Chapter 2 – He Bows to No One, but Her
The chamber was too quiet.
For someone like her, silence wasn't peace. It was pressure — the kind that crushed your lungs and made you brace for pain. Silence meant something was coming. A blow. A command. A punishment.
But nothing came.
Not from him.
The Alpha King stood by the fire, his arms crossed, silver eyes unreadable, a presence so large and still it felt unreal. His black tunic, marked with faint claw-etched embroidery, caught the light in sharp ridges. His shoulders were broad, but not weighed with pride — with restraint. His hair was midnight-dark, but his eyes… they glowed like forged steel.
He hadn't moved since she stepped from the bath.
The warm robe he gave her — velvet-soft and far too fine — clung to her clean skin like foreign silk. She clutched it at the chest, even though it covered her fully.
The tension between them filled the room like smoke.
He was silent. Watching. But not in the way the others used to. Not with hunger. Not even with pity.
He was watching her like she might disappear if he looked away.
And somehow… that frightened her more.
"I don't even know your name," he said finally.
His voice broke the stillness like thunder across frozen ground.
She swallowed. Her voice, still hoarse, cracked at the edge of breath. "You don't need to."
He didn't respond at first. Instead, he took a slow step forward — not looming, not charging — just closing the space between them with caution. Like she was something sacred and feral all at once.
"I do," he said. "I want to."
Her breath hitched.
No one had wanted anything from her in years. Not her name. Not her past. Just obedience.
He came to a stop in front of her — not too close. His hand hung by his side, flexing once.
"If it hurts to say it," Thorne said gently, "don't. But I won't call you slave. Ever."
She lowered her eyes.
After a moment, she whispered, "Riven."
He stilled. The name curved like a blade through the room.
"Riven," he repeated.
She flinched at the sound of it on his lips. Soft. Reverent.
It had never sounded like that before.
"Is it… yours?" he asked carefully.
She nodded. "My mother gave it to me before she—"
Her voice caught. She shook her head, turning away, hiding behind the curtain of damp hair falling across her shoulder.
Thorne exhaled, quiet and controlled.
So her mother was gone. Maybe murdered. Maybe sold.
The thought made his wolf snarl.
She took a small step toward the fire. "Why did you bring me here?"
He didn't lie.
"Because you're mine."
She stiffened.
He continued before she could pull away. "I didn't ask for this. I didn't expect it. But I won't fight the bond the Moon Goddess placed between us."
"I didn't ask for it either."
Her voice wasn't loud — but it was sharp. A small defiance laced with grief.
He admired it.
"No," Thorne said, voice low. "But that doesn't make it less real."
She turned to him then, anger flaring briefly in her silver eyes.
"Do you expect me to love you?" she asked, each word brittle. "To crawl into your bed just because the Moon fated it?"
Thorne's eyes darkened — but not with rage. With something deeper. Something aching.
"I expect nothing," he said. "Not love. Not trust. Not your body."
He walked toward her again, slower this time, then dropped to one knee before her.
She blinked.
He didn't bow his head to kings. He had never bowed to gods.
But to her…
He bowed.
Her breath caught in her chest.
"Thorne—" she whispered, startled.
"I kneel only to the one who holds my soul," he said softly. "To the one Fate carved from my own bones."
She stared at him, frozen.
This wasn't dominance.
This was devotion.
Carefully, without touching her, he reached up and laid a folded cloth in her hand.
It was warm. Smelled of honeyed herbs.
"For your wounds," he said, still on his knees. "I know they ache."
She stared at the cloth. Then at him.
"I don't understand you," she whispered. "Why are you kind?"
Thorne looked up, meeting her gaze. His voice cracked at the edges. "Because I've been cruel too long."
Silence again.
But this time, it wasn't heavy.
It was full.
Full of something shifting.
Riven didn't speak. She didn't move.
But she didn't look away either.
And that… that was the beginning.
---
The moon was high when she slipped from the bed.
Not his bed — the smaller one in the corner he'd insisted be made for her, until she chose otherwise. He hadn't touched her. Hadn't entered after dusk.
The fire had dimmed, but the room was still warm. She stepped onto the thick fur rugs barefoot, trailing her fingers along the cool stone walls.
She hadn't slept in a room like this since she was a child. Before the raid. Before the screams.
Before everything burned.
A memory flickered behind her eyes: her mother's voice whispering lullabies in the dark. The scent of pine. A door crashing open. Men shouting. Her father bleeding.
She shook it away.
A sound behind her made her stiffen.
The door creaked. Then stopped.
No footsteps.
Just a presence.
She turned.
Thorne stood in the doorway.
He looked… exhausted.
But not from war. From restraint.
He held a tray in his hands — warm bread, soup, and fruit. Nothing lavish. But it was carried like an offering.
"I didn't know if you were hungry," he said quietly.
She stepped forward. Her stomach growled before she could answer.
Thorne smiled — just barely. The first smile she'd ever seen on him. It softened something hard in her chest.
"You waited until midnight to bring me food?" she asked, voice half-scorn, half-confused.
"I didn't want to startle you."
She blinked.
"I used to sleep with a knife under my pillow," she murmured. "In the cages."
"I know."
She paused. "How?"
"I smell fear like others smell smoke," he said. "And you… carry the scent of old wounds."
He set the tray down on the table and turned to leave.
But her voice stopped him.
"Wait."
He turned.
"Stay," she said. "Only for a moment."
His jaw clenched slightly. But he obeyed.
He sat in the chair opposite her.
She took the bread slowly, eyes still on him.
"You don't act like a king," she said.
He tilted his head. "What should a king act like?"
"Demanding. Cold. Unfeeling."
"I was all those things," he said.
She looked at him over the rim of her cup. "And now?"
"I'm trying to remember what it means to be more."
She didn't answer.
But she ate. Slowly. With smaller, cautious bites.
He said nothing. Just watched her. Protected the silence.
When she finally looked up again, her voice was soft.
"What if I never love you?"
Thorne met her eyes with calm, unwavering steel.
"Then I will love you alone."
She stared.
Not knowing that in that moment, something inside her broke — not from pain.
But from hope.
The kind she thought had died years ago.