Lycan palace.

The air grew sharper as we approached the gates,twin spires of obsidian stone, guarded by wolves in human skin. Their eyes glowed gold beneath their hoods. Soldiers of the Crown.

One of them stepped forward, sniffed the air, then froze.

He turned his gaze directly on me.

Nostrils flared. Brows furrowed.

I swallowed hard, keeping my chin up. My heartbeat thundered in my ears.

He stepped closer.

Too close.

He leaned in, sniffed again,slowly, deliberately.

His eyes narrowed.

Something flickered there. Not recognition. Something worse.

Suspicion.

"Open the gates," another guard barked behind him, impatient. "Let the tributes through."

But he didn't move.

He was still staring at me.

Like he could smell the truth beneath the blood and dirt and binding.

Like he knew.

The gate behind him creaked open.

And still... he didn't move.

Then he leaned in, so close I could feel his breath against my cheek, and whispered:

"You smell... wrong."

Ashen's point of view

There's a specific kind of silence that only exists in a throne room, thick, forced, and full of fear.

"My King, he slaughtered two of my goats and claimed they crossed into his land," one farmer spat, jabbing a finger toward the man across the marble floor. "The fence hasn't moved in five years!"

I rested my chin on my fist, staring down from the obsidian dais, feigning patience. The two men bickered like pups over scraps while my generals plotted wars outside these walls.

Behind me, Dominica leaned in, her lips barely brushing my ear. "He's lying," she said, her voice like smoke. "The fence moved. He's trying to gain sympathy. Look at the twitch in his left eye."

I didn't need her sight to sense the deception, but I let her have her moment. My Seer enjoyed her riddles.

"Both of you," I said, voice low but carrying through the chamber, "cease your bickering and return home. My men will inspect the boundary lines by dawn. If either of you is found dishonest, your tongues will decorate my gates. Understood?"

Silence. Then slow, nervous nods.

I waved a hand. "Next."

Before the next petitioner could step forward, the court doors creaked open. A blast of cold air swept in, and with it came the heavy scent of sweat, leather, and unwashed desperation.

The slave caravan had arrived.

My court shifted. Some turned to look. Others sneered or averted their eyes. Even in a kingdom of beasts, the sight of bound, trembling humans drew pity from the soft-hearted. I was not among them.

"Your Majesty," the caravan master bowed, his cloak soaked from the snow, "our offering from the southern provinces. Trained servants. All docile. All... obedient."

My gaze flicked down the line of kneeling forms, dirt-streaked faces, lowered heads. They all looked the same.

Until one looked up.

It was brief. A mistake.

But it was enough.

Those eyes,gray like winter storms,met mine.

And something shifted.

I straightened in my throne, leaning forward before I realized I'd moved.

Dominica noticed. Of course she did.

"That one," I said, pointing to the boy who'd dared meet my gaze. "Name?"

"His name is Nicholas, sire. Eighteen. He's quiet. Compliant. Good with his hands, trained in laundry, cleaning, and-"

"Bring him forward."

The boy hesitated as they yanked him to his feet. He was thin, lean beneath his too-big tunic. His head was bowed again now, posture rigid, hands trembling. But that scent-

There was something off about it.

Not fear.

Not sweat.

Not male.

I frowned.

Dominica shifted beside me, suddenly tense. "Ashen," she whispered. "Don't."

"Why?"

"I saw something," she muttered. "A shadow around him. Around you. Danger."

"Everything around me is dangerous," I muttered.

Still, I couldn't shake it. That scent. That pull in my gut. My wolf stirred, sniffing the air, growling low in the back of my mind. Interested.

Hungry.

"This one," I said, standing. "Assign him to my personal wing."

The murmurs started instantly. Even the guards looked at each other.

Dominica stepped down with me, her eyes flashing. "You can't just-"

"I can," I said simply. "And I have."

The boy was brought to my quarters by dusk.

I stood at the far end of the corridor as he was escorted in. He walked slowly, every step cautious, like the floor might collapse beneath him. The servants' robes fit awkwardly across his narrow frame. His hair was cut unevenly, as if by a dull blade.

"Nicholas," I said.

