Layla
She woke to silence.
Not the empty kind that follows absence. The charged kind. The one that feels alive, that breathes with you in the quiet space.
The kind that waits for something to begin. Her eyes opened slowly, lids heavy, lashes stiff with sleep that had dragged her down into unexpected depths.
The furs beneath her were still warm, the linen sheets still laced with his scent. That low, masculine mix of musk and amber, smoke and danger, of wildness and power, the edge of it still curling beneath her ribs, answering a call she hadn't known was there.
It was morning. Pale silver light slipped through the arched windows, brushing the stone walls with ghost-fingers, illuminating the unseen sigils carved into the rock. The hearth had gone to embers, the deer skin a dark shape in the gloom.
Her oversized robe had slipped off one shoulder in her sleep, exposing the curve of her collarbone and the hidden valley between her bosom. Her fingers brushed the sides of her throat: Still tender to the touch.
Still marked with the sharp, indelible truth of his claiming.
She should've been afraid. Should have felt trapped, diminished, consumed by the weight of his ownership.
Instead, she felt... dangerous.
Owned, yes. Marked, claimed, bound to a Beast King. But not diminished. Not lost. Not broken beyond repair.
Because he had seen all of her in the ruins—the rage, the desperation, the raw struggle, the broken pieces, the wildness that met his own—and he hadn't flinched away.
He had claimed it all.
And now she carried him like a secret beneath her skin. Not just the physical marks on her neck. The memory. The feel of his massive body caging hers against cold stone.
The guttural, broken way he'd laid bare his soul. The claiming in the ruins that had shattered and remade her in his every thrust.
She sat up slowly, muscles sore but healing, the magic salve had worked wonders while she slept. Even the bruises across her hips and arms had faded to shadows, only visible if you knew where to look.
But she still felt wrecked in places no spell, no salve, could ever touch. Her soul was still reeling in shock.
He hadn't come back.
Not yet. And god help her because in the quiet, charged silence of his chambers, surrounded by the lingering echo of his scent, she missed him.
She missed the terrifying animal side of him, the cocky kingly one and even the unexpectedly vulnerable side of him, of the man who had claimed and seduced her so throughly.
She rose anyway. Pushed off the furs and stood on bare feet.
Because she wasn't the girl who had fell into his kingdom anymore. She wasn't prey. She wasn't the hunted thing who fled from the shadows.
She was the wolf-king's Queen. The one marked by his teeth, bound by his blood.
And whether the crown of teeth and savagery would ever truly fit or not, either way the world would learn to bow to her .
She moved through the chambers barefoot, trailing fingers over the cold stone walls, the rough ironwood carvings, the sigils etched above the hearth that pulsed faintly with old power. This was a place made for war. For kings. For a kind of power that devoured and reshaped.
And somehow, impossibly, terrifyingly, it was hers too.
She found a tray waiting near the hearth—set there by unseen hands while she had slept, a silent service. Crusted bread, soft cheese, steaming broth and coffee, simple, sustaining things. He'd had it brought in.
No note. No sign. No lingering presence.
Just care, delivered in the quiet, purposeful way that mattered most in this world of brutal honesty.
She ate slowly, savoring the taste, watching the embers in the hearth regain their flames, coaxed back to life by unseen hands.
And when she was done, when her body felt a little stronger, she crossed over to the wardrobe built into the far wall; It was immense, carved from the same dark ironwood as the bed, guarded by silent, snarling beasts etched into the wood. She opened it.
Inside hung gowns. Silks and velvets in deep, rich colors.And armor. Dark, flexible leather, reinforced steel plates.
And one dress in particular, the color of thunderclouds stitched with silver thread—simple, strong, regal. Not a gown for courtly dancing, but for commanding armies, for standing beside a king. It was beautiful.
She touched the fabric with reverent fingers, tracing the silver lines.
And smiled.
Because she saw what he had left for her: The choices. The options.
Not just a place in his bed.
But a place at his side. A place in the war room. A place in the storm.