Karmella's P.O.V
The door opened.
And the world held its breath.
He stepped inside like the shadows opened for him. He didn't speak. Didn't move beyond the threshold at first. But the weight of him filled the room all the same.
It wasn't just his size. Or the cut of his jaw. Or the way the light caught in his eyes—like fire smothered behind emerald stone.
It was what walked in with him.
Power.
Ancient. Alpha. Untamed.
It rolled off him like mist curling beneath the skin, and I felt every hair on my arms rise.
I didn't dare sit.
Didn't dare look away.
So I stood.
Slowly. Painfully.
My knees trembled, the soles of my feet burned with the effort, but I forced myself upright. Every bone screamed. My muscles pulled tight, still healing, still bruised. I felt like I might collapse again—
—but I didn't.
Because I needed to say this on my feet.
I needed to choose this.
He closed the door behind him, eyes narrowing.
"You finally decided to speak?" he asked, voice low, unreadable.
My throat clenched.
I opened my mouth—and nothing came out.
Dry. Dusty. My voice had been buried for too long.
I swallowed hard. Tried again.
"I—" My voice cracked like frost beneath weight. "My name… is Karmella."
The silence after my words felt deafening. He didn't move. Didn't blink.
But his hands—fist at his side—tightened.
"I was born to the Shadow Pack," I continued, each word a battle. "My father is Alpha Victor Blackbone."
Something flickered in his gaze. Recognition. Disgust.
"I was born without a wolf," I said, swallowing down the bile in my throat. "He hated me for it. Everyone did. I was beaten, starved, hidden. My brother… My brother Dean helped me survive. And when court came to visit for the Winter Ball, rogues attacked. My brother and I—"
My breath stuttered.
"We used the chaos to escape. He led them away so I could run. I don't know if he made it. I don't know if he's alive."
The pain that flashed through me almost buckled my knees.
"I crossed the river. I didn't know where I was going. I didn't even mean to trespass. I just… I ran. And I ended up here."
I held his gaze, even as my heart pounded against my ribs like it wanted out.
"I came here by accident," I whispered. "But I'm not leaving by force. I will not go back"
Another breath.
"I'm asking for sanctuary."
The words were out.
Weightless and heavy all at once.
I had done it.
I had spoken.
Now all that was left was the silence that followed.
His jaw was tight.
His shoulders didn't move.
But the air shifted around him, subtle and dangerous.
He stepped forward, and I instinctively stiffened. Something in my chest stirred—barely more than a flicker in my soul—but it was enough to remind me: I was not prey anymore.
I had named myself.
He stopped only feet from me, gaze sharp and unreadable. "You ask me… for sanctuary."
I nodded, once.
A beat of silence passed.
And then, quietly—like it amused him on some dark, cynical level—
He laughed.
It wasn't cruel. It wasn't mocking. It was brief. Dry.
A sound of disbelief.
Of irony.
"You do realize," he said, voice laced with gravel, "that I am The Lycan King."
The name hit me like a thunderclap.
I knew it. Everyone did.
The Lycan King.
The Butcher of Duskrun.
The one who hated rogues above all else.
I had just asked the Lycan King himself for mercy.
And all I could do was stare, heart pounding in my throat.
"Out of all the wolves in this world," he said, voice low, eyes burning into mine, "you crawl onto my land… and ask me to save you?"
He shook his head once, his power pressing against the walls like the room itself might break.
"You really don't value your life, do you?"
I swallowed.
Then, quietly:
"I didn't. Until I got here."
The silence that followed my plea felt like a punishment in itself.
The King stared at me with something between amusement and disbelief in his gaze, like I was some puzzle that didn't deserve solving.
"You didn't speak for days," he said finally, his tone far too calm. "Not a word. Not a breath of explanation. And now—suddenly—you've found your voice?"
My lips parted, but nothing came out.
He stepped closer.
"You expect me to believe this story? That you just happened to stumble into my land, battered and burned, completely unaware of who ruled it?"
I blinked rapidly. My chest tightened.
"I didn't—"
"You knew," he snapped. "Don't lie to me. Everyone knows who I am."
I flinched. But I didn't look away.
He circled me slowly, like a predator toying with wounded prey.
"I've killed rogues for breathing in my territory. Stripped their hides and hung them from the tree lines to send a message. But you…" He stopped just behind me. His breath near my ear.
"You waltzed across my border, soaked in rogue stench and secrets, and now you stand here asking me for mercy."
He let the silence stretch.
"Why should I give it to you?"
My throat felt dry again. My voice, so recently found, flickered.
"I didn't come to hurt anyone," I whispered. "I just wanted to live."
He laughed—low and bitter. "Then you picked the wrong kingdom."
I squeezed my eyes shut.
The walls felt like they were closing in again.
My heartbeat roared in my ears. My body, though upright, was trembling, exhaustion returning in waves.
"I could have you executed tonight," he said. "I could call my guards and have you dragged to the eastern cliffs. No one would question it. No one would mourn you. Though in your case I could have you tossed back to your father with the promise of your head returned to me"
I didn't move.
Didn't beg.
Didn't cry.
Because something inside me… had already died.
He walked back in front of me, his expression unreadable now—colder than stone, sharper than any blade.
"You want sanctuary?" he asked. "From me?"
My silence answered.
He leaned down slightly, gaze locked to mine. "Give me one good reason I shouldn't end you right here."
My voice cracked, low and broken:
"You can't kill what's already dead."
It wasn't bravery.
It wasn't defiance.
It was truth.
Because in that moment, I knew.
This was it.
This was all I had left.
The King wouldn't spare me. Why would he? I was everything he hated, wrapped in bruises and fear. So maybe… maybe it was time. I glanced down. There, at the side of the cot—rusted metal from where the frame bent, a sliver jutting just enough. Sharp. Barely.
Enough.
If I acted fast—
If I lunged—
One cut. One breath.
I wouldn't go back. Wouldn't face Victor. Wouldn't be caged again. The decision settled in my bones like cold steel. And for the first time in years, I felt something strange:
Peace.