He dropped to one knee. "Yes, my King."

No tremor in his voice. No stutter. But his hands were clenched behind his back.

"I don't like liars," I said, circling him. "And I don't tolerate spies."

"I'm neither, Your Majesty."

"You looked at me in court."

"I was... curious, sire. Forgive me."

His voice. Soft. Strange. Something too controlled.

Too careful.

"Curious?" I echoed, stepping closer.

He tilted his head downward, hiding his face, but I saw the way his jaw tightened.

"Yes, Your Majesty."

I moved behind him, leaned down slightly. "Your scent. It's... wrong."

He flinched.

Just barely.

But I saw it.

"You're not from the Southern provinces."

"No, sire."

"And you're hiding something."

"...yes, sire."

I blinked. Honest. Unexpected.

I walked in front of him again. "Then speak."

He lifted his head slowly. His eyes, those cursed eyes, met mine again. "I came here to serve, Your Majesty. That is all."

Another lie.

But I didn't call it out.

Instead, I turned and nodded toward the attendant behind him. "Show him to the red quarters. He'll work in my wing under direct command. No one else is to speak to him unless I say so."

"Yes, Your Majesty."

As they led him away, Dominica stepped from the shadows behind a column, her arms crossed.

"You're playing with fire."

"I like the heat."

She frowned. "I don't like what I see around him."

"And what do you see?"

"Darkness. Betrayal. And something that doesn't belong in our world."

I stared down the corridor where he had disappeared.

"Or perhaps," I said softly, "something that finally does."

The fire crackled in my private chambers long after midnight, but I couldn't sleep.

That scent still clung to my thoughts, something floral, almost sweet. Not male. Not servant.

Not safe.

I poured myself another drink and stepped onto the balcony, watching the snow fall over the Northern city like ash. Below, the palace buzzed with low light and late duties.

And movement.

I caught it in the corner of my eye, just a flash of white fabric, slipping through the east corridor where the servants' halls connected to the storage passageways.

I shouldn't have cared.

But something told me it was him.

I moved silently, barefoot, cloak dragging behind me as I slipped through the shadows like a ghost. The halls were dim, lit only by wall torches. The scent was there again, stronger now.

Lavender.

And something else.

I turned a corner and stopped.

There he was.

"What are you doing out here, alone?" I asked and he stood up, straightening himself before speaking.

"I love the stars, I was just watching them. Reminds me of my family."

"Dead?" I asked and he nodded.

"Good night my king."

Nicolette's point of view

It's been four days since I arrived here and every night he keeps coming out, it's as if he anticipates meeting me here every night and it's weird.

He stepped from the shadows like a phantom summoned by guilt. I froze, fingers still brushing the edge of the stone slit where I had slid the note through. His voice was velvet and steel.

"Hello."

Panic fluttered in my chest, but I forced myself to bow stiffly. "Your Majesty."

Ashen Vladimir III.

King of Lycans.

And the man I could not afford to anger.

He narrowed his eyes at me, those silver irises catching the torchlight like mirrors. "What are you doing here?"

"I-I got lost," I said quickly, keeping my voice low, sharp like a boy's. "I couldn't sleep. Thought I'd find the kitchens, but I must've taken a wrong turn."

He didn't believe me. I could feel it, his suspicion a heavy fog between us.

"And why," he asked slowly, stepping closer, "were you hiding behind the tapestry?"

"I heard something. Got spooked," I said with a forced shrug. "Didn't want to be caught where I shouldn't be."

A pause. A breath.

Then, surprisingly, he nodded.

"Tomorrow. Training grounds. Dawn."

I blinked. "What?"

"You're strong," he said, voice cold and unreadable. "You don't tremble like the others. Let's see what you're worth."

He turned, cloak swirling behind him, and vanished into the darkness before I could speak.

I exhaled,slow, sharp, shaking.

Training? With wolves?

I pressed my back against the cold stone, heart pounding.

He didn't believe me.

But he didn't expose me either.

Yet.

The sun hadn't even touched the palace walls when the horns blared across the courtyard, summoning the guard.

I was already awake, dressed in the borrowed leathers of a servant-soldier, chest bound tight, hair tucked beneath my cap. The courtyard was filled with weapons clashing, sweat flying, and Lycans grunting like beasts in heat.

They eyed me like fresh meat.

"Who's the pup?" one barked.

"The King's new pet," another sneered.

I said nothing. Just stepped onto the sand-packed ring with silent feet and clenched fists.

The Captain-broad-shouldered and battle-scarred-tossed me a wooden sword. "Let's see what you got, Nicholas."

He came at me hard. Fast.

But I was faster.

I twisted beneath his swing, knocked his knee sideways, and shoved the butt of my blade against his ribs.

The ring went quiet.

A few laughs. Then jeers. Then disbelief.

Three more came at me, one after the other. I danced between them, light-footed, ruthless. My limbs remembered what my soul couldn't forget,my father's voice, the drills in the cellar, the art of survival.

By the time I landed my fourth opponent flat on his back, I heard the murmurs spreading through the court:

"Who trained him?"

"Too graceful for a peasant."

"Not just fast,calculated."

Then came the silence again,heavier this time.

He had arrived.

Ashen stood at the edge of the training ring, arms folded, eyes locked on me.

"I want to spar," he said.

A ripple of shock passed through the crowd. Guards stepped back. No one challenged the King unless ordered.

My throat dried. "Your Majesty-"

"Scared?" he asked, cocking his head.

"No," I said, lifting my sword. "Just wondering how bruised you want to be."

Gasps. A chuckle. A few horrified expressions.

Ashen grinned.

"Come, then."

We circled each other in the ring. The world fell away,the guards, the court, the biting morning chill. It was just him and me.

He struck first,clean, precise.

I deflected, ducked, twisted. My blade met his, not with brute strength but with skill. I used my smaller size to move quicker, slipping past his guard, pivoting at the last second.

He growled when I nicked his arm.

"Interesting," he muttered.

"You started it," I replied.

He lunged again. This time harder. I blocked, danced backward, used the angle to throw him off balance. He recovered,but I was already moving.

I faked left.

Slid right.

And knocked his sword from his hand.

The ring exploded in noise.

Gasps. Shouts. Whispers.

I didn't move. I didn't breathe.

Ashen stood still for a moment, then looked down at his empty hand.

Then up at me.

A slow smile curled his lips.

"Dismissed," he barked, not taking his eyes off me.

The crowd dispersed quickly, guards mumbling, eyes flicking back at me like I was some cursed beast.

Nicholas, the slave who bested a Lycan King.

I bowed stiffly, turned on my heel, and walked away with shaking legs.

The next few days were a blur of whispers and stares.

Servants avoided me.

Guards tested me.

And Ashen... watched me.

He would appear at random,at meals, in halls, by training dummies. Not saying a word. Just standing there with that unreadable expression.

And when he spoke, it was always something strange.

"You hold your sword like a noble."

"You flinch at southern accents."

"You speak too well to have been raised in chains."

Each time, I deflected with a shrug, a joke, a quiet apology.

Each time, his curiosity deepened.

I couldn't afford this attention.

I needed time.

I needed space.

I needed to protect Nicolina.

And instead,I had caught the attention of a predator.

---

That night, I slipped away from the barracks.

The bathhouse was silent, filled with steam and flickering firelight. I dipped beneath the surface of the water with a sigh, letting the heat loosen the knots in my body. My shoulders ached from sparring, and the bruises were blooming across my ribs like war medals.

I stayed until the water turned cold.

Until the door creaked open.

I froze.

He entered like a shadow again,silent, slow, deliberate.

Ashen.

He wore only loose trousers, torso bare, muscles carved like marble. He didn't look surprised to see me.

"Trying to avoid me, Nicholas?"

"I thought this was the servants' time."

"I own the time."

He stepped closer. The steam swirled around him like mist around a ghost. He crouched by the edge of the water, staring at me with those silver eyes.

"You move like a woman," he murmured.

My blood turned to ice.

"What?" I croaked.

He tilted his head. "You fight like a woman. Think like one. Speak like one."

"I-I-"

He leaned closer. Inches away.

"So tell me..." His voice was soft now. Almost gentle.

"...What are you, really?"